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marvelseries19 · 2 months ago

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RETURN TO YOU

Chapter Four - Castaway

Pairings: Natasha Romanoff x female agent reader

Genre: Angst

Summary: You’re finally found. After years lost and alone, a faint signal is enough to bring someone to your island. You're brought home, weak, scared, and unsure if it’s real.

A/N: Finally, the moment you've been waiting for. I'm not entirely sure if this should be the end. I kinda have more ideas to tell, but maybe I'll post those as like one-shots or something. I wanted to thank you guys for letting me know that you liked it. I don't think I've ever had this much engagement on my fics. I really appreciate the love this one has had.

On another note, in the last chapter, I asked if you read this, and by this, I meant these messages, I leave here, not the chapter. So, once more, do you guys read these messages?? Also, as always, any questions, requests, ideas, and feedback are all welcome. Enjoy :)

Warnings: +18, descriptions of injuries and such.

Word count: 4.4k+

[You do not have permission to repost or translate any of my stories or claim them as yours.]

The low hum of the SHIELD operations room barely registered as Maria Hill leaned over the dim console. The soft, rhythmic blinking on the screen in front of her was steady, consistent — unmistakable. A signal. Faint, primitive, but deliberate. Her fingers flew across the keys as she opened a secure channel.

"Get me Director Fury," she said, her voice low but urgent.

The line crackled before his voice came through, rough and clipped. "What have you got?"

Maria didn’t look away from the screen. "A signal. Old-school. Someone stripped a Quinjet transponder and spliced it into basic field tech. It’s broadcasting on an early SHIELD frequency — nothing sophisticated, but it’s clean. Repeating."

"That’s a long shot," Fury replied.

"Not if it’s her," Maria said, and there was something unshakable in her tone. "And I believe it is."

There was a pause. She could almost hear him weighing it in silence. Her eyes stayed on the blinking pattern, steady as a heartbeat.

"It’s the captain."

Fury’s silence stretched again — longer this time, heavier.

"You always did trust her instincts more than anyone else," he said eventually.

"She earned that trust," Maria murmured. And she remembered — the smoke, the fire, the chaos.

Kandahar.

—

The sky was dust-streaked and orange, gunfire painting the air in bursts. Agents scattered, wounded, shouting. No one had orders. The comms were fried. And then you appeared — ash-streaked, limping, blood on her sleeve, and calm in her eyes.

“We lost comms!” someone had yelled. “Do we pull back?! Where’s the fallback point?!”

Maria remembered how you didn’t hesitate. She remembered the way you moved — forward, always forward — as if gravity bent toward your conviction.

"With me," you said. That was all.

Two words.

And twenty agents followed you without looking back.

Maria hadn’t said it aloud that day — but someone else had. A younger recruit, clutching his rifle and running to keep up: “Captain’s got us.”

The name stuck.

—

Maria exhaled softly, her eyes never leaving the console. "She pulled twenty agents out that night. Half of them wouldn’t be here without her," she said quietly.

"Is she still alive, Hill?" Fury asked.

"She sent that signal," Maria replied. "I know it's her, and that’s all I need to know."

"Take a team," Fury ordered. "Get her back."

Maria was already on her feet. "Already working on it."

She shut the console off, leaving the weak, blinking signal behind — but only for a moment.

She would follow it. All the way to the end.

—

The quinjet dipped below the clouds like a shadow cutting through the sky, its engines whisper-quiet over the dense canopy below. The sun was just beginning to rise, casting streaks of gold and fire across the endless stretch of green.

Maria stood near the loading ramp, arms crossed, eyes scanning the horizon as if she could will the trees to part and reveal a miracle.

She’d barely slept on the flight over, fingers tight around the datapad that showed the narrowing coordinates. Each pass of the satellite brought them closer. Each sweep of the low-band signal narrowed the window.

Still, it felt like a dream.

Three years.

Three years with no trace.

Three years of dead ends, quiet funerals, and trying to help Natasha through a grief Maria shared but didn’t dare speak aloud.

And now this.

A single echo. A half-broken signal from a beacon no one was supposed to remember how to use.

She hadn’t told Natasha. Couldn't. Not yet.

Hope, Maria had learned, was dangerous when it burned too bright. And she wouldn’t be the one to light it unless she was sure. She had seen firsthand what it did to her friend , how it tore her apart each time a lead turned out to be false. Maria needed more than a faint signal to give Natasha false hope.

The quinjet hovered over the narrowed location, nestled between cliffs and jungle, and the team fast-roped down in practiced silence. Maria followed, landing with a solid thud against the uneven earth.

It was still. Too still. But the readings didn’t lie. Someone was here.

She signaled for the group to split. “Fan out. Sweep the perimeter. Eyes sharp. Weapons down unless you see a threat.”

A chorus of affirmatives crackled through comms.

They moved.

Not far away, tucked in the hollow between two rocks and overgrowth, you stirred.

The sound had been faint — a low thrum, like distant thunder.

It came again, closer this time.

You sat up slowly, your body protesting every movement. Your limbs ached. Your head spun. Your skin had taken on the leathery feel of too much sun and too little water. The weakened body you lived in now barely resembled the one that once trained at SHIELD’s academy. The one that flew the quinjet with quiet confidence. The one that could disappear without leaving a trace.

You had survived.

But barely.

You blinked hard, pressing your fingers to your ears.

Voices.

Were those voices?

You crouched low, instinct taking over even as your knees buckled beneath you. The sound of boots brushing leaves. A sharp rustle of brush being moved aside. You bit the inside of your cheek.

It’s nothing. You’ve imagined things before. You’d seen shadows become people. Branches become outstretched hands.

But the voices were growing louder now. Clearer.

“Check the cliffside—Hill’s got east.”

“There’s a trail here—looks like something’s been walking through.”

“Signal strength increasing. It’s close.”

No. No, that was real. That wasn’t just your mind trying to comfort you again. That was real.

Still, your body didn’t move. Not yet.

You sat frozen, heart pounding, as footsteps closed in.

And then—

“Hey!” a voice called. Not a hallucination. Sharp. Solid. Commanding. “I’ve got something—!”

Then another voice. Lower. Familiar. Too familiar.

“Stand down, it’s her—God—” The foliage parted, and there she was.

Maria.

Your mind couldn’t process it all at once. She was wearing tactical black, hair pulled back, eyes scanning like she didn’t dare believe what she was seeing.

You opened your mouth to say something, anything—but nothing came out.

Maria dropped to her knees, her voice thick and trembling. “Hey, hey—it's okay. It's me. I’ve got you.”

You blinked again, too weak to flinch as her hands gently framed your face.

Her breath caught. “Jesus… you’re really here.”

You tried to speak, lips cracked, throat dry. Only a rasp escaped.

Maria shook her head, a soft curse under her breath. She slipped an arm around your shoulders, guiding a canteen to your lips. “Don’t talk. Just drink.”

The water stung going down, but you drank like you hadn’t in days.

Because you hadn't. Rainwater could only last for so long.

Maria kept holding you, one hand steadying the canteen, the other pressed lightly against your back as if reassuring herself that you were solid. Real. Not another ghost.

And then she whispered, almost like she didn’t want anyone else to hear, "I'm so sorry it took this long.”

Tears pricked at your eyes. You didn’t want to cry. Not yet. Not when it felt like the moment could vanish if you blinked.

But Maria didn’t rush. She stayed there with you in the dirt, surrounded by jungle, brushing a hand gently through your tangled hair.

“You’re safe now,” she said softly. “We’re taking you home. I’m gonna make sure of that. And I’ll tell her—I’ll tell Natasha.”

You didn’t know if it was the relief or her voice, but that’s when the sob broke free.

And Maria, strong as ever, just held you tighter.

The team moved quickly once they found her.

You were conscious, your body trembling with exhaustion and adrenaline as they guided you through the undergrowth. The sight of the quinjet waiting on the shore hit you harder than expected.

Your steps faltered.

The air caught in your throat.

It looked almost exactly like yours—the one that went down in flames, the one that left you stranded and alone. Your chest tightened, breath hitching, muscles locking up as memories flashed behind your eyes. Fire. Smoke. The sound of metal tearing. The impact.

You stopped walking.

“Hey,” Maria’s voice was calm and soft. She stepped in front of you, eyes steady, hand gentle on your shoulder. “It’s okay. You’re safe now. We’re taking you home.”

You shook your head weakly, barely audible when you said, “I can’t… I can’t get on that thing. I know it’s stupid, but—”

“It’s not stupid,” Maria cut in, her voice rough with emotion. “After what you’ve been through, it makes perfect sense.”

Your eyes were glassy, full of apology and fear you couldn’t quite name. “I want to go. I just… I can’t.”

Maria glanced at the medic nearby, nodding once.

“We’ll help you sleep through the ride, okay?” she said, already crouching down with her. “No pain. No panic. You’ll wake up at the medical facility. Safe. I promise.”

You gave her the faintest nod, your fingers still gripping Maria’s sleeve like an anchor.

Maria stayed close as the medic prepped the injection, gently brushing damp hair back from your forehead. “You did so good, alright? You held on. We’ve got you now.”

The sedative took hold quickly, easing your breathing as your eyes fluttered shut. Maria caught you carefully as she slumped forward, guiding her into the medic’s arms and onto the stretcher.

And as the engines spun up and the quinjet lifted into the sky, Maria sat beside you, phone already in her hand, staring down at Natasha’s name on the screen.

It was time.

The quinjet hummed around her, steady and familiar. Maria sat strapped in beside the stretcher, her eyes drifting to you every few seconds — as if making sure she was still there, still breathing, still real.

You looked so small.

So fragile.

And it shook Maria more than she wanted to admit. This woman, who once sparred with her until both of them limped off the mat laughing… This woman who had stood beside her through firefights and missions no one else could have survived… Now she lies wrapped in blankets, sedated, ribs visible under her skin, lips cracked from dehydration.

Maria swallowed hard. She stared at the screen for a long second before finally pressing the contact.

The call connected after two rings.

“Maria?” Natasha’s voice came out sharp, tight. Tired. Like she’d been running or not sleeping again. “Is something wrong?”

Maria’s breath caught. “Natasha…”

Something in her tone made Natasha go completely still on the other end.

“We found her,” Maria said softly.

Silence.

“I need you to meet me at the SHIELD medical facility in New York. We’re bringing her in now. She's alive, Nat. She's—she's not in good shape, but she’s alive.”

Natasha didn’t answer at first. Just a breath — hitched, broken — and then, “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure. I’ve got her right here with me.” Maria looked over again, lowering her voice instinctively. “She held on. Three years, and she never gave up.”

There was a long pause. When Natasha spoke again, her voice cracked.

“I’ll be there.”

—

The city blurred past the tinted windows of the SUV, but Natasha barely saw any of it.

Her fingers gripped the edge of the seat so tightly her knuckles had gone white. Every red light felt like a personal attack. Every second that passed without her at that facility made her heart pound harder in her chest.

You were alive.

Alive.

It didn’t feel real.

She had imagined this moment too many times — always in dreams, in cruel fantasies her mind would conjure when sleep finally took her. But this wasn’t a dream. Maria had called her. Maria had sounded shaken. That never happened.

Alive.

Natasha’s breath caught again, her throat tight with something she couldn’t name — hope, disbelief, fear. She didn’t even realize tears had started to run down her cheeks until they hit her jaw. She didn’t wipe them away.

Three years.

Three years of not knowing. Of waking up and reaching for someone who wasn’t there. Of closing her eyes and hearing your laugh, only for silence to greet her. Of rage. Of grief so heavy it felt like a second skin.

And now… you were back.

But at what cost?

She kept replaying Maria’s voice in her head. Not in good shape. Those four words sliced deeper than anything else. Natasha had seen the aftermath of war. She had seen what being stranded did to a person, physically and mentally.

What if you didn’t remember her? What if the pain of those years had buried the part of you that knew her name? What if the reunion she’d dreamed of — clung to — was nothing like the reality waiting for her?

The driver turned sharply, and Natasha gritted her teeth, leaning forward.

“How much longer?”

“Five minutes, ma’am.”

Not fast enough.

She closed her eyes. Forced herself to breathe. One hand unconsciously reached for the ring still looped through the chain around her neck — your ring — warm now from her skin.

She didn’t know what she’d find when she walked into that facility.

But for the first time in three years… she had something to walk toward.

You.

—

The quinjet touched down with a soft thud on the rooftop pad of the SHIELD medical facility.

Before the engines had fully powered down, the med team was already waiting — gurney prepped, portable monitors ready, gloved hands reaching for the ramp before it even dropped.

Maria stood to the side, out of the way but not detached. Her jaw was clenched, arms crossed tightly over her chest, as if holding herself together. She hadn’t said much since the sedation. Only that she’d call Natasha again once they landed. But she didn’t need to. The call had already been made. Natasha would be here soon. She knew it.

The second the hatch opened, the team surged forward.

You were still unconscious — sedated, peaceful in the worst way. Your skin looked pale under the harsh facility lights, your body far too light as they transferred you to the gurney. The bruises, the cuts, the ribs pressing too close to the surface — it was all too visible now.

Monitors were clipped to your finger, an oxygen mask gently pressed to your face, and soft commands echoing between the medics:

“Get her on fluids, stat.”

“We need a CBC and a full metabolic panel.”

“Chest X-ray, abdominal ultrasound.”

“She’s dehydrated; start with normal saline, keep it slow.”

The medics disappeared down the hall with you, swift and practiced, the sound of their shoes a controlled blur of movement.

Natasha had just stepped into the hallway when she saw them roll the gurney past.

She stopped mid-step.

Time halted.

You.

There. Real.

But not awake. Not smiling. Not whole.

Her hand went to the wall to steady herself. Her breath left her in a sharp, silent exhale. She couldn’t move.

Maria stepped in beside her, watching the hallway where the doors had just swung closed behind the gurney. “She’s stable. Vitals are holding. They’ll take care of her.”

Natasha didn’t speak. Her eyes hadn’t moved from that door.

A nurse came around the corner holding something small and delicate in a gloved hand. She looked between them before gently addressing Natasha.

“She was wearing this,” she said softly, offering the chain.

Natasha reached out slowly, her hand trembling as she took it.

Your ring. Still looped through the chain she gave you three years ago.

She held it tightly in her fist, pressing it to her lips like a prayer.

Maria watched her quietly. “She survived,” she whispered, more to herself than to Natasha. “She actually survived.”

Natasha’s voice cracked when she finally spoke, low and hoarse. “She wasn’t supposed to.”

Down the hallway, machines beeped. Doors swung. A medical team did everything they could to stabilize you — rehydrate, monitor, and evaluate. You didn’t stir, but you were alive.

That was all that mattered.

For now.

It felt like hours.

The sterile hallway never changed, but Natasha hadn't moved from that same spot. She leaned forward in the plastic chair, elbows on her knees, fingers still curled around the chain holding your ring. The weight of it was nothing — and everything.

Maria had stayed close, pacing occasionally, making a few quiet calls, but mostly giving Natasha space. There were no words left to say.

Finally, a doctor emerged from behind the double doors. He looked tired but calm.

“She’s stable. Fluids are working, and her bloodwork came back cleaner than we expected. Malnourished, yes. Exhausted, definitely. But no infection, no internal injuries beyond the obvious bruising, and a few injuries that didn't heal properly, but nothing to worry about. We sedated her gently. She might wake up soon.”

Natasha stood the moment the doctor nodded toward the room. “Can I see her?”

“Yes. Just for a few minutes, and keep it quiet. She’s been through a lot.”

Natasha didn’t answer. She was already moving.

—

The room was dim and quiet, the steady beep of the heart monitor the only sound. You were there, lying so still under the soft white sheets, a faint oxygen tube at your nose, IVs at your side.

Natasha stopped at the foot of the bed. She wasn’t ready. She’d pictured this moment a hundred different ways over the past three years. None of them came close.

You looked like you and not like you — thinner, paler, yet tanned, your hair longer and tangled in places, and skin marked with sun and wear. But it was you.

Carefully, Natasha stepped closer, lowering herself into the chair beside your bed. She didn’t speak. She just watched. Studied your face. Every part of her wanted to reach out — but she couldn’t bring herself to disturb the fragile stillness.

She opened her hand. The ring glinted dully in the light.

“I never stopped wearing it,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “Never took it off. Not once.”

Her fingers curled gently around your hand, the one not bound by tape and tubing. You were warm. Not cold. Not gone.

“I should’ve been with you,” she whispered. “I should’ve—”

But she couldn’t finish.

Her breath caught, and for the first time in years, Natasha Romanoff let her shoulders fall and her head bow beside the woman she never stopped loving.

She stayed like that. Until the rhythm of your heart monitor seemed to slow into something steadier. Familiar.

Until maybe — just maybe — she felt your fingers twitch beneath her own.

Natasha’s eyes remained fixed on you, but her mind had drifted. She wasn’t sure how long she had been sitting there, nor how many times she had muttered those quiet, broken words — promises, apologies, confessions — to the room, to the air, to you.

The weight of everything she hadn’t said was finally crashing down on her, more than she could have prepared for. The years without you, the months of pretending she could go on without even knowing where you were, the guilt that had gnawed at her every waking moment, the hopelessness she buried deeper each day. It had always felt like she was waiting for something — waiting for the call, the news, anything that would bring you back into her world. She couldn’t breathe without the thought of you, couldn’t focus on anything with your absence hanging like a shadow.

But here you were, lying in front of her, fragile and yet still alive.

Alive.

Her fingers trembled slightly as she held the ring, the very symbol of everything she’d almost lost forever. The years had worn away at its luster, but it still gleamed, faintly — a promise. She had thought she’d never see you again. She thought she’d have to carry this unfulfilled promise forever.

And yet, here you were.

Her eyes filled with tears that she refused to let fall. She wasn’t going to cry. She couldn’t. Not here, not now, when you needed her more than ever.

"I promised you I’d come for you," she whispered, her voice rough. "I promised."

She held the ring in her hand as if it could reach you — as if it could bridge the gap between her pain and your absence. She was scared, more than she cared to admit. Scared of how you might feel when you woke up. Scared of what you might remember. Scared of how fragile this moment was — of how fragile you were.

Her hand moved slowly to the side of your bed. She didn’t want to disturb you, but she couldn’t stop herself. The need to be close to you was overwhelming. The need to feel that connection — that spark of life that had once been so familiar, so undeniable between you.

“I couldn’t live without you,” Natasha whispered, her voice barely above a breath. “I won’t let you go again.”

For a moment, she simply sat there, eyes closed, listening to the steady rhythm of your breath. The world outside the room seemed distant and cold — nothing mattered except the space between her and you, the fragile space that had once been filled with shared laughter, quiet mornings, and stolen moments.

The steady beep of the heart monitor seemed to echo in her mind, a reminder that you were here, that you were real, that you were alive. But what was left for the two of you now? Could things be the same after all that had happened? Natasha didn’t know. All she knew was that she couldn't—wouldn't— let you slip away again.

The door creaked softly, and Maria stepped in, her expression quiet but understanding. Natasha didn’t look up. She didn’t want anyone else in this moment, but Maria’s presence was a grounding force — a reminder that Natasha hadn’t been completely alone through all of this.

“She’s going to be okay,” Maria said, her voice gentle but firm. “She’s a fighter, Nat.”

Natasha didn’t respond, her eyes never leaving you. She wasn’t ready for anyone’s reassurance. Not yet.

Maria waited for a moment, then sighed softly. “I’ll give you some time. Just… don’t do this alone. Not again.”

But Natasha didn’t answer. She couldn’t. She didn’t know how to explain the ache in her chest, the heaviness that had been there for years. There was no way to put it into words.

She only nodded silently, her gaze never wavering from your sleeping form. And in that silence, Natasha finally let herself hope again. Not just for your safety, but for something more. Something she had almost forgotten how to believe in.

She wasn’t alone anymore. Neither of them was.

—

The first thing you felt was the weight of your own body. The heaviness of skin and bone sinking into the sterile softness of hospital sheets. The dull ache beneath the surface of everything. But more than that, it was the quiet hum of machines, the faint beeping of a heart monitor, and the sterile scent of antiseptic that confirmed it — you weren’t on the island anymore.

You were safe.

That realization alone felt unreal.

Your eyelids fluttered, the light above muted through lashes you struggled to lift. The world came back to you in pieces — sound, then shape, then color. The sharp clarity of a cold IV line in your hand. The warmth of a blanket pulled up to your chest. The dull echo of a familiar voice.

It was the last one that made your heart stutter.

Natasha.

She was sitting beside you. Tired. Still. Her posture held together by force alone, like she hadn’t moved in hours — maybe longer. Her hands were folded in her lap, but her entire body leaned ever so slightly toward you, as if afraid you’d vanish if she didn’t stay close.

You blinked slowly, and her eyes found yours in an instant.

The breath she let out was shaky. You saw it — the moment she shattered just a little more but also held herself together just enough to stay strong for you.

“…hey,” she whispered. Her voice was raw, barely a sound at all. But her eyes were full — of grief, of relief, of everything she hadn’t dared let herself feel until now. “You’re here.”

You opened your mouth to speak, but nothing came out at first. You tried again — your voice rasped and cracked, dry and weak.

“…Hi,” you whispered.

Tears welled up in her eyes immediately. Natasha leaned forward, slowly, cautiously, her hand brushing your arm like she needed to touch you to believe this was real. She looked like she hadn’t slept in days. Weeks. Maybe years.

“I didn’t think…” you started, the words struggling to form.

“I know,” she said, voice tight. “Me neither.”

Your eyes darted around, and that’s when you saw it — sitting on the table beside a vase of white flowers, looking oddly solemn in the sterile light — was Red. Your Red. The coconut you once talked to when you were losing hope, when your voice was the only one on that island. Someone had even propped it up with a little folded towel beneath it like a throne.

You stared at it, blinking again, and then let out a breath that was half a laugh, half a sob.

“Red made it?”

“Maria made sure of it,” Natasha said with a hint of a smile, though her voice was still breaking. “Said she’d have murdered her entire team if they left him behind. Apparently you muttered its name after they sedated you.”

Your throat burned. Everything hurt. But Natasha’s presence eased something inside of you that had been coiled tight for years. She looked at you like she was scared you’d disappear if she blinked. And you looked at her like she was the first warmth you’d felt in forever.

You reached for her hand, slowly, shakily. She took it before your fingers even fully stretched toward her.

“You waited,” you said softly.

“I would’ve waited forever,” Natasha whispered back.

Silence stretched between you, but it wasn’t heavy anymore. It was full — of all the words you didn’t need to say, of the pain that was finally beginning to thaw, of the bond between you that had never broken, even after everything.

Even after all this time.

You closed your eyes again, not to sleep — just to rest. Just to breathe. Just to be.

With her hand in yours and Red by your side, for the first time in a long time… you believed everything might be okay.

----

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tacoguacamole · 17 days ago

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ANOTHER TIME | JJK - 10

Summary: All you wanted was time. Time to love your husband. Time to feel him love you back. To see his smile again, not shadowed by grief and resentment. Time to share laughter instead of silence, warmth instead of distance. To feel his arms around you, not the cold of where he used to be. Time to hear “I love you too” before it’s too late. Time should’ve been simple.

But somehow, it always slips through your fingers just when you need it most.

[Pairing: Creative Director!Jungkook x Ceo!Female Reader]

[Theme: Marriage AU. BF2L2S]

[Warnings: Major Angst, Multiple Flashbacks and Time Jumps, Mature Theme, Smut, Mature/Explicit Language, Major Fluff For This Chapter, Romance, Slowburn, Splice of Life]

[Older JK, Older OC, Older Bangtan, Lawyer Seokjin and Namjoon, Doctor Yoongi, Event Planner Hobi, Solo idol Jimin, Secretary Taehyung, Brief cameos of Seventeen Mingyu, GOT7 Mark]

[Status: Ongoing]

[Part 1. Part 2. Part 3. Part 4.Part 5. Part 6. Part 7. Part 8. Part 9. Part 10. Chapter Word Count: 10.4k+]

[Chapter Summary: Some moments settle without warning. Some feelings never really leave. And sometimes, the heart remembers before the mind is ready to follow.]

[MINORS DNI! 18+]

It was one of those days in Seoul where the seasons made no sense.

The sun was high, almost harsh in its shine, but the wind bit like winter still had teeth. The sky had the color of summer — blue, clouds stretching thin like whispers at the edge of morning light but the air didn’t stick to your skin the way it usually did this time of year. It just… drifted.

Like everything was holding its breath.

And maybe you were, too.

You’d been floating for who knows how long.

Not metaphorically — though that would’ve fit.

No, you were literally drifting on the surface of the pool behind your mother’s house. Arms spread out. Face tipped to the sky. Head against the concrete edge. The silk of your pajama dress fanned out around you like petals in slow bloom.

The water was cool. Not cold enough to make you shiver, but enough to keep you awake. Enough to keep you anchored in your body, even while your mind wandered miles away.

Above you, the branches shifted in the breeze — skeletal, wiry, still bare despite the month. Wind whispered through them in spirals. Like the trees were trying to talk you out of your own head.

You didn’t remember how you got in. Just remembered the silence. And how loud it had been since.

Jeongguk had called. Once, the night that followed since, then twice on the night after. You let it ring both times.

The third time, this morning, your fingers hovered – wet and trembling – just above the screen. You stared at his name glowing, thumb hesitating over the green button. You could still hear his voice from those nights ago, rough and aching, filled with longing; you’re not sure.

“Baby.”

“You’re still you.”

But then the call went to voicemail, and the moment passed.

You didn’t mean to listen. Not really. But your finger slipped before you could think twice. And suddenly there he was — muffled, low, not as steady as he probably meant to sound.

“Hey… it’s me. I… uh—” You imagined him pinching the bridge of his nose like he always did when he was frustrated with himself. “It’s too early. I’m sorry if I’m pushy but I just…” Another pause. “Call me if you want to. Or… don’t. I just wanted to know if you’re okay.” Soft static. A throat-clearing. Then, “I miss our breakfast. That’s all. Bye.”

That was hours ago. You hadn’t listened again since.

You didn’t know what you wanted. Or maybe you did — and just weren’t ready to face what came after.

Jeongguk’s voice had stayed with you, even when you sank under the water. Even when you pressed your ears beneath the surface to block out the world.

You don’t hear the gate creak open – or maybe you do. Just don’t care. The water always gave you a kind of serenity, even back then. The water mutes everything. Even the sound of your name being called from the garden path.

“Yah. Yah. Are you serious right now?” It’s Hobi’s voice, and your body flinches like it’s been caught. You turn your head slightly, the cold breeze brushing your cheek. He’s standing by the pool, arms crossed, looking like he aged ten years since breakfast.

He sighs. “Your mom wasn’t exaggerating.”

“She called you?” Your voice is rough – barely recognizing it.

“Said you looked like you were somewhere else this morning. She said you went outside; never came back in.”

“I was just thinking.”

“In the pool. In your pajamas.”

You gesture vaguely at the sky. “It was sunny.”

“It’s eleven degrees.”

You shrug. “Felt warmer.”

Hobi exhales hard, then crouches by the poolside, mutters under his breath, grabs your wrist – not roughly, but firmly enough to mean it.

And when you don’t resist, he hauls you out like a wayward child. The chill in the air hits you like a wall. You shiver, and only then do you realize how numb your fingers are.

“Go change,” he’s already shoving you toward inside the house. “Then come back, sit your ass down. We’re having a talk.”

In your room, you tried taking your sweet time. Showered thrice. Did your skincare for at least ten times, already accepting the after effects would result into a disaster. Went through the closet for a bunch of outfits you knew you didn’t care about.

You could only do so much to stall; knew Hobi would come up and drag you for what’s waiting.

So you give it up, change into the first t-shirt you found and some loose jeans, pulled the first cardigan in your pile. The faint smell of detergent and lavender sticks to you.

Your limbs feel heavier now that you’re warm again. The stillness in your chest starts to ripple.

When you return to the patio, Hobi’s already made himself at home. He’s taken over the garden bench, two mugs of something steaming in his hands.

“You took your time,” he says, handing you the one with the chipped rim – your usual. “Figured you’d try to escape through the upstairs window.”

“Thought about it,” you admit. “But you’d find a way to bring me back here.”

He huffs a laugh, then jerks his chin toward the chair across from him. “Sit. And no sulking.”

You drop into the chair with a quiet groan. The mug warms your palms.

For a few seconds, it’s just the trees rustling around. A sparrow hopping across the grass. Then Hobi lifts his phone, squints at it, and taps the screen.

“You’re not dragging Jimin into this,” you protest weakly, already predicting what he was about to do.

“Oh, I absolutely am,” he says with glee, just as the FaceTime ring echoes.

It only takes two rings.

Jimin’s face appears on the screen — blurry, then clear — and he looks far too smug for someone who should be working. “Well, well, if it isn’t Seoul’s favorite mystery case.”

“I’m leaving,” you mutter.

“No, you’re not,” Hobi and Jimin say in unison.

“I swear to god—”

Jimin leans into the camera. “Tell me why Hobi Hyung just said you went for a swim in an eleven-degree weather. Are you training for triathlons now? Emotional Olympics?”

“It was barely a dip.”

“She was floating like a tragic koi fish,” Hobi supplies. “Wearing silk pajamas. I nearly had a stroke.”

Jimin cackles. “Of course she was. Drama. Always drama.”

You pull the cardigan tighter around yourself. “Okay, say what you need to say.”

“We want to know what’s going on,” Hobi says, gentler now. “You’ve been off. More than usual.”

Jimin nods. “It’s like you’re sleepwalking. But emotional.”

You hesitate. Then, very softly, “I kissed him.”

Silence. A bird chirps somewhere in the hedge.

Hobi blinks. “You—?”

“Kissed Jeongguk,” you clarify, staring into your mug. “A few nights ago. After Jin’s anniversary dinner.”

Jimin lets out a long, low whistle. “Damn.”

Hobi just stares. Then mutters, “That explains the existential pool moment.”

You sniff. “Fuck, this is so messed up.”

“Oh, babe,” Jimin sighs. “You’re exactly like this every time.”

Your brows knit. “Every time?”

Jimin leans back dramatically. “You were like this when he first tried to kiss you back in uni.”

Your head snaps up. “Chim.”

“No, let me say it,” Jimin grins, leaning forward towards the camera with the mischief of someone already savoring the story. “Remember after his third-year photo showcase? Kid won, got so excited, you were just there. He tried to kiss you after and you panicked so hard you knocked over his camera bag.”

Hobi nearly chokes, snorting into his drink as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “God, that day.”

“Then you ran,” Jimin continues, eyes wide with mock betrayal. “Vanished. Didn’t go back home to your shared apartment. Didn’t go to classes either.”

“Urgh, that was dramatic,” Hobi groans, slouching dramatically in his seat. “Crashed at my place for what—three whole days?”

“Just because she couldn’t face him. Because she was a chicken,” Jimin adds, jabbing a playful finger in your direction. “Gguk begged to stage a fake emergency just to get you to see him.”

“And we helped him for what?” Hobi throws his hands up, half-laughing, half-exasperated.

“Because they were so cute back then,” Jimin sighs, placing a hand over his chest like the memory still haunts him. “Tiptoeing around each other, hiding their feelings—I wanted to run them over with my car.”

“I was nineteen!” you protest, pulling a cushion into your lap defensively. “What did I know about feelings?! He had a whole fan club going after him.”

“Yet you were the only one he gave his attention to,” Jimin counters, raising a brow.

“Because I was his best friend!” you exclaim, voice pitching.

“No,” Hobi interjects, pointing a spoon at you with conviction. “You had the emotional processing skills of a nine-year-old, not nineteen.”

Your jaw drops. “You can’t seriously be on his side.”

“I’m just saying what I remember,” Hobi shrugs, then leans back, arms folded. “Gguk had a crush on you way before that. You did know that, right?”

You blink, caught off guard. “No. Why do you think I was thrown off when he confessed in the middle of our apartment years after? You know that story.”

“Ahh, the magical confession that started it all,” Jimin sighs theatrically. “How could we forget. You mentioned he was planning to confess to someone. After the daily lessons you gave him, you spent every day at my apartment, finishing all my ramen.”

He adds. “When I came back from tour that year all I wanted was to binge watch my favorite series and eat some food that the company would sue me for, and what do you know—I come home to an empty cabinet instead.”

Hobi bursts into laughter, nearly tipping his cup. “If only she’d known it was her all along.”

You groan and bury your face in your hands. “You both are impossible.”

But the mood shifts when Jimin’s voice softens. “The only difference now is that it’s not an attempt and it’s not by Gguk. This is all you.”

You stay quiet, the cushion now clenched between your arms.

Hobi reaches across the table, fingers tapping lightly against your wrist. “You know I haven’t been his biggest fan over the past few years. I’m just worried. We’re just worried. You look like you want the earth to swallow you. Do you regret it?”

Your hands slowly fall into your lap. You stare at them for a moment, then whisper, “No regrets. I just…I don’t know. It felt real. But I don’t know what it means. And I’m scared it doesn’t mean the same thing to him. Heck it hasn’t been for a few years.”

Jimin tilts his head, brows furrowing. “Did he pull away?”

You shake your head. “No. He—he kissed me back.”

Hobi’s eyebrow arches, but he stays silent.

“He was… soft,” you say, voice quieter now. “Careful. He even said we were going to talk about it – about us.”

The words hang in the air like mist. Both your friends freeze slightly—just enough for you to notice.

“Oh,” Jimin murmurs, eyes gentling.

“You haven’t talked since then?” Hobi asks, eyes locked on yours like he’s trying to read between the silence.

You exhale, shoulders sagging as if the air leaving you carries too much weight. “Been dodging. In three years, this is the most normal we’ve ever been. It’s more than I can wish for—and I fucked it up.”

“How would you know?” Hobi’s voice sharpens just a little, not unkind. “You’ve been avoiding him.”

You throw him a tired look. “Why are you encouraging this?”

“Am not,” he says, lifting his palms in mock surrender. “It just sucks to see you drowning yourself—I mean almost literally if I hadn’t arrived.”

Jimin’s voice crackles through the speaker, softer now. “We’re just concerned, Sunshine. You’re not going to get answers to your what ifs if you keep running away from him.”

The sudden buzz of your phone cuts through the air, making you flinch. You grab it quickly, heart leaping—but it’s not his name that flashes across the screen. Just a calendar notification.

You try not to show your relief. “Got to go,” you stand, and brush the leaves that’s fallen on your pants. “Long day ahead.”

Jimin gasps dramatically on the call. “Come on! We’re not done here.”

You roll your eyes, smirking as you sling your bag over your shoulder. “Well boohoo, I’ve got better things to do than sulk about my love life.” You turn to Hobi with a raised brow, slipping your phone into your pocket. “Mind driving me?”

He grins, already rising from his seat and grabbing his keys. “Yes! Lecture part two, let’s go.”

“Aww man, this isn’t fair!” Jimin wails, sticking his lower lip out and clutching dramatically at his chest on-screen.

Hobi snorts and taps the screen. “Okay, drama king, that’s enough.” He ends the call before Jimin can protest again, stuffing his phone into his back pocket with a chuckle. “He’s going to text us in all caps.”

“Deserved,” you mutter, lips twitching as you walk beside him.

The supermarket is quiet for a weekday, the kind of hush that only soft music and squeaky cart wheels dare to interrupt. You’re thankful Hobi doesn’t press anymore the whole time since you’ve left the house – already noticing your mood becoming brighter for the day that’s waiting ahead.

You're halfway through the produce aisle, holding a checklist and peering suspiciously at a box of clementines when Hobi hums beside you. "You always shop like you're about to enter battle."

You glance at him. "I am entering battle. With a hundred hyperactive children."

"Fair," he laughs, tossing a pack of juice boxes into the cart.

You’re scribbling something on your list when a flash of movement catches your eye—and your breath stops short.

Down the aisle, barely a few meters away, is Jeongguk. In all black. Hoodie sleeves pushed up, tattooed arm stretching to reach something on the top shelf. He hasn’t seen you yet.

You instinctively duck behind a shelf of rice crackers and kimchi jars.

Hobi pauses mid-step. “What the fu—”

“Shh!” you whisper harshly, gripping his jacket sleeve.

Hobi glances up, follows your gaze, and spots him. His lips curl into a slow, dangerous smile. “Oh no, you don’t get to run this time.”

“Hobi—” you hiss, panicked.

Too late.

He raises his voice a few decibels too high, cheerful and fake. “Oh, Jeongguk-ah! Fancy seeing you here!”

You snap your eyes shut. “You traitor.”

Jeongguk looks up, eyes landing on Hobi. Before he can say anything, a glass jar clinks too loudly behind the kimchi display. His eyes shift, catching the familiar shape of your shoulders as you freeze in place.

His brows lift in surprise, then soften. “Hey.”

You straighten awkwardly, heat blooming in your cheeks. “Hi.”

Hobi, satisfied with his sabotage, checks his phone with dramatic flair. “Ah, look at the time. I actually have somewhere to be.”

You whirl around. “No, you don’t.”

“Do now,” he says, grinning unapologetically. “You’ve got company. Better company. Call me if you need anything.”

“Hobi—”

He grabs the cart handle and gently pushes it toward Jeongguk. “Have fun, you two,” he singsongs, already walking backwards. “Don’t forget the toothpaste!” And with a mock salute, he’s gone.

You’re left standing there, arms stiff at your sides, while Jeongguk looks at you with a mix of amusement and mild concern. “Hyung's not going to answer in case you call, is he?” he asks lightly.

You huff. “Probably already blocked me off for the rest of the day."

“Can I—help?”

You hesitate, then glance at the cart. It’s already half-full. You do need help carrying things. “Fine. But you’re just helping. No comments.”

“Got it.” He nods, a grin tugging at the corner of his lips. “Silent mule at your service.”

You roll your eyes but can’t stop the small smile sneaking up on you either. “Let’s just finish this.”

The grocery store lights are too bright for your mood. Fluorescent rows hum above your head, flickering occasionally, as if to match the static in your chest.

You grip the cart like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded. Jeongguk walks beside you in silence, pushing the cart now without being asked. You hadn’t planned for him to be here. That part wasn’t in your to-do list. But the shopping still had to get done—for them.

The silence between you is strange. Not quite heavy, but too aware. It’s only broken by the occasional squeak of the cart wheel or the murmur of announcements over the speaker system.

He follows your lead quietly, as you start pulling toys and snacks from the shelves, loading them one by one. A pack of watercolor sets. Soft pastel bears. Fruit jellies and rice snacks. Colorful markers, even if they’ll end up dried out within a few days.

Jeongguk watches you – moving around, adding more things into the cart. You can feel the question fighting to come out when he finally speaks. “This isn’t for you, is it?”

“Nope.” You don’t explain further.

He doesn’t push.

At some point, you reach for a box on the top shelf—foam clay, pastel-colored. You stretch onto your toes, fingers grazing the edge.

But before you can tip it into your hand, an arm reaches past you. Jeongguk takes it down like it’s nothing. Hands it to you without meeting your eyes.

“Thanks,” you murmur, tucking your hair behind your ear.

He nods.

A few aisles later, you reach for the bulk box of milk packs and lift it with steady arms—manageable, nothing you haven’t done alone before.

Before you can set it in the cart, Jeongguk takes it from your hands, placing it down gently, like it’s second nature.

“Gguk,” you start, unsure what you mean to say. Maybe something like you don’t have to, or I didn’t mean to drag you, but neither sound right in your head.

“Please,” he says softly, like he’s heard the words anyway. “Let me.”

You stare at him for a second too long. He doesn’t look at you, but his fingers linger on the cart handle, tense for a moment before they loosen again.

By the time you reach checkout, the cart’s half-full with things you don’t even remember picking up. You pay before he can offer, brushing off his wallet with a shake of your head.

He doesn't argue.

Outside, the clouds have rolled in, softening the edges of the sun. The wind has picked up again.

He unlocks the car, lifts the bags into the trunk before you can protest. You give him the address with barely more than a murmur. No explanation. Just an area he hasn’t been to. He doesn’t ask questions.

The drive is quiet with music playing low—some instrumental track from his usual playlist. Something you both used to study to in college just to feel a sense of calm.

You stare out the window, hands folded over your lap, heart pacing a little faster than usual.

The car eventually slows down in front of the narrow gates, after hours of driving away from the city. Behind it stands a modest building, old but well kept. Faintly weathered walls, a sloped tiled roof, and ivy growing up one side—quiet signs that time has been kind here.

The sign out front reads nothing special—just the name of a children’s home, one Jeongguk doesn’t know about. No dedications. No fancy titles. Just quiet lettering on faded wood, like it never needed to call attention to itself.

Surrounding it are long stretches of countryside. The roads that led here thinned into gravel. There are no tall buildings, no passing cars. Just open skies, whispering trees, and the faint hum of wind moving through the hills.

It’s peaceful. Secluded. Like the world forgot this place existed—and maybe that’s what makes it sacred.

You reach for your seatbelt.

And he asks, “This is where you were going?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

He looks at the building, then at you, something soft flickering in his gaze. “Do you come here often?”

You smile faintly. “Used to. Then didn’t for some time. But lately, more often.”

He doesn’t say anything else.

Jeongguk moves to help you carry the bags up the front steps, gentler than before. Like he knows without needing to be told that this place means something to you. And he doesn’t push. Doesn’t ask more.

Just walks beside you, like always.

The front door opens with a familiar creak, the kind you’d memorized during your earlier visits—when your footsteps felt heavier, when you were still learning how to breathe without aching.

The smell inside is soft, lived-in. A mix of baby powder, instant noodles, and laundry soap. Homey.

You step in first, setting the first few bags down by the wall just like you always did.

Jeongguk follows, does the same. He’s quiet but observant. His gaze traces the walls—drawings taped up with mismatched washi tape, a corkboard with birthday cards, and tiny handprints in paint.

There were some photos pinned too. Taken in different seasons. You and the staff, smiling softly as the golden light of autumn filtered through the trees behind you.

Another showed you kneeling beside a group of children bundled in bright scarves and mittens, rosy-cheeked from a crisp winter’s day spent building snowmen.

One captured a sunlit spring afternoon, you crouched in the garden, helping a little girl plant seeds, her hands muddy but her grin wide.

There was even a candid shot from a summer festival—strings of lanterns glowing overhead, children laughing as you handed out ice cream cones.

Each picture felt like a quiet story of care and moments lived fully, stitched together across the turning seasons.

“This is different,” Jeongguk says gently, still looking around. “Seems like you’ve been around for a while.”

You hum, crouching to adjust a bag of toys so it won’t tip over. “I started after… Well. It helped.”

He doesn’t push for more. Just nods, lips pressed into a quiet line.

A moment later, footsteps approach around the corner.

Ms. Han, one of the coordinators you’ve known since your first visit, appears in the hallway — eyes lighting up the moment they find yours. She’s as warm as ever, apron still dusted with flour, smile crinkling at the edges like it’s second nature.

“You’re here,” she says, already moving in for a brief hug. “The little ones will be thrilled. They’ve been waiting.”

You return the embrace, already feeling a huge weight lifted off your chest, one you didn’t realize was lingering around. “I can’t wait to see them. Hope this isn’t too much.”

Her eyes flick to the bags at your side, gives you a grateful wide smile, like she’s always done, then shifts to the man beside you. Her smile doesn’t falter, but it softens into something quietly curious.

“Oh,” she says, surprised, “And you’ve brought someone with you.”

Her eyes land on Jeongguk, taking him in — the careful way he carries a box, the silent attention in his posture, the quiet thread that seems to stretch between the two of you.

Then gently, with curiosity wrapped in fondness, she asks, “Your husband?”

You freeze for a heartbeat.

Then—instinctively—you glance at Jeongguk.

He doesn’t flinch. Just meets your eyes, the corner of his mouth tugging into a small, barely-there smile. He nods once — gentle, like he’s saying, It’s okay. You decide. I’m here.

Your fingers tighten around the donation bag.

Then you turn back to Ms. Han, voice steady as you answer, “Yes.”

Ms. Han smiles like she’s known all along and steps aside to let you both in. “Come,” she says, with a fond wave of her hand. “The kids have been asking what time you’d be arriving today. They’ll be happy to see you’re here.”

You nod, offering a quiet thank you, and Jeongguk follows as you lead the way down the narrow hallway. His footsteps echo just behind yours — steady, unhurried.

The floor creaks beneath you in the same familiar spots. You’d memorized them without meaning to — like everything else here. The hallway walls are still that pale yellow the children helped paint one summer, uneven in places where small arms couldn’t quite reach, patches of lighter tones marked by smudged fingerprints no one had the heart to cover up.

Everything here is soft around the edges. Worn cushions on the benches. Hand-sewn curtains barely clinging to their rods. Corners padded with foam, sticker charts curling on the bulletin board. Nothing fancy. But everything lived-in. Loved.

Jeongguk says nothing, but you feel his eyes taking it all in. Watching the way your fingers drift along the wall like they’re retracing muscle memory. The way your steps slow near the corkboard filled with notes and crooked crayon drawings. The way something in your shoulders seems to loosen here.

And then—

“Unnie!”

The call comes from down the hall — high-pitched and gleeful — followed by the sound of small feet pattering on linoleum. You barely have time to turn before a blur of limbs barrels into you.

You laugh, arms catching the little girl mid-run as she clings tight to your neck. “Hey now—careful,” you murmur, smoothing her hair back from her forehead. “You’re going to knock me over again.”

“But we missed you!”

The others come quickly after — their joy spilling around corners, all mismatched socks and wide, bright eyes.

“Noona!”

“She’s here!”

One of the older boys lingers near the edge of the crowd, wide-eyed as his gaze bounces between you and the man behind you. “Noona brought someone!” he says louder that the rest of the kids— and that’s all the cue the rest need.

A ripple of curiosity spreads.

A little girl gasps, her hands clapping over her mouth in mock-shock. “Is he your boyfriend?!”

Another child immediately joins in. “Do you and Unnie hold hands?”

“Does he bring you flowers?”

Jeongguk blinks — clearly not prepared for the sudden interrogation — but he handles it well, calm, letting the kids crowd him.

You watch, barely holding back a laugh as one particularly bold toddler barrels into him, wrapping pudgy arms around his legs like he’s known forever.

Jeongguk steadies himself, crouching with ease. “Flowers?” he says, gently loosening the toddler’s grip to keep them from falling. Holds them steady. “I bring her favorites. Huge purple ones she loves.”

The kids erupt in a chorus of delighted “ooohhh”s, like he just confirmed something scandalous. One little boy gasps dramatically and points between you both. “Do you kiss?!”

His ears tint the faintest pink. He glances over at you — and for a second, the tension that’s lingered between you dissolves into something softer. Lighter. Shared.

You shake your head, amused. “You all have way too much energy.”

“They’re just excited,” Ms. Han says, stepping in with a smile. “It’s the first time they’ve seen you bring anyone along.”

The kids swarm again, now pulling Jeongguk’s hand as much as yours.

“Come see our room!”

“We drew pictures last week! Wanna see?”

“There’s new snacks! Unnie brought snacks!”

Jeongguk lets one of the smallest children cling to his arm like a koala. He looks at you — half amused, half stunned — and you just smile, already leading the way down the hall.

The playroom is loud in the best way — fingerpaints, wooden blocks, stuffed animals in chaotic piles.

You’re barely two steps in before a crayon is shoved in your hand and three different voices are asking if you want to play house, draw dinosaurs, or help braid hair.

Jeongguk hovers near the doorway at first, watching as you settle onto a worn rug with three toddlers and a bucket of paintbrushes. It doesn’t take long before one of the older boys grabs his sleeve.

“Samchon, can you help me paint a train? Make paper planes too after?”

You see his brows lift — caught off guard by the nickname but a smile comes out anyway. “Of course,” he lowers himself to the child’s height. “What kind? Fast? Slow? Magical?”

“Fast and magical,” the boy decides instantly.

Jeongguk chuckles. “Best kind.”

You glance sideways, watching him ease into it. The way he kneels without hesitation. The way his fingers curl naturally around the paintbrush, guiding the little boy’s hand as they drag the first thick strokes of green and gold across the paper.

The sight squeezes something in your chest. You look away before it shows.

Your distraction costs you.

A giggle. Then—

“Oops!” One of the younger girls has dabbed a fat smudge of yellow paint across your cheek. Her hand hovers with the brush like she’s not sure if she’s about to be scolded.

You blink. Then smile. “You trying to turn me into sunshine?”

She grins wide. “You already are.”

You laugh, leaning in so she can add a second streak. Because, why not?

At some point, Jeongguk glances up from his drawing — and freezes.

Because now another toddler beside him has decided to join the chaos, sneakily dipping their brush and dabbing a bright red circle on the tip of his nose.

“Yah,” he says gently, pretending to scowl. “You’ve turned me into a button.”

The kids dissolve into laughter.

And so do you.

“Looks good on you,” you say, teasing as you reach across for a wet napkin from the counter.

“You’re one to talk.” He nods at your cheek. “You’ve got a whole sunset going on.”

You shake your head, amused, then press the napkin gently to your skin. Before you can reach the next streak, he’s already moving closer, wiping it for you — careful, tender, like he’s done it a hundred times before.

Your breath catches.

He doesn’t say anything. Just offers a second napkin, flicking his eyes silly to the red on his nose. “I won’t survive the cuteness if more of them gang up on me.”

You grin, taking it. “Hold still.”

His eyes soften as you wipe off the paint. He doesn’t flinch. Just watches you — close, quiet — like he’s memorizing the shape of this moment. Like maybe, for a second, it feels like before.

You both stay there a moment longer, paint smudged and smiling under the hum of childhood.

The playroom noise fades behind you, replaced by the quiet of the nursery hallway. A soft children’s song plays faintly through the door, mixed with the steady hum of a white noise machine.

You pause just outside the doorway, your fingers gently gripping the frame.

“You okay?” Jeongguk asks behind you.

You nod, soft. “Could you grab the last bag? The one with the formula and wipes?”

He gives you a gentle nod and disappears down the hall without question.

Inside, the nursery glows with soft golden light and quiet warmth. Thick curtains mute the summer sun, and pastel mobiles slowly turn above each crib. The walls are covered with animals the kids painted years ago — a giraffe with uneven legs, an elephant with five flower-shaped ears. You remember painting with them, the scent of fruit snacks and finger paint still fresh in your mind.

A tired staff nurse is rocking a crying baby near the far crib, gently bouncing her, but the little one refuses to settle.

Her eyes lift when she sees you. “Sweetheart,” she says, visibly relieved. “She hasn’t stopped crying since after lunch.”

You smile softly and stretch out your arms. “Here, let me.”

The nurse hands her over without hesitation. You tuck the baby against your chest, your hand finding her back like instinct. Getting comfortable on the play mats, you rock without even realizing, movements small, heart steady.

“She just got changed,” the nurse explains. “Probably just wants comfort.”

“She’ll sleep soon,” you say, rubbing her back gently. “Just needs to hear a heartbeat.”

By the time Jeongguk returns, the baby’s cries have softened into sniffles, and your arms are full. “Got it,” he says, holding up the bag.

You motion with your chin. “Can you set it by the changing table?”

He follows, crosses to the far side of the nursery. But then pauses, spotting another infant in the corner bassinet, fussing as he kicks against his blanket.

The nurse sighs. “He’ll need a fresh change soon too.”

“I can do it,” Jeongguk offers before thinking.

Your arms instinctively tighten around the baby, but you keep soothing.

The nurse arches a brow. “You sure?”

He’s already rolling up his sleeves, a hint of a smile on his lips. “It’s been a while, but… I think I remember how.”

You watch as he gently lifts the baby from the bassinet, cradling the boy with practiced arms. He lays him on the changing mat nearby, his movements careful and steady.

He hums under his breath — a tune you recognize. Soft and slow, the same one he used to sing with his lips pressed to your belly, palm cradling your side, whenever a little ball of sunshine kicked up fuss from inside.

You shift slightly, settling the baby in your arms. She stirs, eyes catching the motion nearby. You look over at Jeongguk, following her gaze — or maybe she’s following yours.

He unsnaps the onesie with careful fingers. Talks to the baby like he’s listening. “You’re strong huh buddy? Gonna wiggle your way out of this one?”

The baby hiccups, waving his arms.

You breathe out a soft laugh, barely there. Jeongguk glances up, meets your eyes. There’s no teasing in his smile. Just warmth.

He finishes the change without fuss. Secures the new diaper, buttons the onesie with gentle thumbs. When he scoops the boy back into his arms, he’s settled and calm. He leans down and lays the little one gently back in the bassinet, giving the tiny chest a light pat. The boy settles with a soft noise, blinking up at the ceiling. Jeongguk lingers for a second, then straightens and returns to you.

“You still got it,” you murmur.

He shrugs slightly. “We did take those classes together for two weeks straight.”

You smile. “Pretty sure we bickered the whole time.”

He chuckles. “Only because you kept trying to correct the instructor.”

“She was wrong about the diaper fold.”

He holds up his hands, mock serious. “I wasn’t about to argue with either of you.”

You exhale. Not a sigh, not quite — more like a breath you’d forgotten you were holding.

He disappears again for a moment, returns quickly with a small tray – a rice ball, some warm soup, and cut fruit, set aside by the staff for visiting volunteers. He also has a folded blanket he carefully drapes over the little girl in your arms.

“Here,” he says, crouching beside you on the floor. “Lunch. You didn’t eat.”

You glance down at the sleeping baby. “She’ll wake up if I move.”

“I’ll hold her.”

You look at him. “Is that okay?”

He just smiles and shifts closer, waiting until you adjust your grip. Then he takes the baby into his arms like he remembers how it used to feel — like he remembers this weight, this stillness.

You rub your arms as the chill hits your skin.

He notices, glances down. “Hang on a sec.” Carefully, he shifts the baby in one arm to free the other, her tiny face scrunching as the movement jostles her.

She lets out a soft, uncertain noise — the kind that threatens to turn into a cry.

He dips his head, voice low and steady. “Shh, it’s okay, sweetheart. I’ve got you.” His thumb strokes gently along her back, and she quiets again.

Then, with practiced ease, he shrugs out of his hoodie and drapes it over your shoulders, all without missing a beat.

“You first,” he says, motioning to the tray.

You sit, legs curled under you, and pick up the spoon. One bite at a time. Jeongguk doesn’t speak, just watches the baby’s chest rise and fall, his thumb gently stroking the soft blanket.

“She likes warmth,” you say quietly. “Some of them won’t nap unless they can feel someone near.”

He nods, not taking his eyes off her. “I remember that from one of the classes.” There’s a long pause — not heavy, just full. Then he says, almost to himself, “You’ve been doing this all this time.”

You don’t answer. Don’t have to.

He looks at you, and you swear he sees it — all of it.

And still, he stays.

The halls are quiet now. Naptime has wrapped the orphanage in one of those rare, peaceful spells where every child sleeps at once.

You step out of the nursery just as Ms. Han appears around the corner. She doesn’t say anything at first — just watches as you tuck a sleeping baby more securely into your chest.

“I forget how natural you are with them,” she murmurs, voice gentle.

You give a faint smile, adjusting your grip. “They make it easy.”

She watches you for another moment, then glances toward the door at the end of the hallway. “Some of the adoption papers went through this morning. The Lee siblings will be picked up by the end of the week.”

Your arms tighten slightly. “I thought they were still waiting on approvals.”

“They were. But someone pulled a few strings.”

You let out a breath, smiling in quiet relief. “That’s good to hear.”

Ms. Han nods. “Thank you. You’ve helped make a lot of things happen here.”

You look away — not out of shame, but the ache that always comes with recognition. “They deserve it.”

“They do,” she agrees. “And so do you.”

She steps closer then, lowering her voice just a bit. “Is today your last visit?”

The question sits heavy, even though you’ve known the answer all day. You nod once.

“We’ll miss you,” she says, and for the first time, her voice wavers. “You’ve done so much without ever needing credit. Quietly. Fully. Like you were always trying to leave pieces of love behind.”

“I just wanted them to feel warm,” your throat tightens. “Even if just for a little while.”

“You gave them more than that,” she says. “You gave them a home.”

You and Jeongguk step out into the garden at the side of the orphanage, where a few of the older kids are lingering with chalk and paper airplanes, their voices softer now, the day tipping gently into late afternoon light.

One of the boys —the same one who’d called him Samchon earlier — wanders over, a piece of folded paper in his hand.

“Samchon,” the boy says, holding it out. “I made this one better. It’s faster now.”

Jeongguk takes it carefully, inspects the sharp folds. “You’ve got the wings even this time,” he says, impressed. “That’s gonna fly far.”

The boy grins, then pauses. “Will you come back next time?”

There’s a stillness in Jeongguk’s response. He glances at you, his expression unreadable for a moment — then softens. “I think…” he begins, crouching to the boy, “you and your friends are all headed somewhere new soon, right?”

The boy nods. “My new mom and dad are coming next week.”

Jeongguk smiles, and it’s warm — proud. “That’s amazing. You’ll teach them how to fold the best airplanes?”

“I will,” the boy promises, straightening his shoulders.

Jeongguk ruffles his hair gently. “Then you won’t even need me.”

The boy shrugs, playful. “Maybe not. But you’re still cool.” He darts off before either of you can say more.

You let out a quiet breath. The kind that stays in your throat. Jeongguk just watches the boy go, something distant flickering across his face.

Something like a quiet ache wrapped in fondness.

The road hums beneath the tires, a quiet pause between places. Neither of you speak at first—not for lack of words, but because the air still holds the weight of small feet, warm bottles, paint-smudged cheeks.

Eventually, Jeongguk gestures toward an upcoming exit. “Coffee?”

You glance at him. His voice is soft. Familiar. You nod. “Could use it.”

He pulls into the drive-thru of a small roadside café — one that’s had the same five drinks on the menu since before you both learned how to drive. He orders from memory; one iced americano, one mild latte with almond milk and extra foam.

You let out a quiet laugh. “These used to keep us up all night.”

Jeongguk smiles faintly, eyes still on the menu board. “And we’d show up to 7AMs looking half alive.”

“Why did we pick the earliest classes, again?”

“You and your cursed need for ‘structure,’” he says, and you mimic his voice in a teasing lilt. He scoffs keeping his eyes ahead.

The barista hands over the drinks. You pass them into the cup holders, fingers brushing briefly. The first sip warms your throat. The sweetness is just enough to settle you.

“Thanks,” you murmur — more than just for the drink.

He nods, pulling the car back onto the road.

Outside, the light has started to dim. The sun dips low behind the trees, casting long streaks of amber across the windshield. One by one, streetlights begin to blink on, softening the edges of approaching dusk.

Then, you notice the turn he takes.

The bend of the street.

The familiar lamppost that still flickers near the crosswalk.

The university gates, now worn with time.

The empty lot at the back of campus — the one where you used to wait for him after class. The one where he taught you to drive. The one that always felt like somewhere in between youth and becoming.

The car settles into a stop. The engine ticks once, then fades.

The lot is nearly empty, shadows stretching longer beneath the slanting afternoon sun. Everything here feels unchanged — and yet entirely different.

For a second, you think about asking what — why here, after all this time. But the question never leaves your lips.

Maybe you both need this.

The coffee cups sit between you now — lids soft with condensation, your fingers tracing circles near the rim of yours.

You’re parked beneath the same tree that used to shade Jeongguk’s car years ago, in the quiet lot just outside your old university’s art wing.

The wind moves through the branches, gentle and unbothered, as if this little corner has been left untouched by time.

You glance over. “Thanks… for today.”

He shifts slightly in his seat, coffee nestled in one hand, eyes already on you. “You don’t have to thank me.”

“I do,” you say, voice gentle. “For everything. The shopping, the snacks, the diaper duty…”

He chuckles softly. “You say that like I haven’t done it before.”

“I didn’t think you remembered how.”

“Didn’t think I did either.” His mouth quirks, but there’s a softness behind it. “But I’m glad the muscle memory stuck. Being with those kids… it felt good. Thank you for letting me stay.”

You smile at your cup. The breeze threads in through the cracked window. For a moment, there’s only the sound of the cardboard sleeve creaking between your fingers.

Then—

“Can I ask you something?”

You glance up. He’s watching you, serious but soft. Always soft now.

His mouth twitches when you nod. Takes your cue as permission. “How long have you been going there?”

You don’t look away. “A little over three years.”

“Since…?”

“Since Ha-yun,” you say quietly, not to wound, just to root the truth in time. “After everything settled, I found myself needing somewhere to go. Somewhere I could feel like… I still had something to give.”

Jeongguk doesn’t interrupt. Just waits.

“At first, it was just for an hour or two. Holding the babies, helping during meal prep. I wasn’t doing anything major. I just… needed to be near them. Kids who’d lost something too. Part of me was trying to stay close to what I lost.”

You glance away, out toward the walkway near the lecture halls. “I started donating when I could. Buying diapers, toys, blankets. It wasn’t some grand gesture. It just made sense. Like if I had that love in me and nowhere to put it, maybe this was a place that could hold it.”

Jeongguk’s fingers tighten around his coffee. But not out of guilt — not this time. Just quiet awe.

“I didn’t know,” he murmurs.

“You weren’t supposed to,” you say, meeting his eyes again. “I didn’t do it for anyone to know. I did it for her. For me.”

His jaw flexes, just barely. “I was thinking… maybe I wasn’t the kind of person who could carry her memory right.”

“There’s no right way to remember what we’ve lost — or to grieve,” you murmur. “It’s what makes us human. Some people spiral into their darkest moments, become someone they never imagined. Others carry their pain quietly. Or they channel that love into new places, where someone else can feel it.”

Your gaze softens as you glance his way. “We just carry it differently.”

He looks at you — unsure, still searching for something he can’t name.

“We were both in a bad place,” you continue, voice calm, steady. “But we chose different ways to survive it. That’s okay.”

Jeongguk breathes in slowly, like he’s finally letting that truth sit in his lungs for once.

You offer a faint smile. “If you let other people dictate how you’re supposed to grieve, you’d just be their puppet — not human.”

The silence that follows isn’t sharp. It just lingers — warm, full, like something shared finally found space between you.

Jeongguk’s the one to break it. His voice is quieter now. “Why didn’t you tell me? About the orphanage. About all of it.”

“Because I didn’t need you to know.” Your fingers curl gently around your coffee cup, condensation cooling your skin. “That place… those kids… it was how I kept breathing. And you — you had your own way of getting by.”

You glance down briefly, then lift your gaze again.

“We were both carrying a burden back then. And yeah, maybe as a married couple, we were supposed to share it. Be each other’s landing place. That would’ve been nice.”

You pause. Let the weight of the past breathe between you.

“Back then, I really hoped I could lean on the person I love. Hoped I could lean on you.”

The admission hangs there — not bitter, not demanding. Just soft and settled.

You take a breath, close your eyes briefly, as if pulling strength from the calm you’ve built within. “But time really does bring you peace. It wasn’t easy, but it came.”

Then, a breath lighter, you add, “And like I said, that’s what society expects — to grieve together, to do it properly. When did I ever give a shit about expectations?”

That earns a quiet laugh from him — one of those Jeongguk laughs, fond and half-exhaled. “You always had a way of turning things around. Always led with kindness.”

“Not always,” you say gently. “You just didn’t see me breaking when I did.”

He doesn’t answer at first. Just watches you like his heart is trying to memorize the way you look when you say things that hurt and heal at once.

And then—he reaches for your hand. Not urgently. Not to fix anything. Just… enough.

Enough for your pinkies to meet where they rest on the console, side by side.

You let them stay there. Don’t thread your fingers through his. Don’t pull away either.

Outside, the sky deepens into burnished gold — slow, unhurried, the last warmth of the day clinging to the edges.

And for the first time in a long time, the weight in your chest feels different.

Less about what you lost.

More about what never left.

The silence lingers a little longer before you both quietly step out of the car. There’s no destination—just an unspoken agreement to keep walking.

Campus hasn’t changed much.

The hedges are trimmed the way they always were. The breeze still sweeps through the old courtyards like it’s carrying secrets from a decade ago. You pass the benches you used to sit on between classes, the path lined with cherry trees that bloomed too early every year.

Somewhere down the block, a familiar rusting gate catches your eye.

You glance over your shoulder. “Think the basketball court’s still open?”

Jeongguk raises a brow. “Doubt it.”

You start walking faster.

“Wait—” he says, already catching on.

You glance back with a grin, voice airy, teasing. “You’re the one who brought me here. Keep up.”

And then you’re off—dashing across the lot like gravity doesn’t apply. You reach the chain-link fence and tug at the side where the latch’s always been loose. It creaks open with a little resistance.

Jeongguk jogs after you, breath catching between laughter and disbelief. “Are you seriously breaking into a college court in your thirties?”

You swing the gate wider. “For old time’s sake.”

“You’ve gotten faster since uni.”

You smirk over your shoulder. “You’re just getting old.”

“We’re the same age!”

“Put that cardio you brag to use! I don’t even go to the gym anymore.”

You dodge past a crooked bench and duck under the gate, sneakers skidding to a stop on the cracked pavement of the court. Jeongguk follows, breath catching as he slows beside you, eyes sweeping the empty space.

“Wow,” he murmurs.

Inside, the court looks almost exactly the same—faded lines, one broken hoop, the faint scent of rubber and summer still lingering in the concrete.

You walk toward center court and spin slowly, like you’re trying to remember how it felt to exist without weight. To be nineteen. To be invincible.

Jeongguk watches you, quiet amusement dancing in his eyes. “Remember when you used to come here to watch me play?” he says.

“How could I forget the number of times you bet you could make a half-court shot blindfolded?”

His grin stretches. “I did.”

“You hit the janitor’s cart.”

“That’s called creative aiming.”

You let out a soft laugh. “You had the biggest ego for someone who missed every layup.”

“I was distracting the crowd with my charisma.”

“There was no crowd, Gguk.”

“There was you,” he says, without thinking.

You glance toward the far end of the court, where late sunlight slices across the paint like a memory you haven’t touched in years.

Your fingers brush the hem of your sleeve. The bracelet is still there.

Warm against your skin. But cold with questions, waiting.

And then, quietly, “Why did you send it?”

Jeongguk turns toward you slowly. The laughter from earlier fades from his lips, replaced by something quieter. Something only meant for moments like this.

“The bracelet,” you say, more gently this time. “You sent it without a note. Without a name. Just… showed up.”

His hand slips into his coat pocket, like it’s looking for something to hold onto. “I meant to give it to you before. A long time ago.”

Your eyes stay steady on his. “Why’d you get it in the first place?”

He doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he shifts, pushes his sleeve back just slightly — just enough for the edge of the silver to catch the light.

“You’ve seen mine, right?”

You nod. Quiet.

“I got it to always have a piece of you,” he says, voice low. “To keep you close. Tulips have always been a part of you. But there was this one moment that really hit.”

His gaze drops to the bracelet, a faint smile tugging at his mouth before he speaks again. “It was the morning after our wedding. You were still asleep. Curled around your bouquet — those damn tulips.” A soft breath of a laugh escapes him. “I couldn’t stop looking at you. Like if I blinked, you’d vanish.”

You smile. “How’d I end up with the bouquet again?”

“We were taking pictures with it before bed,” he says, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Somewhere between my dumb jokes and your yawns, you passed out hugging the whole thing. And it just... stayed with you.”

“That explains why there were petals all over the bed,” you murmur, grinning.

He huffs a quiet laugh. “Yeah. But it was the best thing to wake up to. You—hair a mess, petals everywhere, clinging to something that meant everything. And I just stood there thinking, this is it. The first morning I got to call you my wife. And that from then on, every morning after, I’d get to call you mine.”

His eyes drop to his wrist. Thumb brushing over the tulip charm like second nature.

“So I went looking for something to hold that moment,” he says. “Had this made. Minimal, clean lines. Just like that morning. Quiet. Real.”

You squint at him, teasing. “And here I thought you wore it because of your classically bland taste.”

He gasps. “Bland?”

“Classically bland,” you amend, barely holding back your smile. “But yeah, I’ll give you points for sentiment.”

He rolls his eyes, but his shoulders drop a little — tension dissolving into warmth.

Then, after a moment; “When I had yours made,” he says, voice dipping low again, “I hoped maybe it could help me remember my love for you. That maybe it could lead me back to what mattered. That maybe… it could help me find my way back home.”

Your breath catches.

And before you can stop yourself, the question slips out. “Does that mean you actually forgot your love for me?”

His head lifts fast. “No,” he says instantly. “Fuck, no.”

There’s no waver. No doubt.

“I didn’t forget,” he says. “I buried it. Buried it under shame, guilt, fear. There were things that made me feel like I didn’t deserve your love anymore. Things I let consume me. I lost track of what mattered because I thought I couldn’t be forgiven.”

You say nothing. Just listen.

He glances down again—at the way your fingers now cradle the matching charm on your wrist.

“I wanted to give it to you back then,” he says. “God, I wanted to. But a bracelet wasn’t going to undo everything I broke. Couldn’t hand you a piece of silver and pretend it would fix the pain. I even did something after —“

You swallow. “That would’ve been a start,” you whisper.

He nods. “It would’ve. But I was a stranger to myself. Too far gone to recognize what love really looked like.”

You glance down at the charm again, feel the curve of the metal between your fingers.

“You said this was supposed to help you remember,” you say. “Help you find your way back.”

You pause — heart beating a little too hard. “And now you’ve given it to me. So… does that mean you’ve found your way back?”

When his eyes meet yours, they’re full of the softest kind of ache.

“I have,” he says. “For a while now.”

The breeze picks up as the last of the sun slips away, brushing over your skin like a memory.

You’re both quiet now, walking a slow, meandering circle back to the parking lot, the pavement still holding the day’s warmth.

Jeongguk glances at you once. Twice. Then finally, “Can I say something?”

You stop, turning to face him. “Of course.”

He doesn’t speak right away. Just stands there — hands in his pockets, brows slightly furrowed, like he’s sorting through pieces of something he’s never let himself fully hold.

His voice comes low. “There’s no excuse for how I hurt you.”

Before you can answer, he pushes forward — not rushed, but clear. Like he’s been waiting for this opening, this quiet, this you.

“Kept telling myself I didn’t mean to. That I was just… lost. But lost or not, I still left you alone. I made you carry everything on your own.”

Your chest tightens — not from pain, but from the honesty in his voice. The clarity you’d spent years waiting for.

“I shut down after we lost her,” he says. “Threw myself into work, into being anywhere but where it hurt. And you—” he swallows, gaze falling to the ground, “you were the only one who could’ve helped me remember what love even looked like. Who I really was.”

Your heart stumbles. You step a little closer — not much, just enough for your shoulder to brush his when the wind shifts again.

He doesn’t flinch.

“I kept trying to punish myself,” he says. “Pretended I didn’t care. Pretended you’d be better off if I stayed cold. But I knew what I was doing.”

He breathes in — shaky. Measured. “And then I did something unforgivable.”

Jeongguk doesn’t say the word. Doesn’t say a name. Doesn’t need to.

The silence that follows holds everything — the betrayal, the ache, the way your heart had shattered the day you found those papers. The ones that told you, in cruel black ink, that your future was slipping away.

He lifts his eyes. “I broke our vows,” he says quietly. “Broke you.”

You don’t step away. Just meet his gaze — steady, unwavering — even though your hands have gone still at your sides.

“You did,” you say – not cruel, just honest. “But I broke too. Gave up too easily when I found those papers.”

His jaw tightens. A breath catches in his throat. His gaze drops briefly, then lifts again — full of something heavier than guilt. More enduring than shame. “You had every right,” he murmurs. “The way I treated you—”

He breaks off, shakes his head. Then exhales, jaw working, eyes catching the last glint of fading light. “I would take it back if I could. Every second I let you feel unloved. Every moment I made you question your worth. I’m so—”

You look down at your hands, cut him off gently. “We can’t take back the things we’ve done. Can’t use time to reverse the mistakes.”

“I know that,” he says. “Can’t erase the ways I failed — as a husband, as a father. Even as your best friend who once promised to be there for you no matter what right here on this campus.”

He gestures vaguely around you both — at the parking lot, the lights beginning to flicker on one by one, the faint hum of cicadas in the trees.

Jeongguk continues, “I shouldn’t have left you alone the past three years. Can’t go back and rewrite that. I’ll have to live with it forever.” He moves closer, faces you now, “But I want to be the one who finally understands you now. No more running. No more hiding. No more shutting you out.”

Your throat tightens, but you stay silent — listening. Breathing.

“I don’t expect forgiveness,” he says. “Know I don’t deserve it. If I were you, I wouldn’t forgive me either.”

Then, without rush, he reaches for your hand. Not desperate. Not begging. Just there — fingers threading gently between yours, brushing against the ring still resting at the base of your finger.

His voice dips. “But whatever part of me you still want — I’ll give it.”

A tear slips down your cheek. You barely feel it until Jeongguk reaches up, his thumb brushing gently beneath your eye, his touch feather-light.

When he leans in — just a little — you can feel the warmth of his breath. The slight tremble in his hand as his fingers rest at your jaw. He doesn’t kiss you. The tip of his nose just grazes yours — soft, aching, familiar.

“I’m choosing you,” he says. “I’m here to stay.”

You let the words settle, let the quiet and peace finally find their way — not just in the space between you, but in the part of you that’s been waiting for him all along. The part that’s loved him since the beginning, and in between all the fuck-ups life threw at you, until now – still here, holding on.

Without warning, you blink, slow, wide-eyed. Blurt out, “Please don’t kiss me.”

Jeongguk lets out a breath, startled — halfway between a laugh and a choke. “I wasn’t…wait—what?”

“What?” You hide your face in his chest like the embarrassment might drown if you press hard enough. “Shit. Never mind. Fuck off."

His chuckles rumble beneath your cheek. “You’re the one who brought it up!”

You nudge his side with your elbow, trying not to smile. Failing.

“Now that you did,” he murmurs, his hand brushing lightly against your arm, “you gonna tell me why you avoided me like the plague?”

Your hands toy with the zipper of his hoodie. The fabric between your fingers grounds you as you try to form an answer.

“I didn’t know what to say,” you admit. “Thought I might’ve ruined things. That maybe… you’d drift away again. Thinking, you might now.”

He pulls you in, arms winding around your waist slowly, deliberately. Not with hunger, but with the kind of patience that promises he’s not letting go this time. “Did you not hear everything I said, woman?”

You scoff, rolling your eyes. “Well, this wasn’t in the open back then. I didn’t have a manual for what comes after kissing your limboing husband in a rusted tram.”

He grins. “Fair point.” He pauses, follows with a quick question, voice steady. “Just one thing,” you peak up. “Why’d you kiss me that night?”

You draw in a breath, teeth grazing the inside of your cheek. “It was a really long day,” you say quietly. “Too much raining down on me at once. Everything felt so loud. I couldn’t breathe. And then—there you were.” A pause. “Guess you’re still the comfort I need. Still the comfort I want. Despite everything. I still want you. Not just the comfort. You know—that never changed. It’s scary and I’ve got so much to—“

With the tremble in your voice, Jeongguk traces a slow arc down your arm before they find your hand again. “Glad I could still be that person to you. Thank you for letting me still be. I’m not going anywhere this time. You have me.”

The silence that follows is gentle, whole. Like a held breath made of old memories and something new blooming quietly underneath.

You shrug, playful despite the warmth in your chest. “Don’t let what I said go to your head.”

He chuckles. “Won’t even.” Tucks a strand of your locks behind your ear. “Just happy you’re here.”

I’m happy you’re finally here. The words hover on the tip of your tongue, but instead, you let yourself lean into the moment – feeling his warmth and the quick beat of his heart.

Without thinking, your hands find their way into the front pocket of his hoodie—soft, comforting. He doesn’t flinch. If anything, he shifts closer, like he’d been waiting for it.

And then, you tilt your head. “Do you want to go home?”

Jeongguk looks at you, the sudden shift in the moment leaves him confused. “I mean… I’d love to spend more time with you. But if you’re tired, then yeah, I’ll drop you off—”

You laugh, light and breathy, finally letting it out. “No, I mean—” Your eyes on him are steady now, lips curled into a tight smile.

“Do you want to go home with me…to Busan?

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