thedensworld

[thedensworld]

Now We're Swapping | j.ww

Pairing: Rich Kid Wonwoo x reader

Genre: College au!, Enemy to Lovers au!, Body Swapped au!

Type: fluff, hint angst, smut (mdni!)

Word Count: 18k

Summary: Wonwoo was waking up as his high school rival in one sudden morning. There were two things he could do, help you or turn your life into a miserable one.

Wonwoo experienced three bizarre things the moment he woke up:

1. He wasn’t in his soft, warm, and luxurious bed. In fact, he wasn’t even in his room. The second he opened his eyes, confusion struck him like a bolt of lightning. Instead of his familiar surroundings, he found himself lying on a rock-hard mattress in a room he had never seen before. His back ached from the uncomfortable bed, and the musty smell of old wood filled the air.

2. Before he could even process where he was, the door suddenly burst open, slamming against the wall with a loud bang. A woman, looking frantic and completely unbothered by the fact that he had just woken up, barged in and yelled at him. “Come on! Help me get the kids ready!” she snapped, her voice grating against his ears. Wonwoo flinched. The kids? Since when did he have kids to take care of? Even back at home, not a single staff member dared to wake him up so rudely, let alone order him around. But this woman? She had the audacity to yell at him as if she had been doing it for years.

3. It wasn’t until he was practically dragged out of bed, his body moving sluggishly with sleep still clinging to him, that the real shock hit him. Stumbling towards a mirror hanging on the wall, his bleary eyes landed on his own reflection—except it wasn’t his reflection. It was you. His heart plummeted into his stomach. He blinked. Once. Twice. He even rubbed his eyes, but nothing changed. It was your face staring back at him. No, wait! It wasn’t just your face—it was you. Or was it him? No! It was him, but in your body! No— Whatever! The details didn’t matter. What mattered was that he had somehow woken up as you!

Now, Wonwoo stood in the backyard of a place called Pristine Foster Home, feeling utterly lost. Wet blankets and bedsheets hung from the clothesline, swaying in the breeze, but he was too consumed by his own crisis to care. He tapped his foot anxiously against the ground, his fingers instinctively biting at his nails—a nervous habit he never realized you had. This can’t be happening. This is a nightmare.

Not only had he woken up as a girl, but to make things worse, he had woken up as you—his biggest rival for the upcoming university student presidential election next week. Before Wonwoo could fully process the madness of waking up as you, the woman—who everyone around here called Mrs. Kim—grabbed his wrist and dragged him away without a hint of hesitation.

“You! Front yard. Now. The donor is coming in two hours, and this place needs to be spotless!” she barked, barely giving him time to keep up with her fast-paced steps.

Wonwoo stumbled along, still disoriented, but before he could even protest, a broom was shoved into his hands, and Mrs. Kim disappeared just as quickly as she had appeared. He blinked down at the worn-out broom in his grasp.

What the hell was happening?

He huffed in frustration and, without a second thought, threw the broom aside the moment she was out of sight. His arms crossed over his chest, lips curling in irritation as his gaze swept across the yard. The place wasn’t even that messy. And more importantly—

“Why am I the only one working here?” he muttered under his breath, glaring at the empty yard. There were kids. Lots of them. Small, loud, and chaotic little kids running around, playing, laughing—doing everything except helping. Meanwhile, he—no, you—was here, being ordered around like some unpaid laborer.

A long sigh escaped his lips, carrying the weight of his rapidly declining mental state. He was exhausted, and he had barely even done anything yet. He pressed his fingers to his temple, trying to piece together the last thing he remembered.

He had gone home last night. That much was clear. After an intense strategic meeting at Mingyu’s place about how to crush you in the upcoming university election, he had ridden his bike home. He did have a beer—maybe two. But he wasn’t drunk. He swore he was completely sober when he got home.

And yet, here he was. Stuck in your body, in a place he had never been, surrounded by a bunch of kids and an overbearing woman yelling at him about cleaning. His head was starting to spin from the sheer absurdity of it all.

What kind of twisted nightmare was this?

Hours later, the children lined up neatly in the front yard, their chatter filling the air with restless energy. Wonwoo, on the other hand, was slumped on the front porch, exhausted and utterly out of place. He had barely caught his breath when, once again, Mrs. Kim grabbed him and dragged him forward, forcing him to join the group.

She clicked her tongue in disapproval, eyeing him��you—from head to toe. “You’re a mess,” she muttered. “You look filthy. You probably stink too, but there’s no time for a bath.”

Wonwoo barely had the energy to argue. His body—your body—was covered in sweat and dirt after hours of cleaning. His arms ached, his back was sore, and he was convinced he had never worked this hard in his life. And for what? To stand in a lineup like some kind of orphan?

“Now—Oh! They’re here! Let’s go.”

Mrs. Kim barely gave him a second to react before shoving him to the front of the group. Wonwoo stumbled forward, blinking in confusion as an expensive black car slowly rolled to a stop in front of them. His brows furrowed as he focused on the vehicle, a bad feeling creeping into his chest.

The driver stepped out first, closing the door behind him. Wonwoo’s blood ran cold.

“Oh no…” he muttered under his breath, his stomach twisting into knots. He knew this man. The driver stood tall, his expression neutral yet familiar, dressed in the usual black suit that Wonwoo had seen countless times before.

Don’t tell me the donor is…

Before he could finish his thought, the back doors of the car opened, and a well-dressed couple stepped out.

“Mr. Jeon! Mrs. Jeon! How are you? It’s very nice to meet you. It’s been a long time, right?” Mrs. Kim greeted them enthusiastically, her voice laced with respect.

Wonwoo’s entire body stiffened.

What in the actual universe was this?!

Standing before him were his parents.

Wonwoo froze as his mother approached him with a warm smile, her arms immediately wrapping around him in a tight embrace.

“Y/n… you’re beautiful,” she murmured, pulling back slightly to cup his—your—cheek. “How are you, honey? I heard you joined the election for university student president. I wish you the best of luck!”

His entire body went rigid.

It wasn’t just the hug that caught him off guard—it was the way she spoke. So soft, so affectionate, her voice practically dripping with warmth. His mother had never spoken to him like that before. And now, she was looking at him—at you—with so much fondness that it made his stomach churn with unease.

Before he could even process her words, his father stepped up beside them. Unlike his mother’s overwhelming affection, his father’s greeting was simple yet firm as he gave Wonwoo a friendly pat on the shoulder.

“Good job, Y/n. I heard you’re ranked second in your school.”

Wonwoo nearly scoffed. Of course, you’re second. Living in a foster home, faking a high-maintenance life while studying at an Ivy League university—you’d have to be at the top to keep up. But there was something about the way his father said it that irked him.

Second place. And who was first? Wasn’t it him? The top student? Before he could dwell on it any further, he felt Mrs. Kim’s sharp gaze on him. Her eyes flickered between him and his parents, silently sending him glances—no, warnings. Her expression screamed at him to stay in line, to play along.

Play along with what?!

Before he could figure it out, his mother suddenly took his arm, her fingers latching onto his wrist as she led him forward, her voice full of excitement. “Come, let’s take a look around!” The entire group started moving for a home tour, but Wonwoo was barely keeping up. His mind was still spinning, drowning in confusion, when a voice snapped him out of his daze.

Mr. Jung, the driver, leaned in and whispered something to his father.

His father’s expression darkened instantly.

“We need to go,” his father said abruptly, turning to his mother.

She blinked in surprise. “Why? What happened?”

“Our son is in the hospital. Bike accident.”

Wonwoo’s breath caught in his throat.

What?!

*

Now, thanks to the lie he had impulsively made earlier—saying he wanted to come with them to the hospital—everyone, or rather just his parents, would start thinking that you and he were close.

His mother’s fingers gently wrapped around his hand, her eyes filled with warmth as she asked, “You’re close with our Wonwoo?”

Wonwoo almost blurted out No way in hell! because, really, what kind of sick joke was this? He and you had been enemies since high school. Ever since you transferred in and started creeping up the academic ranks, toppling one student after another—except him. He had been the only one who managed to keep you from taking first place.

And now? Now, here he was. Sitting in front of a hospital room.

As his parents went inside to see their real son, Wonwoo sat stiffly in the hallway, his fingers absentmindedly tugging at the hem of the dress he was still wearing. Your dress. He hadn't even had the chance to change out of it—an old, faded yellow sleeping gown that was wrinkled from all the chaos he had been thrown into. His hair— your hair was probably a mess, sticking out in all directions, and worst of all… he reeked. The hours of chores he had done at the foster home had left him sweaty and grimy.

He sighed, rubbing his face with his hands.

What the hell is going on?

Before he could spiral any further, the door to the hospital room creaked open.

“Honey.”

He looked up to see his mother stepping out, his father following close behind.

“He wants to see you.” Wonwoo’s heart stilled.

Shit. Who the hell was he?

“Wonwoo… is that you?”

The voice sent a shiver down his spine. It was his voice—his own deep, familiar tone—but coming from the hospital bed in front of him.

Wonwoo hesitated before stepping closer, eyes narrowing as he took in the sight of his own body lying there. His forehead was bandaged, a clear sign of the accident, but everything else was exactly as he remembered.

His own face looked back at him with furrowed brows, filled with confusion. “Who are you?” Wonwoo asked, his voice laced with suspicion. He didn’t know what to expect—hell, nothing about this entire day made sense—but seeing himself awake and talking to him? This was beyond anything he could’ve ever imagined.

The person in his body blinked, hesitant before answering.

“I’m Y/n…” Your voice—his voice—sounded unsure, shaken. “Why am I here?”

Wonwoo let out a slow breath, crossing his arms over his chest. “Surprised you didn’t panic the moment you saw yourself talking to you,” he muttered, shaking his head. He honestly expected more screaming. Maybe some fainting. But here you were, surprisingly composed despite everything.

Your—his—eyes widened slightly, scanning the room before looking back at him. “What happened? Why… why am I you?”

Wonwoo scoffed, letting out a dry chuckle. “You think I know?” He met your gaze with an exasperated look. “I’m just as confused as you are, Ji Y/n. But whatever happened… we’ve switched.”

Silence filled the room as you stared at him, disbelief evident in your expression. And for the first time in his life, Wonwoo experienced the incredibly uncomfortable feeling of being stared at by himself.

It was unsettling. He shifted on his feet, looking away as he took a small step back.

You swallowed hard before finally speaking again, voice quieter this time. “How did this happen?”

Wonwoo sighed, running a hand through his—your—messy hair. “Same, Y/n… I’m asking too.”

A heavy silence settled between them. Wonwoo—stuck in your body—felt an itch in his brain, an urge to pace around the room in frustration, but he held himself still. Meanwhile, you, trapped in his body, were staring at your—his—hands, clenching and unclenching your fists as if trying to confirm this wasn’t just some fever dream.

“This has to be a nightmare,” you muttered, gripping the blanket draped over your lap. “A really weird, messed-up nightmare.”

Wonwoo sighed sharply, rubbing his temple. “I thought the same thing when I woke up in that damn foster home.”

At his words, you blinked, finally snapping your gaze up to meet his.

“The foster home… Pristine Foster Home?”

“Yeah.” Wonwoo let out a tired huff. “Woke up on some hard-ass mattress in a tiny room, got screamed at by a woman who made me do chores all morning, and then got dragged here because your—” He paused, correcting himself. “—my parents showed up as donors.”

Your expression darkened as you digested his words. “Mrs. Kim must’ve made you clean, didn’t she?”

“Front yard.”

You cringed. “Damn. That’s the worst one.”

Wonwoo scoffed. “Yeah, I figured.” He studied you carefully, watching as you pulled at the hospital blanket, your jaw tightening. “So? What happened to you? How the hell did you end up here?”

You let out a deep breath, shaking your head. “I don’t know. I remember going to bed last night like usual, and then… I woke up here. But obviously, it wasn’t me who got into that accident.”

Wonwoo frowned, trying to recall the events of last night. He had been at Mingyu’s house, strategizing ways to defeat you in the student election. He’d had a couple of beers, but he hadn’t been drunk. He clearly remembered riding home on his bike, arriving at his house, getting into bed…

And then waking up as you.

His fingers twitched as he crossed his arms again. “Nothing weird happened,” he muttered. “At least, nothing that explains this.”

You let out a tired groan, running a hand down your face. “This is insane.”

“No shit.”

Just then, the door to the hospital room creaked open, and both of you snapped your heads toward the entrance.

Wonwoo’s—your—parents stepped back in.

“Honey,” his mother—your mother now—spoke gently, a worried look on her face. “You must be tired. Why don’t you go home and rest?”

Wonwoo felt his pulse quicken. Home? As in your home? The foster home?

His father nodded in agreement. “Yes, dear. We can handle things here. You’ve done enough already.”

Done enough?! What had he done besides get thrown into this mess?

Before he could protest, his mother stepped forward, her hands reaching out to pat his cheek fondly. Wonwoo stiffened instantly. “You’ve always been such a hardworking girl,” she said softly. “It makes me so happy to see you and Wonwoo getting along.”

Wonwoo barely resisted the urge to grimace. He threw you a look, silently screaming, What the hell do I do?! You—trapped in his body—were no help. You simply stared at him, eyes wide, just as lost as he was. And just like that, Wonwoo realized something horrifying. Until they figured out how to switch back…

He was going to have to live as you.

*

Wonwoo stood frozen in front of the bathroom door, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. The old wooden door creaked slightly, the dim light from the hallway casting a shadow over the tiled floor inside. The thought of stepping in—of actually taking a bath—made his stomach twist uncomfortably.

Because that would mean undressing. Undressing your body. Absolutely not. There was no way in hell he was going to do that. He had morals. Standards. There were just some lines he refused to cross, and this was one of them.

But damn… his body—your body—felt disgusting. The grime from hours of chores clung to his skin. Sweat dried in uncomfortable places, making the oversized sleeping gown stick to him. His hair was an absolute mess, still tangled from the wind earlier, and he could smell the faint scent of dirt and soap from when he’d scrubbed the front yard clean.

Wonwoo groaned, running a hand through his—your—hair in frustration.

“What the hell am I supposed to do?” he muttered under his breath.

If he didn’t shower, he’d feel like this all night, and the thought of sleeping in this state made him want to scream. But if he did shower…

He shut his eyes tightly, cursing under his breath.This was hell. Just then, a loud knock on the door startled him.

“Hurry up in there! Other people need the bathroom too, you know!” Mrs. Kim’s sharp voice rang through the hallway, making Wonwoo jolt. He turned his head, glaring at the door.

“Alright, alright!” he snapped back, annoyed.

He exhaled slowly, trying to collect himself.

Fine. He wouldn’t do anything weird. He’d make this as quick and moral as possible. No unnecessary looking, no thinking too hard about it. Just in, out, and done.

Steeling himself, Wonwoo reached for the doorknob, swallowing hard before stepping inside. This was going to be the most uncomfortable bath of his life.

Wonwoo tried his best not to look. He focused on the feeling of the water against his skin, rubbing the soap over your—his—body as quickly as possible. The sooner this was over, the better. His movements were stiff, awkward, and mechanical. He kept his eyes trained on the tiles, avoiding even a glance downward. Just soap, rinse, and get out. That was the plan.

But then—

His hand ran over his back, and a sharp sting shot through him. Wonwoo froze.

What the hell?

His stomach churned at the thought.

Wonwoo quickly rinsed off and turned off the water. He grabbed a towel, drying off haphazardly before stepping out of the bathroom. The moment he found a small, cracked mirror in the hallway, he twisted his body, angling himself to get a look at his back.

Wonwoo’s breath hitched as he finally caught a glimpse of his—your—back in the cracked mirror. His brows furrowed, and his fingers twitched at his sides.

His chest tightened.

His mind raced as he tried to recall everything that had happened since he woke up in your body. Wonwoo gritted his teeth.

What the hell happened to you, Ji Y/n? And why did he have a bad feeling that this was just the beginning of something bigger?

*

Wonwoo stormed through the front doors of his house, shoulders tense as he stomped up the grand staircase. His whole body—your body—felt sore and exhausted from the insane day he'd just had. The security at the gate had nearly dragged him out, refusing to believe that the Ji Y/n in front of them was actually their young master, Jeon Wonwoo.

"You have no idea how much I had to beg the security to let me in," he grumbled as he yanked open the bedroom door, stepping inside with an annoyed scowl.

Inside, you—in his body—stood awkwardly in the middle of the room, hands shoved into the pockets of his hoodie. It was jarring, watching his own body move with hesitation, looking completely out of place in the very room he had lived in for years. The moment your eyes landed on him, your shoulders sagged in relief. "Finally—I thought you were never coming back."

Wonwoo scoffed, shutting the door behind him. "I thought I was never coming back. You think it’s easy walking into my mansion looking like you? The guards almost threw me out!"

"You live here," you shot back, exasperated. "You could’ve just walked in—why did you make this harder?"

Wonwoo gave you a deadpan look. "Oh, sure, let me just casually waltz in while looking like someone who doesn’t belong here. I looked like a lost delivery worker!" He threw his hands up, pacing the room. "Do you know how humiliating that was?"

Your frown deepened. "At least you weren’t forced to do laundry and yard work for an entire foster home full of children. Mrs. Kim practically used me as free labor."

Wonwoo turned to you, unimpressed. "Yeah? Well, I woke up in a hospital bed, covered in injuries, and had to sit through my own parents looking at me like I was their long-lost daughter."

Your mouth opened slightly, then shut. "…Touché."

Silence fell between you two, the weight of the situation settling in.

After a moment, Wonwoo groaned, rubbing his temples. "Alright. We need to figure out what the hell happened and how to fix it."

You nodded, though your expression was still tense. "Agreed. But where do we even start?"

Wonwoo exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face. "Let’s think. What’s the last thing you remember before we… switched?"

Wonwoo leaned back against the headboard, arms crossed as his brows furrowed in frustration. No matter how much you both racked your brains, there was no logical explanation for why you'd switched bodies. There was no accident, no weird mystical event—just a normal night before waking up in each other’s skin.

"This is ridiculous," Wonwoo muttered, shaking his head. "It’s like some cheap fantasy movie plot, except it’s actually happening to us."

You sighed, rubbing your temples. "I know. And I hate to admit it, but I don’t think we’re going to figure this out tonight."

Wonwoo scoffed. "Yeah? Well, in the meantime, I’m not going back to that foster home and working my ass off like some unpaid worker." He turned to you with a pointed look. "You call my parents. Tell them to let you stay here until we switch back."

Your eyebrows shot up. "What? Why me? That’s your job!"

"I can’t exactly call them in your voice and say, ‘Hey, I’m actually Wonwoo, let me stay at my mansion until further notice.’ They’ll think I’ve lost my mind."

You groaned, grabbing his phone from the nightstand. "Fine. But if they say no, you’re on your own."

Wonwoo smirked. "Trust me. My mom loves you. She won’t say no."

You stared at Wonwoo’s phone in your hands, your thumb hesitating over the contact labeled Mom. The plan was simple: call his parents, pretend to be him, and ask if you—which meant him in your body—could stay over until this mess was sorted out.

Easy, right?

Wrong.

You cleared your throat and pressed call. The phone barely rang twice before his mother answered, her voice warm yet slightly distracted. "Wonwoo? It’s late. What is it?"

You shot Wonwoo a look, and he gestured impatiently for you to just talk.

"Uh—yeah. Mom. I, uh, wanted to ask if Y/n could stay over for a few days?"

There was a beat of silence. Then she hummed, as if turning the idea over in her head. "Y/n?" she repeated, her voice carrying a hint of curiosity now. "Why?"

Your mouth opened, but no excuse came to mind. You hadn’t thought that far. You shot Wonwoo a desperate look, but he just folded his arms, watching in amusement.

The silence stretched, and then, to your horror, his mother let out a knowing sigh. "I see… So it’s like that."

Your brows furrowed. "Like what?"

"You finally brought a girl home."

Wonwoo choked.

You nearly dropped the phone. "Wait, what?"

"It’s fine, Wonwoo. You’re an adult. If you’re serious about this girl, I won’t say anything. Just make sure you’re being responsible."

Wonwoo was now aggressively shaking his head at you, mouthing fix it!, but you were too stunned to respond properly.

"Uh—yeah," you stammered, scrambling to end the conversation. "So… she can stay?"

His mother chuckled softly. "Of course. Have the staff set up a room for her. Your father and I will be out of town, but tell her she’s welcome."

And with that, the call ended.

You lowered the phone slowly, turning to Wonwoo with wide eyes.

"You finally brought a girl home?" you repeated in disbelief.

Wonwoo groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "This is a nightmare."

You stared at the phone in disbelief. "That’s it?"

Wonwoo let out a humorless chuckle. "What did you expect? A heartfelt conversation?" He snatched the phone from your hand and stuffed it in his pocket. "They’re barely home as it is. They probably don’t even care who stays over."

The bitterness in his voice didn’t go unnoticed.

You decided not to comment on it. Instead, you sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Well, at least that worked. Now get out of here before Mrs. Kim drags me—I mean, you—back inside for more chores."

Wonwoo groaned but grabbed his things and left.

As you settled into his massive, empty house, you couldn’t help but feel like it wasn’t much of a home at all.

*

The next morning, you both stood in front of Wonwoo’s sleek black car, staring at it like it was the final boss of this entire ridiculous situation. "You drive," you said, tossing him the keys. Wonwoo caught them but immediately scowled at you. "You drive. It’s my car."

You folded your arms. "I don’t even have a license, genius." His jaw clenched. He looked at the keys, then at the car, then at you—his own body. "You mean to tell me that after all the times you acted like you’re better than me, you can’t even drive?"

"Driving doesn’t determine intelligence, Jeon." You rolled your eyes. "Are we going to school or not?"

Grumbling, he unlocked the car and got into the driver’s seat. You slid into the passenger seat, watching with barely contained amusement as he adjusted everything—pushing the seat forward, adjusting the rearview mirror, lowering the steering wheel.

"This is so uncomfortable," he muttered, shifting in the seat. His knees were practically up to his chest. You smirked. "What? Is my body too small for your big manly car?"

Wonwoo shot you a glare before turning the ignition. The car rumbled to life, and he carefully pressed the gas pedal—only for the car to jerk forward suddenly, causing both of you to lurch.

"YAH!" you yelped, clutching the dashboard. "Are you trying to kill me—yourself—whatever?"

Wonwoo exhaled through his nose, gripping the steering wheel tighter. "Your legs are too damn short! I can’t feel the pedal properly!"

You laughed, shaking your head. "Now you know my struggles."

After a few more rough starts, Wonwoo finally managed to get the car moving smoothly. The drive to school was tense at first, but as he adjusted, his usual confidence returned. You, on the other hand, were dreading what was to come.

As soon as you arrived, all eyes would be on him—or rather, you. And there was nothing either of you could do about it. The night before, you and Wonwoo had spent hours sitting in his room, going over the rules of survival until you switched back.

1. Don’t tell anyone about the situation.

"Not even Mingyu?" you had asked.

"Especially not Mingyu," Wonwoo had deadpanned. "He’ll make this a circus."

2. Act normal, even to each other.

"You mean I have to be cold and unbothered like you?" you had teased.

"And I have to act like you?" Wonwoo had shot back. "All smiles and fake pleasantries? Great."

3. Avoid attention.

This one was the most important. The last thing either of you needed was people noticing something was off.

Now, standing at the entrance of the university, those rules felt like an impossible mission. You watched as Wonwoo—you—stepped out of the car, adjusting the oversized hoodie he had thrown on. It was strange seeing yourself through someone else’s eyes, and even weirder seeing how awkward he looked in your body.

"Stop slouching," you hissed under your breath. "I don’t walk like that." Wonwoo shot you a glare but straightened his posture. "And stop staring at your feet. It’s weird." With that, the two of you walked through campus, forcing yourselves to act normal. It was fine. Until the first person called your name.

"Y/n!"

You froze before realizing it wasn’t actually you they were calling—it was Wonwoo, in your body. Wonwoo sighed, forcing a smile that was so stiff it looked painful. "Uh… morning?"

Your friend frowned. "Are you okay? You sound weird."

You nearly facepalmed. Rule number two, idiot!

Wonwoo quickly cleared his throat and attempted to sound more like you. "I mean—uh, I’m fine! Just, um, tired!" He gave a thumbs-up that looked completely unnatural.

Your friend tilted their head but didn’t press further. You exhaled in relief, but it was short-lived. Because at that moment, the worst possible person appeared.

Mingyu.

And he was heading straight for you.

Mingyu approached with a wide grin, his usual energy radiating off him like a beacon. "Wonwoo! Y/n! What’s up?"

You barely had time to react before Mingyu threw an arm around your shoulders—except it wasn’t you, it was Wonwoo trapped in your body. Wonwoo went stiff immediately.

You saw it, the way his entire body tensed, the way his hands twitched like he wanted to shove Mingyu off but was holding back. You couldn’t blame him. You wouldn’t like Mingyu suddenly draping himself over you either. But—

"Are you okay?" Mingyu suddenly leaned down, squinting at Wonwoo’s face. "You look kinda… different today."

You nearly choked. Crap.

You forced a tight-lipped smile. "Haha. No, I’m good. Totally fine." You flinched at how unnatural that sounded.

Mingyu narrowed his eyes. "You sure? You don’t usually stand this stiff. And your voice sounds weird. And you—"

"He said he's fine," Wonwoo cut in, voice strained.

You quickly jumped in before Mingyu could keep interrogating. "Just tired. We were studying late last night."

Mingyu looked between the two of you, lips pursed. Then suddenly, his eyes widened. "Wait a second."

You both froze.

He pointed at the two of you. "Did something happen between you two?"

Wonwoo stiffened. "What?"

Mingyu gasped dramatically. "Are you two dating now?"

"WHAT?!" you both yelled in unison.

Mingyu took a step back, hands up in defense. "Geez! Sorry, it’s just—lately, you guys seem different. Studying together? Walking into campus together? Y/n’s acting weird, Wonwoo’s looking more tired than usual—it’s suspicious!"

Wonwoo turned to you with a glare, mouthing, Fix this.

You gritted your teeth before turning to Mingyu with a forced laugh. "No, no! We’re not dating. We just—uh—had to work on something together, that’s all!" Mingyu squinted at you—well, at Wonwoo’s body. “Work on what?”

“None of your business,” you snapped, crossing your arms. Mingyu blinked at your sharp tone but shrugged. “Okay, whatever. Anyway, why are you heading that way? Our class is upstairs.”

You froze for a split second. Right. You were supposed to have class with Mingyu—as Wonwoo. But out of habit, you had started walking toward your usual class instead.

Wonwoo, standing beside you in your body, subtly elbowed you. “Uh—he’s just, uh, walking me to class first,” he quickly interjected.

Mingyu’s brows furrowed as he looked between the two of you. “Since when do you do that?” You cleared your throat, trying to keep your expression neutral. “Since today. Got a problem?”

Mingyu narrowed his eyes. “Yeah, actually. That doesn’t sound like you at all.”

Wonwoo shot you a look, silently pleading with you to play it cool. Taking a deep breath, you forced a casual shrug. “I just felt like it. Can we go now?” Mingyu crossed his arms, clearly unconvinced. “Weird. Really weird.”

You resisted the urge to sigh. If Mingyu was already suspicious, keeping this switch a secret was going to be harder than you thought.

*

After surviving the day without slipping up—at least, not too badly—you and Wonwoo finally made it back home. The moment you stepped inside, you groaned, throwing yourself onto the couch while Wonwoo shut the door behind him.

"That was exhausting," you muttered, rubbing your temples. "Do you know how hard it is pretending to be you? You barely talk to anyone, but somehow people still pay attention to you."

Wonwoo scoffed, crossing his arms as he leaned against the wall. "And do you know how annoying it is to be you? Everyone just randomly talks to me, and I have to pretend I actually care about their gossip. Even your professors are so chatty. One of them asked me if I was doing okay in business class. Do you struggle that much?"

You glared at him. "Excuse me, but business studies is not my major. You expect me to be a genius at it?" Wonwoo shook his head before his gaze sharpened. "Speaking of weird conversations, what's up with Mingyu?"

You blinked. "What about him?"

"He’s too friendly with you. I didn’t know you were close," he said, narrowing his eyes slightly. You shrugged. "He's just been kind to me since senior high school."

Wonwoo frowned at that. "Why? You two don’t seem like the type to be friends."

You hesitated for a moment before sighing. "It’s... a long story. Back then, Mingyu was the first person to find out that I wasn't actually the child of some entertainment industry mogul like the rumors said. He was the only one who knew I was orphaned and living in a foster home."

Wonwoo stiffened slightly. He had never heard that before. He had always thought you were just naturally secretive and didn’t like discussing your personal life. But this—this was different.

He didn’t know why, but the thought of Mingyu knowing something so personal about you before him left a strange feeling in his chest.

Wonwoo sat down across from you, his expression unreadable. "So… you grew up in a foster home. How did that happen?"

You sighed, leaning back against the couch. "I was placed there when I was a kid. I don’t remember much about my parents—just bits and pieces. They passed away when I was young, and after that, I ended up in Pristine Foster Home."

He nodded slowly, absorbing the information. "And school? Our school isn’t exactly easy to get into. How did you afford it?" A small, almost ironic smile tugged at your lips. "Your mother."

Wonwoo blinked. "What?"

"Your mother," you repeated. "Mrs. Jeon. She’s one of the biggest donors for Pristine Foster Home. Every year, she funds scholarships for students with high academic potential. I was one of the kids who got lucky."

For the first time, Wonwoo was at a loss for words. His mother? The same woman who barely had time for her own son had been funding your education all this time?

"You… never told anyone?" he asked after a moment. You shrugged. "Why would I? People already made enough assumptions about me. If they found out the truth, I’d just become a pity case. Besides, it’s not like your mom personally chose me. I was just another name on the scholarship list."

Wonwoo was still trying to process this new information. He had spent years seeing you as a rival, someone always on his heels, challenging his top position. But now, for the first time, he saw you in a different light.

"So all this time," he muttered, "you were working twice as hard just to stay in school."

You huffed a quiet laugh. "More than twice, actually."

He didn't know why, but something about that unsettled him.

*

The days went by with both of you struggling to adapt to each other’s lives while keeping up the act. The campaign phase for the student president selection had officially started, and since you were both candidates, you agreed to stay professional about it.

"Don't play dirty," you both promised.

That meant being responsible for each other's campaigns. If someone asked you about Wonwoo’s stance on school policies, he had to answer correctly. If someone questioned him about your plans for student well-being, you had to handle it.

There were three candidates in total. Wonwoo—the top student, known for his intelligence and efficiency. You—the representative of female students, admired for both brains and beauty. And Seungcheol—the rich, well-connected candidate who could probably win just by flashing his wealth.

“You’re acting weird,” Mingyu said, narrowing his eyes at you—or rather, at Wonwoo’s body, which meant he was technically squinting at him. You, stuck in his body, stiffened. “What do you mean?”

Mingyu tilted his head, studying him. “You’re being… polite. Too polite. Wonwoo, you usually glare at everyone, but today? You literally smiled at Soonyoung when he called you ‘princess.’” You, sitting in Wonwoo’s body, internally cringed. Right. You had forgotten about that.

Meanwhile, Wonwoo was struggling just as much to keep up with your usual attitude.

“Y/n, are you okay?” one of your classmates asked, frowning as they observed Wonwoo’s body. “You’ve been acting so… serious today.”

Wonwoo barely looked up from the book in front of him. “I’m fine.”

She stared at him, unconvinced. “Uh… you didn’t even whine about how boring today’s lesson is.”

He cursed internally. Right. You always complained about morning classes.

“I’m… trying to be a better student,” he muttered.

She gave a slow nod, still eyeing him suspiciously.

It wasn’t just your friends who were growing suspicious. Professors had started noticing the odd behavior, too. You had always been confident in subjects like marketing and communication, but the moment you sat in Wonwoo’s business economics class, you knew you were doomed.

“Mr. Jeon,” the professor called out, peering at you over his glasses. “Could you summarize the concept of supply and demand in market equilibrium?”

Your mind went blank. Market equilibrium?

You hesitated, scanning the board for hints, but nothing made sense. Silence stretched across the room. The professor raised an eyebrow.

“Uh… equilibrium… is when things are equal…?” you blurted out.

The entire class turned to stare at you in horror. Even Mingyu, sitting beside you, looked concerned. The professor let out a long sigh. “Mr. Jeon, I expected better from you.”

Meanwhile, Wonwoo was having an equally hard time in your marketing class.

“Miss Ji,” the professor called. “Could you give an example of a successful emotional branding strategy?”

Wonwoo froze. Emotional branding? He knew numbers. He knew statistics. But marketing?

“Uh…” He cleared his throat. “Emotional branding is… when a brand… makes people emotional?”

The professor’s expression remained unreadable. Wonwoo held his breath. “…Technically not wrong,” the professor finally said. “But please elaborate next time.”

Wonwoo exhaled in relief, but he could still feel the judgmental stares of your classmates. Keeping up appearances was exhausting.

You had to remember to act cold, distant, and borderline unapproachable. Every time someone approached you—well, Wonwoo’s body—you had to force yourself not to smile too much.

When you accidentally giggled at a joke Seungkwan made during lunch, he nearly choked on his drink.

“Whoa. Wonwoo, you laughed?”

You immediately straightened your face. “No, I didn’t.”

Seungkwan’s eyes narrowed. “Yes, you did. That was a full-on giggle.”

Meanwhile, Wonwoo was struggling with the opposite problem.

He had to force himself to be approachable. Smile more. Nod during small talk. When someone complimented you on your campaign, he barely responded before remembering that you were supposed to be charismatic.

“Ah… yeah. Thank you,” he muttered awkwardly.

The girl who had complimented you blinked. “Uh… you’re welcome?”

It was painfully obvious something was off.

But despite the challenges, Wonwoo started thinking.

There was an opportunity here.

If he was in your body… and people naturally liked you… then why not use that to his advantage?

You had a way with people. Students admired you. If he played this correctly, he could subtly steer people toward supporting his campaign—without outright sabotaging yours.

It wasn’t cheating.

It was just… strategic use of circumstances.

Sitting in the cafeteria, he overheard a group of students discussing the election. Some were loyal to Seungcheol because of his family’s wealth. Some admired your leadership. But a few were still undecided, considering Wonwoo’s intelligence but unsure about his approachability.

“If only Wonwoo was a little more… open,” one student mused.

“Yeah, he’s brilliant, but he’s kinda cold,” another agreed.

Wonwoo’s lips curled slightly. An opportunity.

The next time he (in your body) spoke to people, he made subtle shifts in conversation.

“Wonwoo’s been under so much pressure lately,” he said casually.

“You know, he doesn’t show it, but he really cares about the school.”

“He’s just not the type to express it openly, but he’s been working hard behind the scenes.”

He didn’t need to lie. He just needed to frame the truth in a way that made people sympathetic.

If students thought he (as himself) was struggling under pressure, they might rally behind him. They might see him as someone deserving of their votes.

And the best part?

No one would suspect manipulation.

Wonwoo adjusted the strap of your bag on his shoulder, casually strolling through the hallway while eavesdropping on conversations. He was getting better at this. Being in your body had its advantages—people naturally gravitated toward you. They trusted you. They listened to you.

So why not use that to his advantage?

As the election campaign heated up, students began discussing the candidates more openly. Seungcheol was securing votes through his endless connections, practically drowning the school in expensive flyers and promotional videos. Meanwhile, your campaign was gaining momentum thanks to your charisma, intelligence, and undeniable appeal.

But Wonwoo?

People respected him but hesitated to support him because of his reserved nature. He needed to change that perception—without breaking his promise to you about playing fair.

So, he started subtly influencing opinions.

During lunch, he sat with a group of students he knew were undecided. He (in your body) let out a sigh, tilting his head thoughtfully.

"You know, Wonwoo doesn’t really show it, but he’s been so dedicated to this campaign," he mused.

A girl across the table looked up. "Really?"

Wonwoo (as you) nodded. "Yeah. I think people misunderstand him. He’s just not the type to brag about his efforts. But I know for a fact that he’s been working late nights planning policies for the school. He doesn’t just want the title—he actually wants to make changes."

Another student leaned in, interested. "I always thought he was a bit distant. Like, he doesn’t really care about people."

Wonwoo let out a small, knowing smile. "That’s not true at all. He’s just not good at expressing it. But if you really talk to him, you’ll see how much he genuinely wants what’s best for the school."

Hook. Line. Sinker.

The students exchanged glances, suddenly reconsidering their stance.

Wonwoo wasn’t lying. He had been working hard, and he did care. But he knew that if he had tried to say all of this in his own body, people would just assume he was defending himself.

But coming from you? Someone they trusted and admired?

It felt genuine.

He kept this strategy up, slipping subtle remarks into conversations, framing his strengths in a way that didn’t sound forced.

At the library, when a group of students discussed who they should vote for, he (as you) casually said,

"Honestly, Wonwoo is the only one who’s actually proposing policies based on data instead of just saying what people want to hear."

At a student council meeting, when people debated about which candidate had the best leadership skills, he (as you) shrugged, "Wonwoo may not talk much, but he’s the most capable. He’s been top of his class for years. If anyone can handle responsibilities, it’s him."

And it worked.

Slowly but surely, more students began considering Wonwoo as a serious contender.

Of course, he had to be careful not to overdo it. If you suddenly became too much of a Wonwoo supporter, people might get suspicious.

So, every now and then, he would slip in a neutral or positive remark about you as well, just to balance things out.

"Y/n is amazing, though. She’s got that natural leadership aura."

"I think between Y/n and Wonwoo, we’d be in good hands either way."

Seungcheol was still dominating with his flashy campaign, but now?

Wonwoo had momentum.

*

Meanwhile, you were starting to notice something was off. At the end of the day, you crossed your arms, watching Wonwoo—well, your body—scribbling something in your campaign notes.

"Why do I feel like you’ve been too invested in my popularity?" you mused, raising an eyebrow.

Wonwoo barely looked up. "I have no idea what you’re talking about." You narrowed your eyes. "Wonwoo."

He sighed, closing the notebook. "Look, I’m just… taking advantage of an opportunity. It’s not cheating—I’m just rebranding myself a little."

"Rebranding?" you repeated, appalled. "You’re using my face to market yourself!"

He leaned back against the chair. "Technically, I’m not lying about anything. I am working hard. I do have solid policies. People just… needed a little push to see that."

You groaned, running a hand through your hair—well, his hair. "I knew I shouldn’t have trusted you."

Wonwoo smirked. "Oh, please. You promised we’d be fair to each other. I never said I wouldn’t be smart about it."

You scoffed, muttering under your breath. "I hate you."

"That’s unfortunate," he said, flipping open your campaign notes again, "because I think I really like being you."

A week.

It had been a week of waking up in Wonwoo’s body, wearing his oversized clothes, walking around with his permanently unimpressed face, and trying to keep up with his ridiculous level of intelligence in class.

You were exhausted.

If this continued any longer, you were going to need therapy.

Wonwoo, sitting on his bed (in your body), smirked. "Oh? Having a hard time living as me?"

You shot him a glare. "You live like this every day? No offense, but it sucks."

"None taken," he said easily. "I’m used to it."

You groaned again, burying your face in your arms. "At this point, I’m just praying we switch back before I completely lose my mind."

Wonwoo hummed, flipping through his phone. "Well, at least you don’t have to deal with your own expenses anymore."

You lifted your head. "Huh?"

He smirked. "I checked your bank balance, Y/n. You’re broke. You can’t even afford new panties."

Your face burned in embarrassment. "Excuse me?!"

Wonwoo laughed, shaking his head. "Relax, I didn’t actually look. But seriously, where does all your money go? I heard my mom has been funding you for years, so what are you spending it on?"

Your expression darkened, but you didn’t answer.

Wonwoo noticed the shift in your demeanor and frowned slightly. "Hey—"

The two of you froze the moment you heard sounds.

Wonwoo’s parents were home.

His mother was sitting in the living room, casually sipping tea, while his father was reading the newspaper. They looked up simultaneously, eyes landing on you first.

"Oh, Y/n," his mother greeted warmly, setting her cup down. "You’re two home already."

Wonwoo—inside your body—stiffened beside you.

You, standing in his body, forced a polite nod. "Uh… yeah. Classes ended a little early today."

His mother smiled. "That’s good. Come, sit down. I was just about to ask chef to prepare some snacks."

Your heart pounded. You had interacted with Wonwoo’s mother plenty of times before, but never while pretending to be her son. One wrong move, and she would know something was off.

You shot a quick glance at Wonwoo, silently screaming, What do I do?!

He only shrugged. Figure it out.

You resisted the urge to strangle him.

His father, who had been silent up until now, finally spoke. "Wonwoo, I heard you’ve been doing well in the election campaign."

You tensed. "Uh… yeah. I guess so."

He nodded approvingly. "Good. If you want to take over the family business one day, this is a good step toward leadership."

You nearly choked. Take over the family business?!

You hadn’t even considered that part of being in Wonwoo’s body.

Meanwhile, Wonwoo, still in your body, sat stiffly on the couch, looking incredibly awkward. You could tell he was doing his best not to react too much.

His mother turned to him. "Y/n, dear, how has Wonwoo been treating you?"

Wonwoo snapped out of his daze. "Huh?"

She smiled gently. "You know, since you’ve been staying here. Has he been a good host?"

Wonwoo blinked. Then, ever so slowly, he smirked.

"Oh, he’s been great," he said smoothly. "Super considerate. Always making sure I’m comfortable. Really making my stay… interesting."

Your eye twitched.

His mother beamed. "That’s wonderful! I always tell him to be more thoughtful toward others."

You clenched your fists. I am going to kill him.

His father, however, was more focused on you. "Wonwoo, I heard you had an important presentation in class today. How did it go?"

Your soul left your body.

Presentation?!

You turned slightly to Wonwoo, panic written all over your face.

He smirked again, clearly enjoying your suffering.

You were so screwed.

*

Dinner with the Jeons was awkward.

You had eaten with his family before, but this time, it felt different. Because this time, you were him. Wonwoo—trapped in your body—sat stiffly across from you, barely touching his food. He was oddly silent, his usual sharp remarks absent. It was almost as if he wasn’t the son of this house at all.

Meanwhile, you tried your best to act like a son. You engaged in small talk with his mother, attempting to mirror the way a child might converse with a parent.

His mother, elegant and poised as ever, seemed pleased by your effort. You knew her well—after all, she had been funding you since junior high school. Yet, you had never had the chance to sit this close, to talk to her as though you belonged at this table.

It felt foreign.

The clinking of silverware against porcelain filled the silence between occasional remarks. Then, just as you were starting to relax, a phone rang.

His mother glanced at the caller ID. "Oh… why is Mrs. Kim calling?"

You froze.

Wonwoo saw the way your shoulders tensed, how your grip on the chopsticks tightened.

Mrs. Kim.

Why was she calling?

Wonwoo felt his own chest tighten with something uncomfortable. It was strange—seeing his own body react so visibly to that name.

He swallowed.

No.

Not in a quadrillion years would he go back to that place. That stinky foster home. That cramped space filled with too many kids, too little food, and too much responsibility.

He refused.

He stared at his mother as she stood up and stepped away from the dining table to take the call, her voice soft yet unreadable.

The seconds dragged on.

Neither of you spoke, but the air in the room had shifted.

When his mother finally returned to her seat, something was different. Her expression wasn’t as lighthearted as before.

She placed her napkin down carefully, looking directly at Wonwoo—who was still in your body.

"Y/n," she said gently, her tone firm yet concerned. "Tell me the truth."

Your stomach twisted.

She folded her hands together. "Why have you been staying here for a week?" A pause. "Be honest."

Wonwoo turned to look at you, his throat tightening.

You looked back at him, equally frozen.

The two of you, sitting in each other’s bodies, mirrored each other’s nervousness so perfectly that if anyone had been watching closely, they might have noticed something was wrong.

You could feel your pulse in your ears. His mother’s eyes were sharp, expectant, waiting for an answer you weren’t sure how to give.

Wonwoo—trapped in your body—swallowed hard. His mind raced for an explanation, something that would make sense. But every possible response felt weak under the weight of his mother’s gaze.

You, meanwhile, could feel your palms sweating.

His mother’s gaze didn’t waver.

“Mrs. Kim said you ran away from the foster home after stealing her money.”

"No, she didn't steal anything."

His mother’s gaze snapped toward Wonwoo—toward you. “Do you know something, Wonwoo?”

You hesitated, words catching in the throat. You wanted to say something, but how much could you actually say? His mother didn’t know the truth about the switch, and if you weren't careful, things could get worse.

"I mean..." You started, choosing your words carefully. "Mrs. Kim never really liked her. She's probably just trying to make her look bad so she can take her back."

His mother frowned. "Is that true, Y/n? Mrs. Kim is lying?"

Wonwoo—you—tensed.

You swallowed hard, fingers curling into the fabric of your sleeves. You couldn’t say it outright. You couldn’t risk making things worse. But at the same time, you didn’t want to go back.

"Mrs. Kim..." You shifted in your seat. "She’s never been very fond of her. She always saw her as a burden. And, well..." You forced a weak chuckle. "Let’s just say she has her own way of handling things."

His mother’s expression darkened slightly. "What do you mean?"

You glanced at Wonwoo, at your own face, searching for some kind of lifeline. Wonwoo was watching you closely, his lips pressed in a tight line.

"I—" You exhaled. "There was something more complex and Y/n couldn't just explain it to you."

Silence hung in the air for a beat too long. His mother’s gaze was unreadable, but there was a flicker of something in her eyes—concern? Realization?

Wonwoo—inside your body—shifted uncomfortably, gripping the hem of his sweater. He had never thought about what your life was like before. But now, watching you struggle to speak about it, he felt something churn in his gut.

"Mrs. Kim said she wants you to come back," his mother said, her tone quieter now. "If what you're saying is true, then tell me—do you want to go back?"

You inhaled sharply.

And for the first time since the switch, Wonwoo saw something in your eyes that he wasn’t sure he had ever seen before.

Fear.

*

Wonwoo, still trapped in your body, stepped into his own bedroom. It felt strange, standing there as someone else—seeing his familiar space from a different perspective. Normally, this was where he slept, but since his parents were home, he had to take the guest room. The one you usually stayed in.

Leaning against the doorframe, he folded his arms and watched you—watched himself—working on a marketing project. He hated marketing. He hated everything about it. But he knew you were doing it for him, for the presentation he had to give in front of your class tomorrow.

"About earlier…" he started, his voice quieter than before.

You didn't look up, fingers continuing to type away on the laptop.

"Is it true Mrs. Kim doesn’t like you?"

The sound of your typing stuttered for a second. Wonwoo caught the slight pause before you resumed.

"You can be honest with me, you know," he pressed, stepping further into the room. "I mean… I deserve to know. Since I’m you at the moment."

Still, you didn't answer. Your expression remained focused, determinedly avoiding his gaze.

Wonwoo exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. His voice dropped slightly.

"Is she the one who gave you that wound on your back?"

This time, you finally looked at him.

Your eyes were unreadable.

Wonwoo felt something uneasy settle in his chest. He had never thought about where the scar had come from. He had seen it, felt the sting of it when he moved, but he hadn’t questioned it. Maybe he hadn’t wanted to.

"Is it true?" he asked again, voice firmer now. "She hit you?"

You lowered your gaze.

For a moment, there was only silence.

Then, you nodded.

"I’m sorry that you had to bear that."

Wonwoo swallowed. His hands curled into fists at his sides, but he forced himself to stay composed.

He shrugged, as if trying to make light of the weight in his chest, and walked toward the bed. "The staff helped me with ointment. She asked if you had been hit by someone. Like… physically abused."

You didn’t respond right away, but your silence spoke louder than words.

Wonwoo sat on the edge of the bed, staring at his own reflection in the mirror across the room.

He thought about Mrs. Kim. About what kind of person she really was.

And for the first time since this whole body-swapping nightmare began…

He realized that maybe, just maybe, there were worse things than waking up in someone else’s life.

Like living in a life you never chose… and having no way out.

"Let me see… How bad is it?"

You stood from your seat and turned to him. Wonwoo, still in your body, looked up from the bed, brows raised in alarm.

"What?"

You blinked. "Let me see."

A heat crept up his face. "No!" His hands shot up defensively, arms crossed over his chest as if shielding himself.

You rolled your eyes—his eyes. "That’s my body, technically."

"And you’ll be looking at it with my eyes," Wonwoo argued, scooting a little further away from where you stood, hands still up in defense.

"As if you’ve never touched my boobs during a shower," you shot back, unimpressed.

Wonwoo gasped, scandalized. "I’ve been very careful and respectful, for your information," he retorted, voice full of righteous indignation. He narrowed his eyes at you. "And I’d appreciate it if you did the same for mine."

You snorted. "No, seriously, let me see. I don’t remember getting one on my back."

Before Wonwoo could protest again, you turned him around—your own body—and lifted the hem of his shirt.

He let out a sharp squeal, but you ignored it, your attention now focused on the sight before you.

The bruises were in various stages of healing—some faded, others still dark and angry-looking. A deep blue one spread across the lower part of your back, as if someone had struck you with full force. You hadn’t even realized how bad it was. Seeing it now, so clearly, made something inside you twist.

"That’s… brutal," you muttered. It was the first time you had seen the extent of the damage, the history of pain that had accumulated over the years in that foster home.

Wonwoo quickly yanked the shirt back down and turned to face you, his expression serious. "Is Mrs. Kim the one behind all of them?" His voice had lost its teasing edge, replaced by something far heavier—concern, maybe even anger.

You hesitated.

"It’s… a punishment. Everyone got that. I just got a lot more than the others." You took a deep breath.

"Why?"

You shrugged. "I lived there the longest. No one adopted me, so I stayed there for years."

Wonwoo blinked, trying to process that. You had endured this for years? His mind reeled.

"But my mom…"

You shook your head, gaze dropping to the floor. "She just funded me."

It was true—Wonwoo’s mother had funded your education, sending you to an elite private high school and later helping you get into an Ivy League university. But no one ever knew where you came from. Your background had been carefully concealed, your identity kept a secret.

And yet, despite all those privileges, Mrs. Kim had never let you leave the foster home. It was only later that you realized why. The money meant for you had never truly been yours—it had gone straight into her personal bank account. She had given you just enough to cover small personal expenses, but nothing close to what a college student actually needed.

In return, she had assigned you to endless chores, justifying it by saying she had raised you. The truth, however, was much simpler. No one had adopted you, not because they didn’t want to, but because she had made sure of it. You had been nothing more than a source of steady income to her.

Wonwoo exhaled, rubbing his temples. "I don’t want to go back," he muttered. His voice was quieter now, but the weight of his words was undeniable. "It was only a day. But it felt like a day in hell."

You looked at him for a long moment before stepping closer, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

"I’ll talk to your parents," you promised. "I’ll make sure you can stay here until we swap back. Don’t worry."

Wonwoo stared at you, still in his body, before nodding. For once, he didn’t argue.

*

You knocked on Wonwoo’s bedroom door Monday morning, already irritated. Both of you had class in an hour, and since he had to drive, he needed to wake up. Now.

"Wonwoo, get up!" you called, knocking harder. Silence.

With a sigh, you pushed the door open—only to find him curled up in a tight fetal position, clutching his stomach like he’d just been mortally wounded.

You blinked. "What are you doing?"

He barely lifted his head. "Dying."

It took you exactly three seconds to realize what was happening.

Your period was coming.

You bit your lip, trying not to laugh. "Ohhh. So, how’s it feel?"

"How’s it feel?!" Wonwoo wheezed, shifting slightly—only to immediately wince and curl up tighter. "I feel like someone’s wringing out my insides like a soaked rag while kicking my spine. This is inhumane. You live like this?!"

You shrugged. "Every month."

"Every month?! This happens every month?! For how long?!"

"About five days."

"Five—" He buried his face into the pillow and groaned loudly. "I can’t do this. I can’t live like this. How do women even function? How do you go to school, work, BREATHE?"

"You get used to it." You rolled your eyes before getting a small heating pad packet you’d picked up from the convenience store few days ago, tossing it onto the bed. "Here. Stick this on your stomach."

He eyed it suspiciously. "What is this?"

"A heat patch. It’ll help with the cramps."

He struggled to sit up, tearing open the packet with shaking hands before slapping the patch onto his lower stomach. A few seconds later, he exhaled in relief, sinking back onto the bed. "Oh. Oh, that’s—" He let out a soft, almost embarrassing noise. "Nice."

You raised an eyebrow. "Did you just moan?"

"Shut up."

You snickered before heading for the door. "I’ll get you some painkillers. You have ten minutes before I drag you out of bed."

"I’m not gonna make it," he groaned, dramatically throwing an arm over his face. "Just leave me here to die."

You smirked. "Get up, or I’ll make your body buy pads in broad daylight."

His eyes snapped open in pure terror.

You had never seen him sit up so fast.

As the day went on, the pain dulled to a manageable ache, but Wonwoo was still visibly uncomfortable. He kept shifting in his seat, frowning every few minutes, and muttering curses under his breath. At one point, he glared at you as if this was somehow your fault.

By the evening, his parents were preparing to leave the city again. The two of you stood at the entrance, watching as his father loaded their luggage into the car. His mother straightened Wonwoo’s—your—collar before stepping back with a warm smile.

"Take care of yourself, Y/n. And you too, Wonwoo. Don’t forget to review those documents I sent over for your internship."

His father adjusted his watch and turned to you—well, to Wonwoo. "We’ll talk more when I’m back, but I trust you’ll take this internship seriously. It’s time for you to step up."

You blinked. What internship?

Your head snapped toward Wonwoo—who was standing beside you in your body—only to see him freeze like a deer caught in headlights. His wide eyes screamed I forgot to tell you about this.

"Uh..." You cleared your throat, trying to keep your expression neutral. "Right. Of course."

Wonwoo's father nodded approvingly. "Good. This is an important step. You’ll be working directly with the executive team to prepare for your role in the company."

Your role? What role?

You stole another glance at Wonwoo, your face silently asking What the hell is he talking about?

Wonwoo, in your body, gave you a strained smile and the tiniest shake of his head, as if saying, Later. Just nod and agree.

So you did. Hesitantly. "Yeah. Got it."

His father clapped a hand on your shoulder, almost knocking the air out of you. "That’s what I like to hear. Make me proud."

You forced a smile, though internally, you were screaming.

After a few more goodbyes, his parents got into the car and drove away. The moment they were out of sight, you turned to Wonwoo, arms crossed.

"What. Internship."

Wonwoo groaned, rubbing his temples. "God, I was hoping you wouldn’t hear that."

"Well, I did. And now you’re gonna explain."

"It’s just some stupid business internship," he muttered, looking anywhere but at you.

"Business internship? You mean, for your family business?"

He shot you an unimpressed look. "No, for the bakery down the street. Yes, for my family business."

Your jaw nearly dropped. "You’re supposed to be the heir?"

He rolled his eyes. "Apparently."

"Since when?"

"Since I was born," he said bitterly. "They never pushed too hard before, but now that I’m getting older, they think it’s time I 'step up' and 'fulfill my role.'" He made exaggerated air quotes. "It’s stupid."

You frowned, watching him closely. He wasn’t just annoyed—he looked exhausted.

"You don’t want to do it," you said quietly.

"No, I don’t. But they don’t care what I want." He scoffed. "It doesn’t matter that I hate it. That I want to do something else. All that matters is that I have their last name and was born first."

For the first time since the swap, you saw something vulnerable beneath his usual sarcasm. It made your chest tighten a little.

You hesitated before saying, "Then why don’t you just... refuse?"

He let out a dry laugh. "You think it’s that easy?"

"I think you should at least try to talk to them."

He sighed, shaking his head. "It’s not that simple, Y/n."

Maybe it wasn’t. But the way his shoulders slumped made you think that, for a long time, he had felt trapped. And no matter how much he acted like it didn’t bother him, deep down, it did.

"What do you want to do then?" you asked, settling onto his bed.

The two of you had just finished gathering your things—his things, technically—since his parents were gone and it was time to return to your designated rooms.

Wonwoo leaned back against the headboard, arms crossed. "Journalism."

Your brow lifted in surprise. "I remember you were in the journalism club back in high school."

"Yeah."

A memory resurfaced, making you smirk. "You wrote an entire article about me beating you in chemistry and taking first place. Called me a 'lucky fluke.'"

Wonwoo let out a small chuckle. "I was very bitter about that."

"You were such a sore loser."

He scoffed. "I had a reputation to uphold!"

You laughed. "Right, right. And now, look at you. So mature."

He sighed dramatically. "Yeah... I’ve grown a lot."

You gave him a skeptical look.

"I mean," he continued, "I’m literally experiencing a period right now. That has to count for something."

Your lips twitched. "Oh, of course. Nothing says personal growth like surviving cramps."

He nodded solemnly. "I have transcended. I'm practically enlightened."

You rolled your eyes but couldn't stop yourself from laughing. "Idiot."

You leaned back on your elbows, tilting your head as you looked at him. "By the way, why did you even run for student president?"

Wonwoo exhaled through his nose, crossing his arms. "I needed influence."

You blinked. "What?"

He shrugged. "Connections. A reputation. If I ever wanted to pursue journalism seriously, I needed to build a name for myself early on."

You stared at him for a second before bursting into laughter. "Oh my God, you sound like a villain setting up a master plan."

Wonwoo rolled his eyes. "It’s called thinking ahead. You wouldn’t understand."

"Oh, I wouldn’t understand?" You scoffed, sitting up straighter. "Alright, then why do you think I ran for student president?"

He tilted his head, thinking for a moment before shrugging. "For the experience?"

You shook your head.

"To put on your resume?"

Another shake.

He frowned. "To prove you’re better than me?"

You smirked but shook your head again. "Nope. I needed a place to stay."

Wonwoo’s frown deepened. "What do you mean?"

You inhaled before answering. "The student president gets a free dorm on campus. I needed a way out of the foster home, and that was my best shot."

Wonwoo went quiet, his gaze searching yours as if piecing together things he hadn't realized before. "You… ran because you needed housing?"

You nodded. "Yeah. Mrs. Kim never planned on letting me move out. The only way I could leave was if I had a legitimate reason that even she couldn't argue against. A free dorm with full coverage? She couldn’t say no to that."

He was silent for a long moment before muttering, "Damn."

You chuckled, but there was no humor in it. "Not all of us can afford to run for power moves, Mr. Influence."

Wonwoo sighed, rubbing his face. "I really had no idea…"

"It’s fine," you said, waving it off. "I made it out, didn’t I?"

He looked at you, expression unreadable. Then, with a small huff, he muttered, "I still think my reason was cooler."

You threw a pillow at him.

*

The presidential election had finally concluded, and to your surprise, your votes ranked in the top two alongside Seungcheol. The final results hadn’t been announced yet, but sitting in the driver’s seat, Wonwoo was already sulking like a kid who dropped his ice cream.

"Seungcheol has a lot of influence, you know," you said, trying to lift his mood as you buckled your seatbelt.

Wonwoo huffed, arms crossed. "Yeah, yeah. He’s charismatic, well-connected, and has professors wrapped around his finger. We get it."

You smirked. "Sounds like you’re a big fan."

He shot you a glare. "I'm not. I just don't like losing."

"You made it to the top two. That’s not losing."

"It’s not winning either," he grumbled, resting his chin on the steering wheel. "I had a plan. I worked hard. I even made small talk with people, and you know how much I hate that."

You chuckled. "Oh no, not small talk. The ultimate sacrifice."

Wonwoo groaned, tilting his head back against the headrest. "You don’t get it. I needed this. Influence is important."

You grinned. "Yeah, tell me. I was just trying to get a dorm."

Wonwoo let out a long sigh, starting the car. "Well, at least if you win, I'll be stuck in power with someone who won’t make my life hell."

You laughed. "Aww, is that your way of saying you trust me?"

He clicked his tongue, pretending to focus on the road. "No. It’s my way of saying I don’t trust Seungcheol."

"Right, right," you teased. "Whatever helps you sleep at night, Mr. Almost-President."

Wonwoo’s phone—well, technically, your phone—buzzed on the dashboard. He glanced at the screen, then at you, hesitating.

"It's my mom."

Wonwoo's grip on the phone lingered even after the call ended, his mind racing. His mother had sounded calm, but he knew her well enough to recognize when she was holding something back.

"She knows," he said suddenly, breaking the silence.

You blinked, lifting your gaze to meet his. "What?"

"My mom—she knows what Mrs. Kim has been doing to you."

Your breath hitched. "How?"

Wonwoo hesitated. He hadn’t told you yet, but when he had been in your body, experiencing firsthand the bruises, the way your muscles flinched at sudden movements, the way Mrs. Kim had spoken to him—he hadn’t been able to keep it to himself. He had confided in his mother, unable to hold back his anger.

"I told her," he admitted, watching your reaction carefully. "When I was in your body, I couldn’t just ignore it. She knew something was wrong, and I… I told her everything."

You stared at him, emotions flickering across your face—shock, confusion, and something else, something raw.

"She’s getting the police involved," Wonwoo continued. "She already contacted them, and they’re starting an investigation."

You swallowed hard, the weight of his words pressing down on you. "An investigation?"

He nodded. "We’re not letting her get away with this."

For the first time, real hope flickered in your eyes, but there was also hesitation. "But… she’s always covered her tracks. She’ll deny everything."

"She can try," Wonwoo said firmly. "But I already went for a visum et repertum."

Your eyes widened. "You what?"

"A forensic medical exam," he explained. "To document the bruises, the scars—everything she did to you." His jaw clenched. "I needed proof. And now we have it."

You sat there in stunned silence, struggling to process it all.

"Wonwoo, you—"

"She’s not laying another hand on you," he said, his voice low but unwavering. "Not now, not ever."

Your fingers curled into your lap, emotions overwhelming you. You had spent so many years believing no one would ever step in, that no one would ever truly see what was happening behind closed doors.

But Wonwoo had. And he wasn’t backing down.

Tears pricked at your eyes, but you blinked them away, forcing out a small, shaky laugh. "You really went and did all that?"

He gave a half-smile, shrugging. "Yeah, well… I might have a soft spot for you."

That startled a genuine laugh out of you, light and breathless.

For the first time in a long time, you felt something unfamiliar creeping into your chest—something warm. Something safe.

Maybe, just maybe, this nightmare was finally coming to an end.

*

Wonwoo stood beside his mother, his heart pounding in his chest as the police officer laid out the results of the investigation. He glanced at you—his own body—sitting stiffly beside him, hands clenched into fists. He could see the tension in your posture, the way your shoulders barely moved with your breathing. He understood why. Every word the officer spoke only made the weight in his stomach sink deeper.

"Tonight, we will take Mrs. Kim into custody," the officer stated firmly. "We've gathered substantial evidence, including records showing she registered life insurance policies for over ten children under her care. One of them was a boy who died from hypothermia."

Wonwoo felt a sharp chill crawl up his spine. "Hypothermia?" he repeated, his voice coming out in your tone.

The officer nodded grimly. "She drowned him," he clarified, sliding a file onto the coffee table. "The forensic reports prove it. The original findings were covered up, but we managed to recover them."

A nauseating feeling twisted in his gut. He had suspected Mrs. Kim was cruel, but this… this was beyond anything he had imagined. He turned his gaze toward you—you were staring at the photos in the file, your expression blank, but he knew you well enough to see the terror hiding beneath it.

His mother, who had been listening quietly until now, suddenly stiffened. Her sharp eyes locked onto one of the documents in the officer’s hand. She reached for it, flipping through the pages before pausing.

Then she froze.

"There's your name," she murmured, glancing at him.

Wonwoo leaned forward, eyes scanning the document. It was an insurance registration. The name on it was yours.

"She took out a policy on you six months ago," the officer confirmed.

His breath caught in his throat. He turned to look at you again, and for the first time since this nightmare began, he saw pure fear in your eyes.

His jaw clenched as his mother exhaled sharply, gripping the paper tightly. "She was planning to..," he said, his voice dark with anger.

His mother closed her eyes briefly before fixing the officer with a hardened gaze. "She won’t get away with this, will she?"

The officer shook his head. "No. We have enough evidence now to ensure she faces the full weight of the law."

Silence settled over the room like a suffocating fog. Wonwoo’s mother slowly reached for your hand—his hand—and squeezed it gently.

"You're safe now," she whispered.

*

The news came late at night. Mrs. Kim had been arrested. The police had raided the foster home, taking her into custody without incident. The children had been removed from the house, placed under temporary care while they underwent medical check-ups and psychological evaluations.

You sat in Wonwoo’s room—his real room, not the shared space in the foster home—legs tucked under you as you stared blankly at the floor. It still didn’t feel real. After years of suffering, years of thinking no one would ever come to help, it was over. Mrs. Kim was gone.

Wonwoo—still in your body—watched you carefully from across the room. He could see the exhaustion in your posture, the way your fingers trembled slightly as you held onto the blanket draped over your lap. You had barely spoken since the police update.

"You should sleep," he said softly.

You exhaled a small laugh, shaking your head. "I don’t think I can."

Silence settled between you. Then, after a moment, you looked up at him, your expression unreadable.

"Thank you," you said, voice quiet but steady.

Wonwoo blinked. "For what?"

You let out a breath, searching for the right words. "If it weren’t for you… none of this would’ve happened. Mrs. Kim would still be out there. The kids would still be suffering. I—" You paused, looking down at your hands. "I might not even be alive."

The weight of your words hit him hard. He didn’t know what to say. Instead, he just stared at you, watching as the tension in your shoulders slowly unraveled.

"You didn’t have to help me," you continued. "But you did. You fought for me when I couldn’t fight for myself."

Wonwoo swallowed, something heavy settling in his chest. "You deserved it," he said simply.

You met his eyes, and for the first time since this nightmare began, you felt something close to relief.

"Yeah," you murmured. "I think… I’m finally starting to believe that."

Wonwoo, still in your body, moved to your side, his expression unreadable. Before you could say anything, he pulled you into his arms. The embrace was firm, grounding, and for a moment, you forgot about the weight of everything that had happened.

You stiffened slightly at first—it was strange, feeling your own body hold you—but the warmth of his touch, the steady rhythm of his breathing, made it easier to let go. Slowly, you relaxed against him.

"You’re safe now," he murmured. "It’s over."

Your fingers curled into the fabric of his—your—shirt. "It doesn’t feel real."

"I know," Wonwoo said, his grip tightening just a little. "But it is."

Silence settled between you, thick with everything unspoken. The weight of the past few days, of the fear, the uncertainty, the fight—it all hung in the air. But underneath it, there was relief.

Wonwoo pulled back just enough to meet your eyes. Even though he was in your body, the concern in his gaze was entirely his. "If I hadn’t gotten there in time—" He shook his head, exhaling sharply. "I don’t even want to think about it."

"But you did," you reminded him, offering a small, tired smile. "You saved me. And not just me—all the kids in that house. If it weren’t for you, they’d still be suffering."

Wonwoo’s grip on you tightened for a moment before he finally nodded. "Yeah. I guess we saved them together."

He watched your eyes and hesitated, his grip on you loosening just slightly, but he didn’t pull away completely. His eyes flickered to your lips for just a second before he caught himself, shaking his head as if to clear his thoughts.

You noticed.

Before you could overthink it, you leaned in, pressing a soft, fleeting kiss against his lips—a mere brush, a hesitation wrapped in warmth. It was barely anything, just a peck, but the way Wonwoo froze made your heart race.

When you pulled back, his eyes widened, lips parted as if he wanted to say something but couldn’t quite find the words. You stepped back slightly, giving him space, but the air between you had changed.

"What was that?" he finally asked, voice quiet.

You swallowed, suddenly unsure. "I… don’t know."

A beat of silence.

"We were enemies, right?" Wonwoo said, his brows furrowing in thought. "Back in high school, we couldn’t stand each other."

You let out a small, breathless laugh. "Yeah, I guess we were."

"But then… somehow, we became friends," he continued, his voice softer now. "I don’t even know when that happened."

You met his gaze, something unspoken lingering between you. "And now?"

Wonwoo didn’t answer right away. He lifted a hand as if he wanted to reach for you but hesitated at the last second. Instead, he exhaled, shaking his head with a small, almost amused smile.

"I have no idea," he admitted. "What are we now?"

You didn’t have an answer either. But as you looked at him—at the way he was watching you, searching for something—maybe that was okay. Maybe you’d figure it out together.

*

The morning light filtered through the curtains, casting a soft glow across the room. You shifted slightly, feeling warmth against you—an arm draped loosely around your waist, a steady heartbeat beneath your cheek.

For a moment, you didn’t think much of it. It felt natural, comfortable. The exhaustion from the past few days had melted into this quiet moment of peace.

Then it hit you.

You shot up, your eyes widening as you took in the sight in front of you. Wonwoo was still half-asleep, his hair a mess, eyes barely open as he blinked up at you in confusion. But that wasn’t what made your breath catch.

It was him. His face. His body.

And then you looked down at yourself.

Your hands—your hands—small, familiar. You touched your face, feeling the features you had grown up with.

Panic and realization hit at the same time.

"Wonwoo," you gasped.

At the sound of his name, he frowned, groggy, his voice rough from sleep. "What?"

You grabbed his shoulders, shaking him slightly. "We—"

Then his eyes widened, fully waking up as he sat up abruptly. His hands darted to his own face, his own chest. He looked at you, then at himself, then back at you again.

"We’re back," he breathed.

You both stared at each other, the weight of everything crashing down. The confusion, the fear, the chaos of switching lives—it was over.

A mix of emotions swirled inside you. Relief. Disbelief. Maybe even… a little sadness?

Somehow, in all of this, you and Wonwoo had gone from being enemies, to reluctant allies, to something more. And now, back in your own bodies, you weren’t sure what came next.

"You were cuddling me," Wonwoo suddenly pointed out, a smirk creeping onto his lips.

Your face heated instantly. "You were cuddling me!"

He hummed, stretching lazily. "I don’t remember pushing you away."

"Ugh, you’re insufferable."

But there was no real bite behind your words. You were too relieved, too overwhelmed, and maybe even… a little happy.

Because somehow, through all of this, you had found him.

*

You moved out as soon as Seungcheol, the newly elected student president, handed you a key after pulling some strings to secure you a free room in the student dorm. It was a relief—a chance to finally breathe on your own, away from the chaos of the past few months.

"Don't forget, you owe me," he said, a smirk playing on his lips as he twirled the keyring around his finger like some grand prize. He was clearly enjoying this.

You rolled your eyes but snatched the key from his hand anyway. "Aye aye, captain," you muttered, stuffing it into your pocket.

Seungcheol chuckled, leaning lazily against the doorframe. "Oh, and your boyfriend—think he’d be interested in filling the media and advocacy position?"

You froze mid-step, your fingers tightening around the key. "He's not my boyfriend," you shot back, a little sharper than intended. Heat crept up your neck, and you hated how easily he could fluster you with just a few words.

Seungcheol’s brow arched, clearly unimpressed by your denial. "Don't lie to me. You think I didn’t notice how often you talked him up during the campaign?"

You scoffed, turning the key in the lock just for something to do. "I wasn’t talking him up."

"Really?" His smirk widened. "So saying he's ‘sharp, capable, and annoyingly good at everything’ was criticism?"

You opened your mouth to argue, but the words caught in your throat as realization dawned on you. It wasn’t you who had said those things about Wonwoo. It was him, using your body.

That little—

Your jaw tightened, a wave of embarrassment washing over you. The thought of Wonwoo casually praising himself while pretending to be you made you want to throw something. Of course, he had made you sound like his biggest fan.

You exhaled sharply, deciding this was a battle for another day. "I’ll ask him," you muttered, pushing open the door to your new dorm.

"Good," Seungcheol said, straightening up. "And let me know when you two finally admit you’re together."

"Seungcheol—"

"See you at the next meeting, Madam Secretary," he called over his shoulder, throwing you a knowing wink before strolling off down the hallway.

You groaned, running a hand down your face as you glared at the empty space where he had just stood. Annoying.

With a sigh, you stepped inside your new dorm room, shutting the door behind you. The silence was almost deafening compared to the whirlwind of everything that had happened recently. You glanced down at the key in your palm, feeling the weight of it.

A new beginning. A fresh start.

But somehow, you had the feeling that no matter what, Wonwoo was going to be right in the middle of it all.

Just like now, the tall boy was sitting on the floor, unboxing your books and carefully placing them on the shelves. The only sound in the room was the occasional hum from your lips—a rare moment of quiet between the two of you. It struck you as odd.

Wonwoo was never this silent around you.

You turned, only to catch him flipping through one of your books. But from the worn-out cover and the way his brows slightly raised in interest, you knew exactly what it was.

Your high school diary.

Your stomach dropped.

In a flash, you slid across the floor to his side, reaching for the book, but he was faster. With a teasing smirk, he turned his body away, holding it just out of your reach as he continued reading like he wasn’t blatantly invading your privacy.

"That's my diary, Wonwoo," you hissed, stretching to snatch it from his grasp.

"As if I hadn’t literally lived in that body of yours," he quipped, his smirk widening.

You huffed, crossing your arms in frustration. You honestly didn’t even remember what you had written in that diary—probably a bunch of pointless high school drama and petty complaints about your elite private school.

That is, until he read one line aloud.

"Mingyu is annoyingly kind and smart for the rich kids."

You groaned, immediately burying your face in your hands. "Please stop."

Wonwoo chuckled, clearly enjoying himself as he leaned back against the bed. "And he's handsome too, I guess. You like Mingyu?!"

"Past tense," you muttered, peeking at him between your fingers. "And honestly, who didn’t back in high school?"

His amusement lingered as he continued flipping through the pages, but then, without warning, his smile faded.

He stilled.

His brows furrowed.

When he finally looked at you, there was something unreadable in his expression. "It was intentional?"

Your breath hitched at the shift in his tone. "What?"

Before you could grab the diary, he turned it around so you could see the passage.

And then, it hit you.

The memory resurfaced instantly—the day you had scribbled those frustrated words after an exam. The day you had deliberately answered one question wrong just to land in second place.

Wonwoo’s voice was quieter this time. "My father asked you to do that?"

His eyes scanned your face, searching for confirmation, as he tried to process what he had just read.

Your fingers curled tightly around the diary as you exhaled, leaning back against the bed. There was no point in hiding it now—not when he had already read the truth for himself.

"It was to secure my scholarship," you admitted, your voice quieter than before.

Wonwoo's brows remained furrowed, his hands tightening slightly around the book. "What?"

You swallowed, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. "Your father... he told Mrs. Kim that I was never to step into your level—meaning the highest I was allowed to place was second."

The words hung heavy in the air, thick with unspoken resentment and long-buried frustration.

Wonwoo’s jaw tensed. "He told you that?"

"Not directly. Mrs. Kim did," you clarified, gripping the diary a little tighter. "She said it was a condition. That as long as I stayed beneath you, I could keep my scholarship. My tuition would stay covered, my future secured—as long as I didn’t outshine you."

Wonwoo stared at you, and for the first time since you met him, there was no teasing, no sarcasm, no sharp-witted remarks. Just silence.

He wasn’t even looking at the diary anymore. His gaze was locked onto you, his expression unreadable.

"You were forced to stay second place," he finally said, his voice almost detached, like he was still trying to wrap his head around it.

You shrugged, forcing a small, bitter smile. "It wasn't that hard. You were better than me, anyway."

"That's not the point," he snapped, the sudden edge in his voice making you blink. He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair before shaking his head. "That’s why you never challenged me, isn’t it? Why you never tried to win?"

You hesitated before nodding. "Would it have mattered?"

Wonwoo let out a humorless chuckle, but there was no amusement in his eyes. "And here I thought you just enjoyed losing to me."

You scoffed, rolling your eyes. "Yeah, because that sounds like something I’d do."

He didn’t laugh. He didn’t even smirk.

Instead, he stared at you like he was seeing you in an entirely different light.

Like he was starting to understand something he never had before.

Wonwoo let out a deep breath, his gaze dropping to the diary still clutched in your hands. His fingers twitched, like he wanted to reach for it again—but instead, he just sat there, staring at nothing in particular.

Then, to your surprise, he laughed. A quiet, almost disbelieving sound.

"Wow," he murmured, shaking his head. "So all this time... you were holding back for me."

You frowned. "Not for you—"

"Still," he cut in, finally lifting his gaze to meet yours. "You let me win. Over and over. You fed my ego for years."

You didn’t know what to say to that. Was he mad? Annoyed?

But then he exhaled, running a hand through his hair, and you saw something unexpected in his expression.

"Thank you."

You blinked. "What?"

"Thank you," he repeated, his voice softer this time. "For letting me think I was the best. For... making me feel like I was good at something."

There was no sarcasm. No teasing. Just a raw honesty that made your chest tighten.

"I didn’t do it for you," you muttered, looking away.

"I know." He tilted his head slightly, watching you. "But you still did."

You let out a breath, shaking your head. "Why are you even thanking me? It’s not like I had a choice."

Wonwoo leaned back against the bed, his expression unreadable. "Because if you hadn't, I probably would've lost my mind."

You frowned.

"My dad—he always expected me to be the best. Not just in school, but in everything." He let out a small, humorless laugh. "And I wasn’t. I knew I wasn’t. But the scores? The rankings? That was the only thing that made me feel like I was good enough. Like I actually deserved something."

You stared at him, the weight of his words settling in.

"You have no idea how badly I needed that validation," he admitted. "How badly I needed to believe I was the best at something. Even if it was fake."

You swallowed. You had never thought of it that way before. You had always seen Wonwoo as someone untouchable—smart, capable, and always one step ahead of you. But now, sitting here, hearing him admit that he needed to win...

He wasn’t as untouchable as you thought.

"You weren’t bad, you know," you said after a moment. "Even without me holding back, you probably still would’ve beaten me."

He let out a breathy chuckle, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. "Maybe. But at least now I know the truth."

Silence settled between you, heavy and unspoken.

You sighed, shifting so you were fully facing him. Wonwoo had always carried himself like he had everything under control, like he never wavered. But now, sitting here, you could see the cracks in that image—the weight of expectations, the pressure he had put on himself for years.

"You don’t have to be the best at everything, you know," you said quietly.

Wonwoo looked at you, surprised by your words.

"You’re already smart," you continued. "Responsible. Honest to a fault." You hesitated before adding, "You even helped me with Mrs. Kim when you didn’t have to."

His brows furrowed slightly. "That doesn’t mean—"

"You could’ve caused trouble while you were in my body," you cut him off. "You could’ve made my life a mess, done things just to spite me. But you didn’t. You helped me. You took care of things. That says more about you than any stupid ranking ever could."

Wonwoo didn’t respond right away, his expression unreadable. You weren’t sure if he was actually listening or if he was just waiting for you to stop talking. But then, after a long pause, he let out a quiet chuckle.

"So you’re saying I’m a good person?"

You rolled your eyes. "I’m saying you don’t have to prove that you are. You already are. And that’s enough."

Wonwoo blinked, like he didn’t quite know what to do with your words. Then, slowly, a small, almost shy smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

"That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me."

You scoffed, nudging his arm. "Don’t get used to it."

But the warmth in his gaze lingered, and for the first time, you saw him believe it.

Wonwoo let out a small laugh, shaking his head. "You know, if this were some kind of cliché moment in a movie, you’d kiss me right now. Like last time."

You snorted, crossing your arms. "Oh, please."

But his words triggered a memory—the last time your lips met.

"Besides," you added, tilting your head at him, "I technically didn’t kiss you last time. It was more like a peck. And even then, it wasn’t me kissing you—it was me in your body, so it was your lips touching mine."

Wonwoo smirked, leaning in slightly. "Sounds like a lot of excuses."

Before you could roll your eyes again, he reached for your wrist, pulling you just close enough that your breath hitched. His gaze flickered to your lips for just a second before he murmured,

"Let’s fix that, then."

And before you could even think of a response, he closed the distance, pressing his lips against yours.

This time, it wasn’t just a peck.

*

Wonwoo sat stiffly across from his father, unsure why he had been called to this unexpected meeting. His father, always composed and stern, sipped his tea before finally setting the cup down with a decisive clink.

"I’ve been thinking," his father began, his deep voice carrying an unusual softness, "about your future."

Wonwoo’s shoulders tensed. He was ready for another lecture, another reminder of his predetermined path. But then—

"I’ve decided," his father continued, "that if you truly want to pursue journalism, you have my support."

Wonwoo blinked. He must have misheard. His father? Supporting his dream?

His father adjusted his glasses, tapping a finger against the table. "I read your work—the articles, the essays, the investigative pieces you’ve written over the years. There’s potential, Wonwoo. Real potential. I wasn’t convinced before, but now…" He exhaled, looking directly at his son. "I see it."

Wonwoo’s mind raced. How did his father—?

Then his eyes flicked to his laptop sitting on the desk nearby. A strange feeling gnawed at him. Slowly, he reached for it, opening his email.

His inbox showed a long thread between him and his father—except… he didn’t remember sending these.

Clicking through, his breath caught. Attached were all the articles, drafts, and opinion pieces he had ever written, even the ones he had abandoned, perfectly formatted and sent with a professional, persuasive message:

"Father, I know journalism wasn’t the future you envisioned for me, but writing has always been my passion. I hope you can see the effort I’ve put into it. All I ask is for you to read and reconsider. If there’s any part of you that believes in me, please support this dream."

The email was formal, respectful—something Wonwoo would never have dared to send himself.

Because he didn’t send it.

Realization struck.

You.

While you were in his body, you had gathered every piece of writing he had ever done and sent it to his father, pushing for the approval he had been too afraid to ask for himself.

A lump formed in his throat.

"You…" Wonwoo murmured under his breath, still staring at the screen. His heart pounded, caught between disbelief and something else—something warm, something deep.

His father took another sip of tea. "I’m ready to support you, son. If this is what you want, you don’t have to fight for it alone."

Wonwoo swallowed, his grip tightening around the laptop. His lips parted, but no words came out.

Because for the first time in his life, he realized—

Someone had fought for him first.

*

Years later, Wonwoo came home to find you curled up on the couch, absentmindedly flipping through TV channels. The familiar sight of you—your hair messy, your legs tucked under a blanket—made something in his chest unclench. Without a word, he let his tired body collapse onto you, his arms wrapping around your waist as he buried his face in your stomach.

You huffed at the sudden weight but didn’t push him away. Instead, your fingers instinctively found their way into his hair, gently brushing through the strands.

"I'm so tired," he mumbled, his voice muffled against your shirt.

You chuckled, feeling the vibration of his words against you. "Journalism finally hit you?"

Wonwoo groaned dramatically before shifting, propping himself up just enough to look at you. "My senior is evil. How could he make us stay in the police station for two days?"

Your brows raised. "Got any news?"

He sighed, shaking his head before letting his head fall onto your lap, his face turned toward you. His dark eyes studied your features, the corners of his lips tugging into something softer, something unspoken.

"And I missed you," he murmured.

You rolled your eyes, though your fingers never stopped their soothing motions through his hair. "You're so dramatic."

"Am I?" He smirked lazily. "You should've seen how miserable I was without you."

You scoffed, pretending to ignore the way your heart fluttered at his words. It had taken months—months of stolen kisses, secret touches, and endless bickering—before the two of you had finally admitted what everyone else had seen from the start.

Mingyu, fed up with your ridiculous denial, had finally intervened. And by "intervened," it meant shoving you and Wonwoo into a closet during a party and refusing to let you out until you confessed your feelings. It was a long, messy story—one that involved a lot of yelling, some threats, and a victorious Mingyu grinning like a proud matchmaker.

And yet, it had worked.

Now, here you were, years later, with Wonwoo sprawled across you like he belonged there. Because, in a way, he did.

"You’re such a baby," you teased, lightly flicking his forehead.

He caught your hand before you could pull away, intertwining his fingers with yours. "Only for you."

You felt it before you saw it—the subtle shift in the way Wonwoo’s fingers curled around yours, the slow, deliberate drag of his thumb against your palm. His other hand, which had been resting idly on your waist, started to move, fingertips tracing light, teasing patterns over the fabric of your shirt.

Your breath hitched when he pressed a little firmer, his touch no longer innocent, no longer just an affectionate gesture.

"Wonwoo," you murmured, though it came out softer than intended, barely a warning.

His lips twitched, eyes flicking up to yours, dark and knowing. "What?" he asked, voice low, lazy, but there was something else there too—something heavier, something that made your stomach flip.

"You’re tired," you pointed out, though even to your own ears, it sounded like a weak excuse.

Wonwoo hummed, shifting slightly until he was lying on his side, one arm draped around your waist, the other still tangled with your fingers. "Yeah," he agreed, nuzzling into your stomach. "But I still missed you."

You swallowed when his nose brushed against the hem of your shirt, the warmth of his breath ghosting over your skin. His fingers slipped under the fabric, skimming your hip before sliding up, slow and unhurried.

Your skin prickled under his touch, and he must've felt your reaction because his smirk deepened.

"Wonwoo," you tried again, but this time, your voice betrayed you, dipping into something breathier, something more wanting.

"Hmm?" He looked up at you, feigning innocence, but the way his fingers flexed against your waist, the way his lips barely brushed against your stomach before pulling back—it was anything but innocent.

Your fingers twitched in his hair, torn between pulling him away and pulling him closer.

And from the way his smirk widened, you had a feeling he already knew which one you were leaning toward.

You sucked in a breath when Wonwoo’s fingers trailed lower, his touch lazy, teasing, like he had all the time in the world. His palm skimmed over your thigh, fingertips pressing just enough to make you shiver. His head remained on your lap, but his eyes were locked on yours, watching every little reaction.

"You're really not going to stop me, huh?" he murmured, amusement lacing his tone.

Your fingers curled in his hair, torn between pulling him away and keeping him right where he was. "Wonwoo," you whispered, though you weren’t sure if it was meant to stop him or encourage him.

He chuckled, the deep sound vibrating through you, before his fingers slipped just a little further, skimming over the waistband of your shorts. Your breath stuttered, body tensing in anticipation.

"You’re so easy to tease," he mused, his lips curving as he pressed a kiss to your stomach.

You swatted at his shoulder, though there was no real strength behind it. "You’re impossible."

"And yet, you still let me touch you."

His fingers flexed again, just a whisper of movement against your skin, but enough to send a shiver down your spine. The heat in his gaze was unmistakable, and the air between you felt thick, charged.

Your lips parted to say something—maybe to challenge him, maybe to tell him to keep going—but before you could, his fingers dipped lower, making you gasp.

Wonwoo smirked, leaning in closer. "Yeah," he murmured, voice dark with satisfaction. "I thought so."

Wonwoo's fingers danced across your heated flesh, tracing the sensitive inner thighs, his touch both teasing and tantalizing. You parted your legs slightly, inviting him deeper into the haven of your intimacy. His calloused palm grazed the damp lace of your panties, the delicate material offering little barrier against the scorching heat of your core.

With a knowing smirk, Wonwoo hooked his fingers into the waistband of your underwear, slowly peeling them down your hips to reveal your glistening, needy center. He dipped a finger into the slick folds, gathering your essence and rubbing it along your throbbing clit in a deliberate rhythm.

"You're so wet for me already," he purred, his voice low and husky with desire. "Tell me, do you miss me as much as I miss you?"

The overwhelming ache within you demanded release, begging for Wonwoo's touch to quench the thirst that had built throughout the day apart. You nodded frantically, your breath coming in ragged gasps as you surrendered to the intensity of your longing.

"Yes, I miss you so much," You whimpered, arching into his skilled caresses. "Please, Wonwoo... I need you inside me."

At your plea, Wonwoo stood abruptly, scooping you effortlessly into his arms.

He carried you swiftly towards the bedroom, kicking the door shut behind you with a resolute click. Once there, he set you down on the edge of the bed, his dark eyes smoldering with unrestrained hunger as he shed the remainder of his clothes with swift, practiced movements.

"Nowhere else I'd rather be than right here, buried deep within your sweet heat," he declared, his rigid length jutting out prominently, aching to claim its rightful place inside you once again.

"I'm dying to taste you, sweetheart, but I can barely control myself." Wonwoo spat onto your dripping slit, the warm droplets mingling with your arousal. "Gotta get inside you, now."

He positioned himself at your entrance, the swollen head of his member nudging against your slick heat.

With a steady, controlled thrust, Wonwoo sheathed himself fully within you, his thickness stretching and filling you to the brim. He paused for a moment, allowing you to adjust to his size, before withdrawing until just the tip remained inside.

"Are you ready, baby?" he asked, his voice rough with restrained passion.

You nodded, your hips lifting eagerly to meet his next push forward.

Wonwoo's grip tightened on your hips as he began to move, his thrusts slow and deliberate, each stroke dragging out the pleasure until it bordered on agony. He leaned down, capturing your thing between his teeth, nibbling and suckling in time with his measured pace.

With agonizing slowness, Wonwoo continued to drive into you, each inch a tantalizing exploration of your innermost depths. His teeth grazed your thing, sending electric shocks straight to your core as his fingers found your sensitive clit, circling the tender bud with maddening gentleness.

"Wonwoo...Yes..." You whimpered, lost in the haze of pleasure, your nails digging into his back as you clung to him desperately.

Wonwoo's rhythmic strokes intensified, his hips undulating sensually against yours. Each deep, languid thrust seemed designed to unravel you from the inside out, his teasing touches driving you closer to the brink. Youwrithed beneath him, craving more of that exquisite friction, your cries escalating into urgent whimpers.

"Fuck, you feel incredible," he groaned, his voice strained with effort as he fought to maintain the torturously slow pace.

With a subtle shift in his tempo, Wonwoo picked up speed, the previously languid thrusts now becoming harder and faster. Your back arched off the bed as he pistoned into you with renewed vigor, the room echoing with the lewd sound of flesh meeting flesh.

"That's it, take it deeper," he encouraged, his hand tightening on your hip, urging you to meet his increasing fervor. "Let go, my love. I've got you."

With a sudden yank, Wonwoo hoisted you up, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as he maintained eye contact. The new angle allowed him to sink even deeper inside, and you cried out at the delicious stretch.

"I want to look at you while I fill you up," he growled, his thumbs rubbing circles over yout hyper-sensitive clit as he pumped into you.

With each relentless thrust, Wonwoo could feel the telltale flutter of you impending orgasm building within me. Your walls clenched tighter around his throbbing length, drawing him impossibly deeper, and he knew you was teetering on the precipice.

"Don't hold back," he commanded gruffly, his own climax fast approaching. "Let go for me, my beautiful girl. I want to feel you shake apart.."

With increased urgency, Wonwoo slammed into you, the force of his thrusts nearly knocking the wind from you ungs. You inner muscles spasmed wildly as you reached the crest, wave after wave of intense pleasure crashing over me.

"Yes, yes, yes!" You screamed, your nails raking down his back as the most potent orgasm of yout life ripped through you.

...and then Wonwoo buried himself to the hilt, his cock pulsating violently as he reached his peak. With a guttural roar, he poured himself into you, flooding your spasming channel with his hot seed.

"P-pretty... fuck," he stuttered, his face contorting in blissful agony as he emptied himself inside you. His rhythmic spurts triggered aftershocks, each twitch of his still-hard member coaxing out lingering echoes of yout earlier climax.

With a contented sigh, Wonwoo collapsed onto you, your bodies still intimately entwined. Though he'd just delivered a mind-blowing orgasm, his exhaustion was palpable, making it clear he had no intention of withdrawing anytime soon.

"Mmm, too tired," he mumbled, his face nuzzling into the crook of my neck as he struggled to catch his breath.

*

A soft groan escaped your lips as you stirred from sleep, the lingering sensations of last night’s intimacy still fresh in your mind. Your body felt relaxed in the most satisfying way, every inch of you still attuned to Wonwoo’s touch. A small, pleased smile curved your lips as you felt the comforting warmth of him pressed against you, his solid form still nestled close, as if he had no intention of letting go.

"Morning, sunshine," you murmured sleepily, your voice laced with warmth and amusement. "Seems like you didn’t intend to let me go after all, did you?"

But the moment the words left your mouth, something felt off. The timbre of your voice—deeper, rougher—sent a jolt of confusion through you.

Your eyes snapped open.

Your breath hitched as you took in the unfamiliar sight of broad shoulders, long limbs, and the distinct weight of a body that wasn’t yours.

Panic set in.

Slowly, almost hesitantly, you looked down to the other side—only to find yourself staring at… yourself.

Wonwoo—trapped in your body—blinked at you sleepily, his own eyes widening in delayed realization.

Not again.

"Don't move…" Wonwoo groaned, his voice—your voice—strained as he let out a soft moan from the way your body tensed inside him.

His grip on your arm tightened as he exhaled sharply, frustration evident in the way his brows furrowed. "Shit… Does your body always ache this much after sex? Don’t move!" he snapped, his complaint sounding oddly amusing in your own voice.

You bit back a laugh, despite the absurdity of the situation. "I’m not doing anything," you said defensively, then motioned toward your member—his member—where the evidence of his current predicament was painfully obvious. "It’s working itself."

Wonwoo sighed in exasperation, dragging a hand down his—your—face. "Welcome to manhood," you added with a smirk.

His glare could’ve burned holes through you, but at that moment, all you could do was marvel at the sheer irony of it all.

The end:)

[thedensworld]

SO INSANEEEEE

[thedensworld]

Kiss a Friend | K. Mg

Genre: angst, fluff, smut (18+)

Summary: Mingyu was obsessed with his ex fiancee who had left him on the altar. To get her back, he paid all your debt to help him.

It started with a kiss.

Mingyu had warned you to arrive at 7, sharp. Punctuality, he said, was non-negotiable. He despised people who couldn’t respect time. But tonight, you wanted him to hate you, to see the look of irritation flash across his usually composed face. So, you walked in at 7:50, deliberately late, wearing the plainest dress you could find in your closet. It was all part of your plan to embarrass Kim Mingyu, a small act of rebellion against the man who now held a claim over your life for the next three months.

You sighed, an inexplicable tightness in your chest. Mingyu was more than just the imposing businessman he had become; he was your childhood nemesis. To be fair, your parents had been friends long before you were born, so you and Mingyu were forced into each other’s lives. You spent your childhood squabbling over the smallest things—who was faster on their bikes or who could get highest score in Math. It was always a competition, and Mingyu always found a way to win, leaving you rolling your eyes and muttering curses under your breath. Then, he left for the States to study business and fulfill his destiny of taking over the family empire. The distance was a relief, a clean break from the constant rivalry.

Meanwhile, you had chosen a different path. You found joy in acting, even if it meant playing minor roles or being in small films. You cherished the freedom it gave you, the knowledge that you weren’t bound by family legacies or the weight of expectations. Your life was yours, simple and light—or at least it was until last month.

Mingyu returned from the States a changed man, celebrated and respected in the business world. He no longer resembled the carefree boy from the neighborhood, and communication between you dwindled to polite nods and rare encounters. Then, the invitation came: a wedding announcement for him and his fiancée of two years. You’d laughed to yourself, amused by the thought that Mingyu, the annoying kid who used to trip you on purpose, had grown up enough to commit to someone. The thought of him managing to woo a woman seemed almost comical.

But everything shattered on the day he was left standing at the altar.

The chaos that followed was unforgettable. You ran to his parents, finding his father pale and clutching his chest, too stunned to speak. The paramedics arrived moments later, rushing him to the hospital. You stayed behind, holding his mother’s trembling hand and feeling the weight of Mingyu’s world as it crumbled around him. Hyorin—his fiancée, now ex-fiancée, ex-bride; you struggled to decide what to call her—left only a short letter behind. In it, she confessed that she’d run away with another man, admitting she’d been unfaithful and choosing to leave Mingyu for good.

Days later, Mingyu appeared at your door. Dark circles hung under his eyes, and his usual confident posture was nowhere to be seen.

“Help me,” he said, voice low and raw.

You blinked, unable to piece together what he meant. “Help you with what?”

“Help me get Hyorin back,” he clarified, leaning against the doorframe as if the effort of standing was too much. “I need you to be my girlfriend—just for three months.”

Your mouth dropped open. The idea was absurd. “Are you serious?”

“Hyorin is possessive. She won’t be able to stand seeing someone else with me. I know her. If she thinks I’ve moved on, she’ll come back,” he explained, desperation creeping into his tone. His eyes held yours, unyielding. “And besides, she hates you. That’ll add fuel to the fire.”

He sat comfortably on your couch, surveying your small apartment with an expression that was almost amused. It was a stark contrast to the sleek penthouse or sprawling home he had planned to share with Hyorin. You sat on the floor across from him, disbelief clouding your expression as you struggled to take his proposal seriously. Date Mingyu? It was laughable. He was too entangled in your childhood memories to ever be considered a romantic prospect, even if he had changed into a confident, sought-after businessman. Every time you looked at him, you couldn’t help but picture the mischievous boy with a grin that spelled trouble.

Yet, Mingyu was relentless. The proposal kept coming, woven into daily conversations and backed by small gestures. He pampered you in ways you didn't expect, bringing you coffee, making sure you were eating, all because he couldn’t find anyone better for this crazy plan of his.

“And besides, you’re a great actress,” he said one evening, leaning back into the cushions with a smirk.

You narrowed your eyes, recognizing the manipulative edge in his tone. “I know,” you muttered, barely containing your frustration.

Before the conversation could spiral further, the sharp ring of your doorbell echoed through the apartment, followed by a series of frantic knocks. Alarm bells went off in your mind. No. Not now.

“Hide,” you whispered urgently, pulling Mingyu up by the arm and shoving him into your room before he could protest. If the person at the door saw Mingyu, it would be a disaster you weren’t prepared to deal with.

“Open up, Y/N! I know you’re there!” a familiar voice shouted from the other side, slurring slightly. Your heart sank as you recognized it. The door barely clicked open before it was pushed with force, slamming you back a step as Boemjae stumbled into the room. The stale scent of alcohol and cigarettes clung to him, making you wrinkle your nose.

“Not today, Boemjae,” you said firmly, hoping to sound braver than you felt.

He laughed, a low, menacing sound as he stepped closer and pressed you against the wall. “Who are you to tell me what to do, bitch?” His voice was a venomous whisper, and the sharp pain of your back hitting the wall made you wince. He swaggered toward the kitchen and grabbed a water bottle, taking a swig as if he owned the place.

“Leave,” you tried again, your voice strained but steady.

Boemjae’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “No. I need my money now,” he snarled, his tone shifting from casual menace to a sharp demand.

“I don’t have it now, but I’ll send it later,” you promised, your voice barely above a whisper. Before you could brace yourself, Boemjae shoved you with enough force that you stumbled and crashed into the coffee table, pain searing through your side.

“I need it now,” he repeated, bending down to yank you up by the collar as if you were nothing more than a ragdoll. His laugh was harsh and mocking. “How are you even planning to pay me back, huh? Sleeping with random men? You can’t even land a decent acting role!”

Before you could respond, Mingyu’s voice cut through the chaos like a blade. “Let her go.”

The room fell into a tense silence as Boemjae turned, surprise flickering in his bloodshot eyes before he barked out a laugh. “So, this is the man you’re sleeping with? How much is he giving you? You’d better hand it over right now,” he sneered before shoving you roughly to Mingyu’s side. Relief washed over you as Mingyu caught you, holding you steady with a firm arm around your waist. The old Mingyu would have never stepped in, but this Mingyu—this confident, determined man—was different.

Mingyu’s expression hardened as he stepped forward, towering over Boemjae, his height and presence imposing. “I’m her boyfriend,” he said, voice cold and commanding. “And I want you out of this house. Now.”

Boemjae’s laugh faltered, turning uneasy as he took in Mingyu’s stance. “Boyfriend? Don’t kid yourself. I know her, and she doesn’t have a boyfriend. I’m her important person,” he said with a sneer.

Mingyu’s jaw tightened, and his eyes narrowed dangerously. “If you were truly important, you’d know who I am,” he said, taking another step closer until Boemjae flinched. “Leave now, or I’ll make sure you regret it.”

Boemjae swallowed, the drunken bravado evaporating under Mingyu’s glare. He backed away, muttering curses under his breath before stumbling out the door.

The silence that followed was thick, your shallow breaths the only sound in the room. Mingyu’s eyes bore into you, sharp and intense, the anger still radiating off him in waves.

“Who was that? Why do you even know someone like him? Is he your boyfriend?” he fired off questions, his voice clipped and filled with barely contained rage.

“It’s none of your business,” you mumbled, wincing as you gripped your arm where it throbbed with pain.

Mingyu’s brows knitted together in a fierce scowl. “It is my business if you’re going to be my new girlfriend,” he declared, the conviction in his voice making your head spin. When had you ever agreed to this? Why was he speaking like you’d already signed some invisible contract?

“I never said yes,” you muttered, exhaling shakily as the adrenaline in your system began to ebb.

Mingyu’s eyes softened just a fraction, but his determination remained. “Who is he? Why does he come here?”

“I owe him money,” you admitted, your voice a strained whisper. “He shows up whenever he needs cash.”

A tense silence followed as Mingyu processed your words. “How much?” he asked, his tone commanding.

You bit your lip, irritation bubbling up at his demanding attitude. “It’s none of your business!”

“How much?” he pressed, leaning in, eyes searching yours for an answer.

You hesitated, swallowing the lump in your throat. “Thirty-five billion,” you finally said, the weight of the number hanging heavily in the air.

Mingyu’s expression flickered with surprise before settling into one of resolute determination. The silence stretched between you, almost suffocating, before he spoke again, his voice calm but firm. “I’ll pay it,” he said, the finality in his tone leaving no room for argument. “But only if you agree to be my contract girlfriend for three months. That’s all the time I need to get Hyorin back.”

The room seemed to shrink around you, the enormity of his proposal pressing down on you. This was more than just a game to him; it was a desperate gamble. And now, it was your move.

*

The last day of owning your own life felt strange, surreal even.

You sat uncomfortably in Mingyu’s office, surrounded by the scent of polished wood and subtle cologne, a stark contrast to the chaotic familiarity of your world. The sterile office setting, with its pristine glass walls and neat rows of desks, was foreign to you. You were never an office girl. You were the adventurous one, the free spirit. So when Mingyu called you in to meet his lawyer and sign the contract, you weren’t prepared. Not mentally and definitely not in the way you were dressed—in just a plain shirt and worn blue jeans. If you had known the gravity of this moment, maybe you would have chosen something more formal, something that wouldn’t make you look so out of place among the sleek suits and pencil skirts.

Mingyu, now a commanding presence as the director of his father’s company, sat across the long mahogany table. He was the picture of cool composure, suited up impeccably, his gaze sharp but carrying an odd familiarity. The lawyer spoke up, cutting through the hum of your racing thoughts.

“As you can see, Mr. Kim will give you the agreed-upon sum tomorrow, and the contract will last for three months. If you have any questions, now would be the time to ask,” the lawyer said, his voice professional but devoid of emotion.

You glanced down at the document in front of you, your fingers brushing the paper lightly as you read. Years in the entertainment industry had taught you the importance of dissecting every line in a contract, ensuring that nothing would come back to bite you.

Halfway down, your eyes widened at a clause. “I have to move in with you?” The words slipped out before you could stop them, disbelief clear in your voice.

Mingyu cleared his throat, leaning back in his chair, his expression stoic. “Yes. It’ll create the right image. The media will go wild if they find out a woman moved in with me just a month after being left at the altar. Hyorin will hear about it. She’ll be furious, maybe even desperate enough to come back.”

You frowned, your thoughts racing. “And if I don’t want to?”

A chuckle escaped Mingyu, a sound that brought a flicker of childhood memories—those endless debates, the playful bickering that now seemed like a different lifetime. “Then we’ll negotiate. But I can promise that all your needs will be met. Besides,” he paused, his eyes narrowing just a touch, “Beomjae wouldn’t be able to harass you at my place.”

The mention of Beomjae sent a chill down your spine, your discomfort deepening. You didn’t like how easily Mingyu had brought up that night in front of his lawyer. It was a memory you’d hoped to lock away and never revisit. Still, the thought of escaping Beomjae’s shadow was tempting, more than tempting.

“And just so we’re clear,” Mingyu continued, his voice dropping to a serious note, “you’re not sleeping in my bed. The house has more than enough rooms.” He said it matter-of-factly, but the unexpected implication made your cheeks burn. You felt a wave of embarrassment rush through you as if the contract itself was some guilty secret.

The lawyer pointed to another clause. Intercourse was strictly prohibited; anything more intimate than staged public displays of affection would void the agreement and terminate the contract immediately. You breathed out slowly, relief mixing with an odd nervousness. The contract laid out your new reality in stark, unyielding terms, yet there was no malice hidden in its words. Mingyu might have been many things, but he wasn’t deceitful. He wouldn’t trap you with fine print. And the money? The staggering sum of thirty-five billion won seemed almost absurd, a price you weren’t sure you deserved for playing pretend for three months.

Mingyu’s gaze softened as he spoke, almost as if he could read your mind. “This role is harder than you think, Y/N. It won’t be easy.”

You glanced up at him, a blend of challenge and resignation in your eyes, before signing your name. The final stroke of the pen echoed in your ears like a tolling bell. Tomorrow, everything would change. You weren’t just Mingyu’s childhood friend anymore.

You were now his girlfriend. His thirty-five-billion-won girlfriend.

*

As you stepped into the birthday party hosted by Mingyu’s uncle, Kim Jaejoong, a wave of self-consciousness swept over you. The dazzling lights reflected off shimmering gowns and sharp suits, making you feel more out of place than ever. You were dressed simply, far too simply for such an event, and each glance cast your way seemed to gnaw at your self-esteem. You gave your name at the entrance, "Kim Mingyu's plus one," and the attendant nodded, letting you through with barely a glance.

The room was filled with South Korea’s most influential figures, a crowd where power was worn as naturally as their tailored suits. You scanned the room, trying to find Mingyu's familiar silhouette among a sea of business elites. But everyone here looked alike in their uniform of suit and tie, making it more challenging than you'd expected.

Then you spotted her. Wi Hyorin.

Hyorin, the heiress of Wi Finance, one of South Korea's most prestigious financial empires. The very woman who had left Mingyu standing alone at the altar, igniting a wildfire of gossip across the business world. The alliance that their marriage would have cemented had turned into a scandal overnight, the fallout reverberating through boardrooms and society pages. But why was she here, now, at Jaejoong's event? Was she trying to rekindle something? Your chest tightened as you watched her glide gracefully across the room.

Your eyes found Mingyu. He stood tall, commanding attention in a circle of businessmen, his smile practiced and confident. But as Hyorin moved toward him, you noticed a shift in his demeanor—a flicker of recognition and tension. The past month of living with Mingyu as his so-called “gold digger” girlfriend had been surreal. Tabloid stories had painted you as an unknown actress who somehow caught the eye of the jilted billionaire. Kim Mingyu’s New Flame: The Mysterious Actress After the Altar Scandal. The stories practically wrote themselves, and you, once a spectator to such dramas, were now the unwitting star.

You took a deep breath, a rush of impulse taking hold. If Mingyu’s plan was to make Hyorin jealous to win her back, then a bold move was justified, right? No harm done if it served the goal.

You walked steadily toward him, the room seeming to shrink as your heartbeat drummed in your ears. Mingyu noticed you, his eyes lighting up with a practiced warmth as he lifted a hand to wave, playing the devoted boyfriend role perfectly.

“Meet my girlfriend, Ji Y/N. She’s an actress—”

Before he could finish, you acted. Your hand reached up, pulling him toward you as your lips met his in a sudden, daring kiss. A collective gasp rippled through the crowd, the clink of champagne glasses pausing midair. You felt Mingyu’s initial shock; his body stiffened, and he pulled back, eyes wide with surprise.

The room was a frozen tableau for a heartbeat, but it was Hyorin’s voice that shattered the silence. “So, you’re dating your childhood friend now, Mingyu?” Her tone was soft, almost melodious, but it carried an edge that cut through you like a blade. The implication in her words stung more than you expected. How dare she, after abandoning him?

But before you could react, Mingyu stepped away from you, turning to Hyorin with an almost desperate urgency. His hand reached for hers, a gesture that made your stomach drop. “I didn’t kiss her back, Hyorin,” he said, his voice clear enough for anyone nearby to hear.

The world seemed to tilt, his words echoing in your mind. Your heart plummeted as the realization settled in: Kim Mingyu, the man you once called your friend—no, the man you were now pretending to be in love with—was still devoted to the woman who had humiliated him in front of the entire country. And he had just proven it, publicly.

The plan was to make Hyorin jealous enough to return to him. It was working. You’d done what you set out to do, so why did your chest ache like this? You told yourself it didn’t matter. You had no right to feel this way. This was a job, a role to play, nothing more.

You stepped back, your face a mask of practiced calm as you retreated to the quieter corner of the venue. The din of conversation swallowed the silence you left behind. You reached for a glass of wine, the cool liquid promising a momentary reprieve from the chaos in your mind.

“So, you’re Ji Y/N, the one everyone’s been talking about?” A voice interrupted the solitude you had wrapped yourself in. You turned to see an unfamiliar face—a man you had never met before. He was striking, with sharp features and an air of effortless confidence. He introduced himself as Yoon Jeonghan, a college friend of Mingyu’s. The name registered immediately; he was the CEO of Yoonique, a luxury fashion brand that had been making waves locally and internationally.

“If you’re his girlfriend, I should’ve met you by now, especially with all the news swirling around. But here we are, meeting for the first time,” Jeonghan said, his tone light but with an undercurrent that suggested he knew more than he was letting on.

You felt your heart tighten. This conversation was more layered than you were prepared for, and the probing curiosity in his eyes made you reach for your wine again. “I’m not in a position to answer that,” you muttered, the rim of the glass brushing your lips.

Jeonghan chuckled, a low sound that somehow put you at ease and on edge at the same time. He leaned against the railing beside you, his eyes shifting to the city lights that stretched beyond the venue’s grand windows. “Mingyu’s a fool sometimes. I can see that now more than ever. I’m sorry you got caught up in this mess,” he said, his voice softening, making you turn to look at him.

“He told me about his plan—to win Hyorin back. I never thought it was a good idea, but I see now that you’re his partner in this... charade?” He paused, waiting for a response that you didn’t have. Your silence was answer enough.

You sighed, the weight of the night pressing down on you. “I’ve known him since we were kids. This is the least I can do, especially for his parents. They’ve been under so much pressure since the wedding incident,” you whispered, careful not to let anyone overhear your conversation.

Jeonghan’s expression shifted, a blend of understanding and something else you couldn’t quite read. He nodded slowly, acknowledging the burden you both seemed to carry. The quiet between you was a welcome reprieve from the noise inside, where murmurs and sidelong glances threatened to pull you apart.

You sipped your wine again, eyes drifting over the dark, sprawling skyline. Out here, you didn’t have to hear the whispered gossip or feel the eyes boring into your back.

“Mingyu ditched his girlfriend for his ex-fiancée?”

The thought sent a shiver down your spine, not because it wasn’t true, but because you knew people were cruel enough to say it aloud. Even if you were okay with being in this position, it was still humiliating to be part of such a spectacle.

Jeonghan’s voice brought you back. “Are you free tomorrow? Would you be willing to meet me at my office?” He asked, his eyes catching yours in the window’s reflection, the city lights dancing in them like embers.

You turned to face him, a flicker of curiosity sparking in your chest. What could he possibly want from you? Whatever it was, the idea of visiting Yoonique’s CEO office sounded intriguing, an unexpected twist in an already complicated story.

“Sure,” you replied, a small smile tugging at your lips. You weren’t sure where this was heading, but for the first time that night, you felt a sliver of excitement cut through the haze of doubt.

*

"You ran away," Mingyu said as he stepped into your room, his voice low and sharp. The door clicked shut behind him, and you glanced up to see him in a half-dressed state—his suit discarded, an expensive dress shirt clinging to his broad frame, and a loosened blue tie draped around his neck. The sight was disheveled, raw, and too close for comfort.

You sat on the edge of the bed, the script for your newest and most promising role—a second lead that could finally catapult your acting career—resting in your hands. Your eyes met his, refusing to show the tumult of emotions twisting in your chest.

“You didn’t knock,” you said, trying to maintain an even tone. It was a feeble attempt to set a boundary, one you knew he would ignore.

Mingyu’s eyes darkened as he took a step closer, his presence overwhelming the room. “As far as I remember, this is my house. And this room is technically mine.”

A retort sat on the tip of your tongue, bastard, but you swallowed it down. The weight of the day hung over you like a shroud, and rest was all you craved. You placed the script on the nightstand and sat up straighter, facing him.

“Yeah, I know. You’ve made it abundantly clear that I’m living in your place. So, technically, this is still your room. Want to sleep here tonight?” You threw out the jest, trying to shift the tension, but it landed wrong.

Mingyu’s jaw tightened, and he took another step forward, eyes blazing. “You kissed me and now you’re asking if I want to sleep with you? Is that how cheap you are, Y/N?” His voice was harsh, each word slicing through the space between you.

The accusation stung. It was as if the air had been sucked out of the room. “You think I kissed you for that?” Your tone cracked, disbelief laced with hurt.

“You kissed me in front of everyone and caused a scandal! You really thought that would help my plan?” His voice rose, frustration spilling over like an overflowing dam.

You met his glare, eyes narrowed. “The plan was to make Hyorin jealous, to make her want you back. Didn’t it work?” Your voice was low, trembling with controlled rage.

Mingyu ran a hand through his hair, exasperation etched across his face. “Making her jealous and actually getting her back are two different things, Y/N! Your impulsive stunt just pushed her further away. It showed her that I’m willing to move on. That wasn’t supposed to happen.”

Your chest ached as you watched him unravel. “And whose fault is that?” you shot back. “You practically shouted to the world that you didn’t kiss me back. Right in front of her, in front of everyone. That’s how stupid you are, Kim Mingyu!”

For a moment, silence fell, crackling with unresolved tension. Mingyu’s eyes widened in disbelief, as if he hadn’t expected you to fight back. His anger morphed into something deeper, something unreadable.

Suddenly, he reached out and grabbed your arm, pulling you to your feet so swiftly that the room spun. You gasped as he leaned in, his breath warm against your skin.

“So I’m stupid because I didn’t kiss you back?” he whispered, the proximity making your pulse race. Before you could respond, his fingers found the nape of your neck, and he closed the distance between you. His lips crashed into yours with an urgency that stunned you.

Your mind screamed at you to resist, but the battle was fleeting. He was too strong, or maybe, you were too willing. Maybe it was because deep down, this was what you had wished for when you kissed him earlier—this reckless, unrestrained moment. Your hands found their way to his chest, and you felt yourself giving in, kissing him back with the same intensity.

The kiss became a desperate clash, more a battle than an embrace. Mingyu's hands gripped your waist with an intensity that left you breathless, fingers digging into your skin as if trying to mark you, claim you. You gasped when he pulled back, his eyes dark with something raw and unapologetic, searching your face for any hesitation.

The only answer you gave was a tug at his shirt, buttons flying in reckless abandon as you exposed the heat of his chest. He smirked, a hint of danger playing at the corner of his lips, before he pushed you back onto the mattress, following you down with a deliberate slowness that made your heart race. His body pressed into yours, all hard planes and coiled tension, a silent reminder of the power he wielded.

“Mingyu,” you breathed, the sound half plea, half challenge. He caught the way your voice faltered, and his smirk widened, leaning down to brush his mouth just below your jaw, trailing fire wherever he touched. Your hands found their way into his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan, the sound vibrating against your skin and igniting a reckless thrill.

He hovered over you, his eyes boring into yours, the heat between you searing. “Tell me to stop.” he rasped, a taunt that made your pulse quicken. Before you could answer, his lips claimed yours again, hard and consuming, leaving no room for second thoughts.

Clothes slipped away in a flurry of heated motions, the cool air biting at your exposed skin for only a moment before he was there, pressing into you, suffocating and electrifying all at once. The room was filled with sharp breaths and quiet gasps as he explored, each touch setting off a chain reaction you couldn’t control.

Every move was a silent challenge, a push and pull of dominance and surrender. His teeth grazed your collarbone, earning a shiver that he answered with a dark chuckle, fingers tracing paths that left you arching into him. Your nails raked down his back, pulling a hiss from him that made something dark and thrilling coil in your chest.

The space between you became suffocating, bodies moving together in a rhythm that left no room for tenderness, only hunger. Every gasp, every whispered name, was laced with defiance and something deeper, something both of you refused to name.

"The contract..." you muttered, the reality of the situation cutting through the haze that still clung to your mind. The gravity of what just happened settled between you like an uninvited guest.

Mingyu's expression shifted, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face before he sat up, running a hand through his disheveled hair. He scoffed, the sound low and bitter. "Fuck, my lawyer doesn’t need to know about this," he said, half to himself and half to you, the implication hanging heavy in the air.

*

"So, did you sleep together?"

Jeonghan’s sharp question made you choke on the sip of tea his secretary had brought in moments earlier. You managed not to spill any as you placed the delicate cup back on the table, eyes locking with Jeonghan's. He was grinning, eyes sharp and teasing as they assessed your reaction.

"No..." he continued before you could answer, a smirk tugging at his lips. "I mean, I heard you moved in." He restated, though the pointed look in his eyes suggested he already suspected the truth.

"It was a business contract, Jeonghan," you responded evenly, though the words felt flimsy in the air. Jeonghan, who insisted you call him by his first name as though he wanted no reminder of his father’s legacy, hummed, tilting his head as if inviting you to elaborate.

"A three-month contract to get Hyorin back," you said, your voice steadying. "You probably already know this, but he wanted me to play the role of his fake girlfriend." At the end of your words, Jeonghan let out a dry chuckle, the sound mirthless.

"I can't believe he's that childish," he muttered. His gaze shifted, scrutinizing your face as if trying to read between the lines. "And what did you get out of this little arrangement?" he pressed.

You hesitated before muttering, "He paid my debt... 35 billion won."

Jeonghan’s eyes widened briefly before he masked his surprise. "That's a lot of money for three months," he said, watching you nod in agreement. "That’s life-changing."

"I plan to give it back when the contract ends," you admitted, almost shyly.

Jeonghan's brow lifted in disbelief, as though you’d just declared you were planning to burn the money. "Don't give it back. Keep it," he said, leaning forward with sudden intensity. "At least take that much from him after everything."

You let out a small, hollow laugh. "I helped him because he's my friend," you said, your voice tinged with a bitter edge. "And, as I told you yesterday... for his parents. I’ll work hard and pay my own debts."

Jeonghan went quiet, his eyes narrowed in contemplation, taking in every word as if filing them away.

"May I know what kind of situation landed you with that much debt?" he finally asked.

You bit your lip, the weight of the past pressing down like a heavy cloak. It was complicated, a story rooted in tragedy. "It wasn’t originally my debt; it was my father’s," you began, your voice tight. "He owned a production house and partnered with a young director, Lee Beomjae. The project was ambitious, with a promise of 100 billion won. Beomjae even invested his own money, but then... everything collapsed. The company went bankrupt when my father died in a car accident, and my mother... she couldn’t bear it and took her own life. The business fell apart, and no one wanted to pick up the pieces. That left me with 35 billion won I couldn't escape."

The silence that followed was heavy, suffocating. You took another sip of tea, anything to break the tension that stretched between you and Jeonghan.

He leaned back in his chair, eyes studying you with newfound understanding. "Here’s what I think, Y/n," he said, voice soft but unwavering. "Mingyu wanted you to be his contract girlfriend, paid you a fortune, and you signed up for it. Yet, you didn’t take the money. I don’t know any friend who’d go to those lengths for someone."

He paused, his eyes narrowing as a knowing smirk spread across his lips.

"Unless..."

"You have feelings for him."

*

You were certain you didn't have any feelings for Mingyu. That much you knew. But whatever had happened between you and Jeonghan earlier in the office was beyond your control. The way his presence felt so imposing, so suffocating—it was like being caught in a storm you never saw coming. Jeonghan was a menace. You could tell just from the way his eyes glinted with malicious amusement, always reveling in the discomfort or pain of others. And that included his friend, Mingyu.

"Okay, let's say you don’t have feelings for him." Jeonghan's voice cut through the tension, a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips as if he'd already dismissed your objections.

Without warning, he pulled out his phone and dialed a number. His thumb slid across the screen, and it lit up with a name that made your stomach drop—Mingyu.

What on earth was Jeonghan up to? Why was he calling Mingyu? Your heart began to pound in your chest as the phone rang, the sound impossibly loud in the stillness of the room.

The line clicked, and Mingyu's familiar voice came through, bright and casual. "Jeonghan... What’s up?"

The friendly tone was jarring to your senses. This was the voice of someone you'd never heard since you threw yourself into this mess with Mingyu. Certainly not the same voice from last night, the one that had been cold and cutting. The same man who, earlier that morning, had made his feelings crystal clear.

“I would never kiss you like I like you, Y/N. You’re a cheap woman. And even if you were the only woman in this world, I still wouldn’t kiss you like I liked you. You understand?”

The words echoed in your mind as if they were still fresh, still raw. The anger, the frustration—it didn’t hurt as much anymore. It was just a painful truth you had come to terms with: he had turned into a bastard. And that realization, as much as you tried to deny it, was freeing.

Jeonghan, however, seemed to savor every moment. He leaned back in his chair, his eyes dancing with mischief as he spoke into the phone.

“I’m with your girlfriend now,” he chirped, his voice dripping with amusement. He glanced over at you, his gaze mischievous. "I invited her over, and she came. She’s a beautiful woman."

There was a long, tense pause on the other side. No immediate reaction. You weren’t expecting one. There was no way Mingyu would get upset that you were here with Jeonghan. He had no reason to. His obsession with his ex, Hyorin, was enough to blind him to everything else.

Jeonghan’s eyes met yours again, but now there was something almost predatory in them as he leaned in closer. “I feel like I don’t deserve his money…” you had told him earlier, confessing a doubt you had never voiced before. And Jeonghan, with his wicked grin, had been quick to respond.

“I’ll help you feel like you deserve it, Y/N,” he’d promised, the words laced with an implication you were too afraid to fully understand.

The phone call continued, Jeonghan now speaking directly to you. “What do you think of my office, darling?” His voice was low, too casual. "How about that... table? Do you like my table?"

You were growing more confused by the second. What the hell was he trying to imply with these questions? Was it a game to him? Did it even matter?

But it was the next question that threw everything into chaos, sending a rush of heat to your face and tightening your chest.

“What do you think about Mingyu?” Jeonghan’s voice was calm but probing. "Do you like being his girlfriend?"

The silence from Mingyu on the other end only made everything worse. You could feel him listening, silently absorbing everything Jeonghan was about to say. The pressure was unbearable, and you found yourself biting down hard on your lip, trying to suppress the tension building inside you. You didn’t want to answer, didn’t know how to.

But you saw the glint in Jeonghan’s eyes. It was playful—too playful—and you knew that once that look took hold, there was no turning back.

“And how about being mine?” Jeonghan’s voice was a low, smooth whisper, the words hanging in the air like a threat, a challenge.

You froze, your breath catching in your throat. Mingyu still hadn’t said anything. The silence between the three of you was suffocating, thick with unspoken implications. You could almost hear Jeonghan’s smirk widening, could almost feel the weight of his words pressing down on you, daring you to react.

*

Mingyu pounded into you with an urgency that felt primal, as if his very existence depended on it. Just an hour earlier, he had stormed into the house, eyes dark with something you couldn’t quite name—desperation, jealousy, rage. You'd barely finished toweling off from your shower when he burst through the door, demanding to know why you had been with Jeonghan.

“I was with Hyorin when you called,” you said, the confusion in your voice palpable.

His jaw clenched at the mention of Hyorin. So it wasn’t just Jeonghan's presence that set him off, but the fact that he was with Hyorin?

The realization simmered between you like a storm on the verge of breaking. But then, without another word, Mingyu had closed the distance, capturing your lips in a kiss that silenced your questions and pulled your body flush against his. It was as if Hyorin had never stood between you, as if she didn’t matter at all. The intensity in his eyes told you everything: he was lost, consumed, and somewhere beneath that, afraid.

Why, then, did he hold you as if the world might end in two months?

Was Hyorin really the cause of this frantic need?

Or was there more that he hadn’t told you?

Mingyu gripped your waist and lifted you onto the dining table, the hard edge pressing into your thighs. The table Jeonghan had mentioned in passing just today, in a tone laced with mischief.

Was this what Mingyu had been stewing over? The idea of Jeonghan touching you in his office?

“You’re mine the moment you signed that contract,” he growled, the heat of his breath grazing your ear as he buried himself inside you with an urgent, unrelenting rhythm.

His hands moved up to cup your breasts, fingers curling possessively around them as his voice dropped, husky and rough. “Gotta make my 35 billion worth it, right?"

*

The next morning, you woke up in Mingyu's arms, the remnants of the night clinging to your skin like a whispered secret. The blaring sound of your alarm shattered the silence, signaling the beginning of a day that promised exhaustion and long hours on set in another city. You shifted slightly, feeling the ache from the bruises on your body.

“Did I do that?” Mingyu’s voice, unexpectedly soft, cut through the tension hanging in the room. His eyes were wide with concern as they traced the discolored marks along your skin.

You turned your head to meet his gaze, surprised to see him fully awake, studying you with an expression you hadn’t seen in a while. He was too caught up in his own world to notice these things — too focused on himself last night. You almost wanted to tell him that they weren’t his doing, that it was Beomjae’s cruelty imprinted on you, but you knew better. Mingyu wouldn’t care. Or would he?

“No, it’s not you,” you whispered, the lie slipping out as easily as breathing.

Mingyu sat up, the sheets pooling around his waist, and reached out to touch the edge of a bruise that crept up your shoulder. “Who did this to you?” His voice was strained, eyes darkening. “Isn’t it painful? Do you need to go to the hospital?”

You looked at him for a long moment, searching for a hint of sincerity behind his sudden worry. He looked almost unrecognizable, stripped of his usual indifference, as though the man you once knew was peeking through. A weary sigh left your lips as you pushed yourself up and wrapped a robe around your sore body.

“It’s none of your business, Mingyu,” you said with a practiced coldness, shielding yourself from whatever softness he was trying to show.

“It is my business. You’re my girlfriend,” he protested, his tone almost petulant, as if he truly believed his own words.

A bitter chuckle escaped you. “Are you even listening to yourself, Kim Mingyu?” The disbelief in your voice echoed through the room as you moved to the vanity, tying your hair with mechanical precision. In the mirror, you caught a glimpse of his confusion, brows furrowed and eyes clouded with something unreadable.

“Just stick to being yourself,” you added, the edge in your tone slicing through any pretense of warmth. Before he could respond, you turned away and began preparing for the long day ahead, leaving whatever half-formed thoughts he had unspoken.

You arrived at the shooting location on time, weaving through bustling crew members as they prepped for the day. Greeting everyone with polite nods and smiles, you slid seamlessly into your work. Without the support of a label or company, there was no manager trailing behind you. Every break was spent alone, sitting in your old, worn-out car, waiting for the next call.

“Everyone knows they cast her just because she’s Kim Mingyu’s girlfriend.” The whispers were never far, a constant background noise you had learned to ignore.

You pushed through the two or three scenes you had, monitoring them closely on playback to ensure your performance held up. It was in places like this where you soaked up everything you could, learning and growing, despite the limitations of playing minor roles. The space for growth was narrow, but you squeezed through whatever cracks you found.

“Hey, I’m Boo Seungkwan.” The voice was friendly, and when you looked up, the assistant director stood before you with an open, sincere expression.

You stood and bowed politely. “I’m Ji Y/N. Please take care of me.”,

Boo Seungkwan was a familiar presence on set, a talented and respected assistant director who had built a strong reputation despite his young age. You knew he wouldn’t approach you without reason, which made your heart race with a mix of anticipation and dread.

“Are you the daughter of Ji Jinkyung?” The question hit you like a cold wave.

Your breath caught for a moment. How did he know? You had spent years avoiding this truth, never mentioning your father’s name to anyone. The rise and fall of Ji Jinkyung had been a scandal splashed across headlines when JiPH declared bankruptcy, a tragedy soon followed by your mother’s death. You weren’t ashamed of your past; you were haunted by the guilt of the lives that crumbled alongside your family’s fall.

Seungkwan’s eyes softened with a mix of curiosity and sympathy. “I remember seeing you on set with him every weekend,” he said, nostalgia lacing his voice. “And I saw ‘Morning Mourn.’ You were incredible in that film.”

The memory stung, but you masked it with a practiced smile. “Thank you,” you whispered.

Driving home, Seungkwan’s words lingered like a dark cloud. If Lee Beomjae was spreading the truth about your identity, the ripple effect could be devastating. If the rumor reached the media, the production team could drop you without hesitation. Seungkwan’s heads-up was a lifeline, a warning to prepare yourself.

You parked outside and dialed Beomjae’s number, the cold metal of your phone pressed against your ear as the night air seeped into your bones. You had to confront him, to make sure he understood that spreading rumors would ruin everything—whatever thin strand of normalcy you were clinging to while trying to repay the impossible debt he held over you. You felt foolish, lost in the labyrinth of his manipulation. Was the debt even real? Or was it just another tool he used to torture you, to remind you of your powerlessness?

The vibration of an incoming message pulled you from your thoughts.

“Come to my parents’ house. There’s something they want to discuss with you.”

Mingyu’s text sat on your screen, an unexpected summons that left you staring, uncertain of what awaited you on the other side.

*

“I don’t remember raising you like this.” Mingyu’s father stormed out of the room, leaving behind an icy silence that wrapped around his wife, their son, and the woman who had walked out on Mingyu at the altar just two months ago. Mingyu released a heavy sigh as he sank deeper into the couch, feeling the weight of the room pressing down on him. Next to him, Hyorin sat with her head bowed, looking as fragile as porcelain, having come to his parents earlier to plead for their acceptance—an act that had summoned Mingyu here in a rush.

“Your father’s right, Mingyu. You’re crossing a line,” his mother said, her voice taut with disappointment. “When we heard you had a girlfriend, we assumed it would be someone we didn’t know. But imagine our shock when we found out it was Y/N. She’s like a daughter to us, Mingyu.”

Hyorin’s confession had unraveled everything. She had exposed Mingyu’s plan to win her back, even spilling the details to his parents. Mingyu had thought he could play for time—hold Hyorin off just long enough to make his next move. He hadn’t expected her to take matters into her own hands and throw everything into chaos.

“She agreed to it, Mother,” Mingyu defended, his voice low and strained. “She needs money—a lot of it. And she’s not the same Y/N you remember. She’s changed.”

His mother scoffed at his justification, a sound filled with disbelief and disdain. “Listen to yourself, Mingyu. Do you even hear how ridiculous you sound?” She stood up abruptly, the soft rustle of her skirt filling the silence as she followed her husband out of the room.

Mingyu’s heart sank deeper into his chest. The finality of his mother’s parting words echoed back at him as she turned at the doorway, her gaze steely and resolute. “This conversation isn’t over. I will speak to Y/N myself.”

Mingyu slumped back against the couch, the tension in his shoulders not easing even a bit. He glanced at his phone. The text he’d sent you over an hour ago remained unanswered, and now your silence gnawed at him with fresh urgency.

“I’m sorry,” Hyorin whispered, her hands trembling as she covered her face. Tears threatened to spill, and she struggled to hold them back. “I didn’t mean for it to get this big. I was desperate.”

Mingyu’s eyes softened, a sigh slipping past his lips. “No need to apologize, Hyorin. It’s done.”

“I promise I’ll do better,” she said, her voice breaking. “But please, stop this, Mingyu. Let’s go back to how things were. Let her go and come back to me.”

Mingyu drove home with a storm of thoughts churning in his mind. Frustration clenched his jaw tight, fueling his anger. You hadn't shown up when he needed you, and the disappointment gnawed at him. His parents refused to have a conversation without you; they cherished you, even after all these years apart. And Mingyu despised you for that. You were always the one they looked at with warmth, while he stood in the shadow of their expectations.

As he pushed open the door to the apartment, prepared to unleash another round of arguments with you, a familiar ritual that often ended with the two of you waking up next to each other in uneasy silence the next morning, he froze. His anger drained as he took in the sight before him. You were lying on the couch, eyes closed, face bruised and lips swollen.

“Who did this to you?” Mingyu’s voice cracked with urgency, his earlier frustration transforming into a different kind of rage. He crossed the room in three quick strides and cupped your face, startling you awake with his touch. The worry in his eyes felt foreign, almost out of place, but it was there, unmistakable.

You blinked at him, dazed and confused, mumbling something he couldn’t quite catch. But Mingyu wasn’t listening. His eyes traced the darkening bruise on your cheekbone and the split in your lip, and an irrational fury bubbled up inside him. The idea that someone had hurt you like this made his blood run hot.

“Tell me who did this to you,” he pressed, his tone leaving no room for evasion. His fingers gripped your jaw just tight enough to draw your gaze, his own eyes blazing. He didn’t know what he would do once he had a name, but he was too far gone in his anger to care.

“I fell during shooting and hurt myself,” you whispered, eyes darting away from his.

Mingyu’s shoulders slumped slightly as he exhaled, the tension simmering down just enough for him to think. Without a word, he stood and retrieved the first aid kit and a bowl of ice cubes, kneeling beside you and insisting on tending to your injuries.

“How was the meeting?” you asked, breaking the heavy silence as he dabbed an antiseptic on your lip with more gentleness than you expected.

“Is that really important right now?” he scoffed, pressing the cloth to your bruised cheek. “We need to go to the hospital.”

You shook your head, a stubborn glint in your eyes. “It’ll heal.”

Mingyu’s movements faltered when you added, “I heard Hyorin was there. Did you get back together?”

He stiffened, setting the ice aside as his eyes met yours. “How do you know?” His tone was sharp, a thread of suspicion woven through it. “Were you there?”

You nodded, wincing as the motion pulled at your sore skin. “I came by for a bit. The maid mentioned Hyorin was inside, so I stayed back. I waited for over an hour, but I realized it would take longer, so I left.”

Mingyu’s frustration returned, tinged with a different emotion this time. “With your face looking like this? Are you always this stupid, Y/N?” His voice cracked, half-worried, half-angry.

You flinched but kept your gaze steady. “So, did you take her back?”

Mingyu ran a hand through his hair, the action filled with exasperation. “Is that what matters right now? You’re hurt, Y/N. I didn’t even know until I walked in the door.”

A confused look crossed your face as you whispered, “But that’s why we’re doing all of this, Mingyu. We need Hyorin back, for your sake.”

Mingyu stared at you, the weight of your words sinking in and tying knots in his chest. Your face was a mess of bruises, but there you sat, so focused on his plan, on helping him, as if your own pain didn't matter at all. The guilt gnawed at him, tearing apart the flimsy walls he’d built around himself.

Maybe what Mingyu feel about you lately is just a guilt. He just... pity you, that's it.

*

One month left before you’d be officially disboyfriended Mingyu. The term you coined mocked you with its bitter humor as you called Jeonghan, settling into the driver’s seat of your car. The air around you was heavy after your meeting with Hyorin. She had been surprisingly composed, delivering her message with a practiced smile: Mingyu and she were getting back together. Mingyu had even promised to escort her to the Jeon annual event this weekend, a public confirmation of their rekindled relationship.

You gritted your teeth, the irony not lost on you—did Hyorin know that for the past month, Mingyu had been tangled up with you, both in mind and body? The betrayal tasted metallic on your tongue.

Jeonghan picked up on the third ring. “So, what’s up?” His casual tone brought a semblance of calm to your frayed nerves.

You took a deep breath, steadying yourself for what you were about to commit to. “I’m in,” you said, voice low but firm.

There was a pause before Jeonghan chuckled, the sound both amused and intrigued. “What are you implying?” His voice took on a more serious edge, probing for clarity.

“I’ll take your offer,” you clarified, the weight of the words sinking in. “The offer to make me feel like I deserve his money.”

Jeonghan’s laughter came through, rich and approving. “That’s my girl,” he said with a hint of pride. “Alright, listen. Here’s the plan: meet me at my store in Gangnam after lunch.”

A few hours later, you stood under the warm glow of boutique lights as Jeonghan’s keen eyes assessed you. The racks around you were adorned with high-end pieces—silk, satin, tailored elegance. He moved from one option to another, fingers sliding over fabrics, before selecting a few and holding them up against your frame.

“Change into this,” he said, gesturing to a piece that was an explosion of jewel-toned fabric. You nodded and disappeared behind the velvet curtain of the fitting room. The process repeated: outfits changed, critiques delivered. A disapproving headshake here, a muttered comment there—“Not good enough,” he’d say, or a more frustrated, “We need an emergency meeting with the designers. Yoonique has to fit everyone.”

Then, you stepped out in the last dress. Jeonghan’s eyes lit up, and he gasped, genuinely taken aback. The black satin dress hugged your body like a secret, long-sleeved and sleek, with an open back that hinted at danger and a neckline that dipped tastefully. A slit ran high on your thigh, exposing just enough skin to catch anyone’s attention. It was bold yet elegant—perfect.

“That’s it,” he said, satisfaction curling his lips into a smirk. “It’s yours.” He stood and circled you slowly, eyeing the bruises that marred the expanse of your back. His smirk faded, replaced by a frown. “We’ll need to cover these. Is this from Beomjae?” he asked, his voice tight with concern.

You nodded, catching the muttered “that bastard” that escaped him. Jeonghan’s eyes met yours, a silent promise lingering there: no more bruises, not after today.

On the day of the Jeon annual event, you arrived with Jeonghan, knowing full well the storm of media attention it would draw. 'Mingyu's girlfriend seen with Jeonghan, while Mingyu arrives with the ex-fiancée who left him at the altar.' The headline alone promised chaos and scandal.

Jeonghan had made you two promises. First, he would help you with Beomjae. His legal team was already working on investigating the debt that bound you to that abusive man, ensuring you wouldn't owe a penny and that Beomjae would face justice for what he had done. Second, he would help you reclaim yourself—to feel whole and worthy, with or without Mingyu in the picture.

“Tell me, since when?” Jeonghan’s question came out of nowhere as the two of you drove back from his store that day. The question made your heart stutter.

“Since when what?” you asked, eyebrows knitting together in confusion.

Jeonghan scoffed lightly, his eyes flickering with a knowing glint. “Since when did you start liking Mingyu?”

The silence stretched, and you searched your memory, trying to pinpoint the moment. Since when? Had you even realized you still liked him? Or was it a relic of the childhood crush you’d once harbored? Memories trickled in: Mingyu as the boy who would lose every game with his friends but somehow always win when he played with you—because you let him. That’s what you remembered most clearly. The rest blurred into moments that felt as if they had always existed.

In high school, things shifted. Conversations became sparse, reserved for those rare moments when home felt stifling, and you’d climb into each other’s bedroom windows just to share the silence. Then, without warning, he had to leave. Distance stretched across miles and years, and life pushed you apart. Your father’s passing forced you to sell your phone, cutting off all contact. What once felt close turned distant, and the feelings that remained had never been addressed.

You exhaled shakily, unable to meet Jeonghan’s gaze. “I...I don’t know,” you admitted. Shame colored your voice—shame that after everything, after being discarded and treated like an afterthought, you still cared for him.

Jeonghan’s arm encircled your waist as the two of you stepped into the grand ballroom, the low hum of whispers swelling as eyes followed your entrance. The whispers said everything you were thinking. Why was Mingyu’s girlfriend with Jeonghan when Mingyu had walked in with Hyorin? The question echoed in your mind too.

Jeonghan, ever composed, treated you like royalty throughout the event. His voice dipped to a conspiratorial whisper as he leaned in. “Just follow my lead,” he instructed. If anyone knew how to navigate this social minefield, it was him.

But when you excused yourself to go to the restroom, a hand shot out from the shadows of the corridor, pulling you into a quiet corner. Your back hit the wall, and you were met with Mingyu’s fierce gaze, a tempest swirling in his eyes.

“Why are you here with Jeonghan? He’s my friend,” Mingyu hissed, voice laced with anger barely contained.

You lifted your chin, meeting his glare head-on. “Am I not allowed to be here? Is it because of my status?” The pointed question carried the sting of Hyorin’s earlier remark: ‘You’re not on Mingyu’s level, Y/N.’

Mingyu’s brows pulled together in frustration. “What? That’s not what I meant! I’m asking why you’re with Jeonghan.” His voice strained as he pressed you lightly against the wall.

You took a steadying breath, finding a surge of confidence within yourself. “Because you didn’t invite me. Jeonghan did."

“Everyone knows you’re my girlfriend!” His voice cracked, the desperation seeping through.

You scoffed, your eyes narrowing. “But you showed up with your ex, so tell me, Mingyu, what’s the difference?”

He faltered, searching for words. “I didn’t come with her. We just met here!”

“Does it even matter?” Your voice dropped, quiet and weary. The fight in you waned as reality set in.

Mingyu’s eyes blazed with anger as your words echoed between you. He took a sharp breath, fists clenching at his sides. “What’s gotten into you? Are you even hearing yourself? We’re still in contract!” he reminded you, his tone harsh and commanding.

“So what? We already broke the contract the moment you put your hands on me, Mingyu,” you shot back, holding your ground. “There’s nothing in the agreement saying other men can’t do the same.”

His eyes narrowed, and his jaw tightened as he stepped closer, the space between you suffocating. “Did you sleep with Jeonghan?” The question came out as a growl, possessive and edged with jealousy.

You tilted your chin defiantly. “It’s not your business, Mingyu. I can do whatever I want.”

“No,” he said, voice low but brimming with fury. “You’re my girlfriend. I paid you to be my girlfriend, and you should listen to me. We’re going home.”

The statement cut through you, reminding you of the transactional nature of what was supposed to be a façade. It was true, he’d paid you to play this role, but somewhere along the way, the lines had blurred. Your heart thudded in your chest as you wondered what awaited you once you returned to his house. The memory of last night lingered—how your bodies had moved in sync, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

But tonight, the air was different, thick with tension and unspoken truths. You swallowed hard, worrying if there were still any condoms left in his house, remembering using the last one in a moment of impulsive passion. Your pulse quickened at the thought of what this confrontation could mean, unsure whether it would spiral into a battle or ignite something deeper.

*

Hyorin had asked you that one time, "Are you two sleeping together in our room?" Her question was layered with implications. Was she trying to confirm if you and Mingyu had crossed that line? Or was she mocking you by emphasizing our room, as if to remind you that she once had ownership over that space, even after she left him on the altar? Your mind raced with anger and confusion. The only thing you wanted to do as you sat across from her was to slap that smug smile off her face. How dare she come back after everything she'd done?

“Why?” The word slipped out of your mouth before you could stop it.

Hyorin’s smile widened, cruel and taunting. “Well, he doesn’t like anyone else in his bed, so I was wondering if you sleep there, in our room. I mean, the master bedroom. I’m sorry…” Her tone dripped with insincerity, and you knew she wasn’t sorry at all.

The memory stung as you woke up before dawn. You were back in your own room, while Mingyu lay sleeping beside you. The events of last night still echoed in your mind. After he dragged you out of the event, you had dared to ask him, almost pleading, if the two of you could sleep in his room instead.

“No. I don’t like when someone else enters my room,” he had said, his voice cold and detached.

“But you said I’m your girlfriend,” you had whispered, trying to understand where you truly stood.

Mingyu’s gaze darkened. “You’re just a girlfriend I paid for. Don’t ask for more.”

The words cut through you like a blade. You sighed and gently pulled yourself from his embrace, a hollowness settling deep inside. It was time. You couldn’t ignore the truth anymore.

He had Hyorin back. The proof sat on the nightstand—his check for 35 billion won, neatly tucked under his phone. Your job was done. Everything you had endured, every humiliation and compromise, had led to this. And it wasn’t enough to let you into his real space, his heart. You knew then that Jeonghan was right; staying by Mingyu’s side would only continue to break you.

You packed your essentials silently, fighting the lump in your throat, and slipped out of the house before the sun rose. You drove aimlessly, just needing to be far away. Your apartment wasn’t safe with Beomjae still lurking; Jeonghan had warned you that it might take two more months to gather enough evidence to protect you in court. He urged patience, but today you had none left.

All this time, every sacrifice you made for Mingyu, every part of yourself you gave, it was never enough for him to let you into his true sanctuary. It was time to go, time to leave behind the pain and reclaim whatever was left of yourself.

Mingyu woke up to an emptiness that gnawed at him immediately. He reached out instinctively, expecting to feel your warmth beside him, but his hand met only cold sheets. He sat up, confusion creasing his brow as he glanced around the room. The stillness was unsettling, the house too quiet.

“Y/n?” he called out, his voice breaking the silence. He listened, hoping for the sound of your voice or even the light shuffle of your footsteps. Nothing. A wave of irritation surged through him as he threw back the covers and stood up, the cool floor beneath his feet doing nothing to temper his rising anger.

He strode through the house, checking the kitchen, the living room, even the guest room. Empty. The frustration that had simmered inside him since the event now boiled over. Why would you leave without saying anything?

As he stormed back into yout room, something on the nightstand caught his eye. The check he had written for you sat there, staring back at him like an accusation. His eyes narrowed, and his jaw tightened. The sight of it made his blood run cold and hot all at once.

It was the final insult. You hadn’t just left—you had left him with the one thing that symbolized the transactional nature of your relationship, the thing that once gave him control but now mocked him with your absence. He clenched his fist so hard his knuckles turned white. The implications of you leaving the check behind sent a spike of panic through him, laced with anger. You were rejecting everything: the arrangement, the money, him.

“Damn it, Y/n!” he roared, sweeping his arm across the nightstand. The check, his phone, and a glass of water crashed to the floor. The sound of shattering glass echoed in the room, mirroring the turmoil inside him.

He paced back and forth, running a hand through his disheveled hair. The idea of you walking out without a word gnawed at him. You had always been the one constant in his chaotic life, the one person who, despite everything, was there. Now, the emptiness felt sharper than ever, and he realized too late how deep your absence cut.

Mingyu grabbed his phone from the floor, ignoring the cracked screen as he tried to call you. The call rang once, twice, and then went straight to voicemail. Frustration clawed at him as he dialed again, the unanswered call only fueling his desperation.

“Pick up, damn it,” he muttered under his breath. The third call met the same fate, and it was then that a sinking feeling set in. This wasn’t just you leaving for a break. This was different.

He stared at the check on the floor, now crumpled and stained with water. The reality of your departure settled heavily on his chest. You were gone, and for the first time, he felt the weight of what it meant to be truly alone.

*

Mingyu stormed into Jeonghan's office first thing in the morning, his eyes dark with urgency and frustration. Jeonghan, who had been informed of his sudden arrival, greeted him with a polite smile that quickly faded at the sight of Mingyu’s tense expression.

"Where’s Y/n?" Mingyu demanded, his voice sharp and accusing. Jeonghan’s smile faltered as confusion clouded his features. What did he mean?

"She’s gone, Jeonghan. And you were with her last night," Mingyu continued, his tone carrying a hint of accusation, referencing the moment you arrived at the event on Jeonghan’s arm.

Jeonghan’s brows knitted together, a flash of realization and disbelief crossing his face. "No," he said firmly, shaking his head. "You were the one who took her home. You dragged her out of the event, remember?"

Mingyu’s expression darkened, and he muttered a curse under his breath. "Shit."

Jeonghan leaned back in his chair, studying the man in front of him. "What’s going on, Mingyu?" he pressed, his voice steady but probing. The room felt heavy with the weight of what was left unsaid.

Mingyu bit his lip, his eyes darting around as if searching for the right words. "It’s... complicated," he finally mumbled, his shoulders tense.

Jeonghan tilted his head, his gaze sharpening. "What could possibly be too complicated for me to understand? The contract? The debt? Spill it."

Mingyu’s eyes widened slightly. He knew? Did you tell Jeonghan everything? After a moment’s hesitation, Mingyu nodded, acknowledging Jeonghan’s knowledge. His mind raced as he tried to piece together what you might have shared.

"I wrote her a check for 35 billion won. She was in debt, so I helped her, and in return, she helped me with... well, everything. But now she’s gone," Mingyu’s voice cracked as he threw his hands up in exasperation, his frustration palpable.

Jeonghan was silent for a moment, his gaze unreadable. Then, with a deep sigh, he said, "She didn’t take the money."

Mingyu’s heart skipped a beat, disbelief flickering across his face. Did you tell Jeonghan that as well? The thought of you leaving behind the money he had given you felt like a slap in the face.

"If she’s gone, she’s really gone, Mingyu," Jeonghan said quietly, a hint of empathy coloring his tone. "You have Hyorin back, don’t you?"

Mingyu’s eyes flashed with something close to desperation. He ran a hand through his hair, disheveling it further. "This isn’t about Hyorin," he said, almost growling the words.

Jeonghan nodded slowly, a knowing look settling on his face. "I know. You're confused right now, I can tell. But maybe you need to ask yourself why it’s not about Hyorin anymore."

Mingyu paced back and forth in Jeonghan’s office, his mind racing with thoughts that tangled and frayed like a rope under too much pressure. Every moment that passed without you felt like sand slipping through an hourglass, a reminder of how close he was to losing you for good.

“Jeonghan, tell me where she went,” Mingyu’s voice cracked, a rare vulnerability shining through his usually composed demeanor. He wasn’t used to feeling so out of control, and it gnawed at him.

Jeonghan leaned back in his chair, arms folded over his chest, watching him with a look that was part sympathy, part indifference. “Even if I knew, I wouldn’t tell you,” Jeonghan said, his tone as calm as ever. “You need to figure this out for yourself, Mingyu. Chasing her without understanding why she left won’t help either of you.”

Mingyu’s jaw clenched, frustration coursing through him. “I don’t need a lecture, Jeonghan. I need answers,” he snapped, his eyes narrowing. “You said you knew everything, so why won’t you help me?”

Jeonghan sighed and stood up, walking over to the window where sunlight filtered in, casting long, jagged shadows across the room. “Mingyu, you’re looking for her like she’s an answer to a problem. But she’s not an answer—she’s a person who needed more than you were willing to give,” Jeonghan said, turning to face him. “And if you don’t understand that, you won’t find her in any meaningful way.”

Mingyu’s breath quickened as anger and panic warred inside him. He wanted to shout, to lash out, but deep down, he knew Jeonghan was right. You had left, and it wasn’t just because of Hyorin, or the contract, or the money—it was because he hadn’t given you what you truly needed. A place in his life that was more than just obligation or arrangement.

Mingyu paused in the doorway, half-turned back to Jeonghan, who was still watching him with an expression that mingled curiosity and challenge. The silence crackled between them, charged and tense.

“I’m doing this because she’s my friend,” Mingyu finally said, his voice strained as if he was convincing himself as much as Jeonghan. “I love Hyorin. I always have. This isn’t about feelings, it’s about doing the right thing.”

Jeonghan’s eyes narrowed, a wry smile curving his lips. He crossed his arms and leaned back against the window frame. “Your friend?” he echoed, the words laced with skepticism. “Mingyu, if she was just a friend, you wouldn’t be standing here, desperate and wild-eyed because she left. You wouldn’t have risked everything to keep her by your side.”

“I’m not risking anything!” Mingyu’s voice rose, his fists clenching at his sides. “I’m looking for her because she needs help, not because—”

“Not because what?” Jeonghan cut in, raising an eyebrow. “Not because you’re afraid of losing her? Not because seeing her with someone else drove you crazy last night? Tell me, Mingyu, what kind of ‘friend’ does that?”

Mingyu felt the heat creep up his neck, anger and confusion tangling in his chest. He opened his mouth to argue but couldn’t find the words. Every accusation Jeonghan made landed too close to the truth, hitting on a part of him he refused to acknowledge.

“It’s not like that,” Mingyu muttered, though even to his own ears, it sounded hollow. “She’s different. She was there for me when no one else was, and now she’s gone. I owe her, Jeonghan. That’s all.”

Jeonghan stepped forward, his expression softening for a moment. “If you owe her, then give her more than just this frantic search. Be honest with yourself. If she’s just a friend, why did you let her become more? And if she’s more, why are you fighting so hard to deny it?”

Mingyu looked down, the room blurring as his thoughts spiraled. Memories of you, laughter shared in quiet moments, the way your eyes softened when you looked at him—all of it clashed with the image of Hyorin, the woman he once thought he’d spend his life with. The weight of conflicting emotions pressed down on him until he could barely breathe.

He turned away from Jeonghan without another word, storming out of the office, his mind a chaotic mess.

Jeonghan sighed as he pulled out his phone, his fingers tapping impatiently as he called you. It took five rings before you finally picked up.

"Sorry, I had a shoot," you muttered, your voice laced with exhaustion. But that wasn’t the answer Jeonghan was looking for.

"You didn’t take the money. What is wrong with you?" he shot back, frustration sharp in his tone.

There was a pause on your end, the kind of pause that said more than words ever could. Then, a quiet sigh slipped through. "How do you know?"

"Kim Mingyu stormed into my office looking for you," Jeonghan said, his voice growing more clipped. "He’s running around like a madman, and you didn’t take the money! I thought we were clear, Y/n."

But it hadn’t been clear, and Jeonghan knew that. It was never clear when it came to you and Mingyu. Silence lingered on the line, thick and telling.

You thought you’d fallen in love alone.

Jeonghan wanted to scream at you, to tell you that Mingyu loved you back. He wanted to shout that Mingyu’s ego was too big for him to admit it, that Hyorin was a convenient excuse, and that the people around him had only ever clouded his judgment. But Jeonghan wasn’t naive. He knew Mingyu better than that. Deep down, he knew Mingyu cared for you. No, it was more than that — Mingyu wanted you. He just didn’t know how to want you properly.

"It’s complicated," you muttered, the words barely above a breath.

Jeonghan pressed a hand to his forehead, fingers threading through his hair. Since when had he, of all people, failed to understand "complicated"? He'd seen it from the beginning — the way Mingyu's gaze lingered too long on you, the way your eyes softened at the sight of him. He saw it every time Mingyu made an excuse for you to stay. Complicated was an understatement.

"Okay," Jeonghan exhaled heavily, trying to stay calm. "Where are you?"

"Why should I tell you?" you countered, voice laced with weariness and defiance. "I’m just at a shoot. It’s a little far away."

Jeonghan let out a dry scoff. "Don’t play with me, Y/n. I’m not in the mood." His eyes darted to the window, the sunlight blinding but not nearly as irritating as the situation. "I need to make sure Beomjae doesn't get to you. Who’s gonna do that after you left Mingyu, huh?"

There was another pause, and this time it lasted longer. The weight of his words settled into the air, heavy and undeniable.

"Jeju," you finally admitted, voice quieter than before. "I’m in Jeju Island."

Jeonghan closed his eyes, letting the tension drain from his body. His head tilted back as he stared at the ceiling, lips curling into a faint, bitter smile.

"Of course you are," he muttered to himself, glancing out at the sky as if Jeju was close enough to see.

*

It was hard to control everything rationally when your heart had been battered one too many times — and it always seemed to be by the people you cared about most. Your father had left you with a crushing 35-billion-won debt. Your mother had left you behind as if you’d never existed. And now, Mingyu... You couldn’t even put into words what he had done to you, perhaps because he’d never truly been yours to begin with. He was just a friend. A friend who made you his contractual lover. How had it all come to this?

"That’s a wrap for tonight! Thank you so much for your hard work, everyone!" Boo Seungkwan's voice rang out loud and clear on set, cutting through the evening air.

He was the one who had cast you himself — handpicked you to play the lead in his film about a woman struggling with depression, seeking the meaning of life on Jeju Island. He’d told you he saw something in you, something raw and unspoken.

What a cruel twist of fate, you thought. The script no longer felt like a story you were telling. It had become your story. Every scene, every line, every emotion you were asked to portray felt like you were reliving your own pain on screen.

The crew slowly packed up, their tired voices fading as they made their way back to the rented house to rest. But you stayed behind, drawn to the shore like it had called your name. The night air was cool against your skin, and the steady lull of the waves was the only sound accompanying your thoughts.

You sat by the edge of the water, hugging your knees as you gazed at your reflection in the rippling surface. The moonlight softened the contours of your face, but it didn’t soften the hollow look in your eyes. The water moved, shimmering, shifting — it looked like it was calling you. Come closer, it seemed to say.

But you knew better. You knew that chasing that call wouldn’t solve anything. Ending it here wouldn’t leave anyone with peace — it would only leave scars. The kind of scars your mother had left behind when she vanished. She had been forgotten by most people, but for the ones who had loved her, the wounds never quite healed.

Who loves you, though?

The question struck you like a sudden gust of wind. It wasn’t the first time you’d wondered, but tonight, the ache was sharper.

Has anyone ever truly loved you?

Your mind wandered to your first love.

Your first kiss.

Your first everything.

All of them had been with Kim Mingyu.

You blinked, your lips parting to whisper his name, "Kim Mingyu..." The sound of it disappeared into the breeze, unnoticed and unanswered.

It was foolish, you knew. Because at the end of it all, Mingyu didn’t love you. He loved someone else. Wi Hyorin.

Her name alone carried a weight you didn’t want to bear, but it settled on you regardless.

What’s so great about Wi Hyorin? you wondered bitterly, clenching your fists against your knees. Your heart wanted to scoff, but your mind was crueler.

She’s soft-spoken. Calm. Composed. Smart. And from a wealthy, well-respected family.

You let out a bitter laugh, hollow and sharp like glass breaking. Of course, it made sense. She was everything you weren’t.

So what about you?

Your lips pressed into a thin line. No words came to mind. Not a single one. Because what could you offer him? Debt? Baggage? A heart too bruised to believe in love anymore?

Nothing. That’s what.

The ocean breeze brushed past you, cold but oddly comforting, like a quiet reassurance that you were still here. Still alive. Still breathing. The waves rolled in and out, persistent and unyielding, never once doubting their place in the world. You envied them.

For a moment, you closed your eyes, letting the sound of the sea fill the hollow space inside you.

If only love could be as steady as the tide.

"Ji Y/n..."

The familiar voice made you freeze, your heart lurching in your chest. Slowly, you turned toward the source of the call.

Your eyes widened. Kim Mingyu.

He stood there, breathless, still in his office attire, his tie loosened and his hair slightly disheveled. His chest rose and fell with each sharp breath, as if he’d run straight from the city to find you. His gaze locked on yours, his brows drawn together in a deep, urgent frown.

"You—" you stumbled toward him, your mind scrambling for words. "How did you get here? Why are you here?"

He chuckled lightly, a dry, breathless sound. His eyes, however, were far from playful. They were intense, sharp with resolve.

"You really want me to chase you, huh?" His voice was low, almost like a whisper meant only for you.

Before you could even process his words, he moved. His arms wrapped around you, pulling you close, firm but gentle at the same time. His warmth seeped into you, his heartbeat thudding steadily against your ear. For a moment, you couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, caught completely off guard by his sudden embrace.

"Mingyu, what are you—"

"I need you, Y/n." His voice was low, rough, filled with something raw and unfiltered. He leaned his head down, his breath fanning lightly against your hair. His words fell like quiet confessions against your ear, each one carrying more weight than the last. "I need you in my life."

Your breath hitched, your fingers curling into his shirt as if you were afraid he might disappear.

"You’re—" you pulled back slightly, just enough to see his face. His eyes, usually so guarded, were bare now, stripped of all his usual bravado. You saw it there — the honesty, the fear, the vulnerability. The love.

Your heartbeat felt like it stopped entirely when his next words fell from his lips.

"I think I love you, Y/n," he said, his gaze unwavering, his tone steady despite the chaos of emotions swirling between you both.

You blinked, stunned into silence. Your heart thudded painfully in your chest, faster and faster until it felt like it might burst.

"But..." Your voice trembled, barely above a whisper. "What about Hyorin?"

Mingyu’s eyes softened. He let out a slow, measured breath, as if he’d been waiting for that question. His hand cupped the back of your head, his thumb gently tracing small circles against your hair. His forehead leaned against yours, eyes closed, his next words spoken with absolute certainty.

"Not once in the past three months did I think about anyone but you."

The weight of his words crushed every doubt you’d been holding. It wasn’t just something he’d said to convince you — it was the truth, raw and undeniable.

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, your chest tight with the weight of all the unspoken feelings you’d been burying for so long.

"You’re cruel," you whispered, your voice shaky as you tried to hold back your tears. "You’re so, so cruel, Kim Mingyu."

"I know," he murmured, his eyes opening to meet yours, filled with guilt and something that looked too close to regret. "But I’m here now, Y/n. I’m here."

His arms tightened around you, his embrace firm and unyielding, as if he was afraid you’d disappear.

"And I’m not letting you go this time," he said softly, his voice steady but filled with an unshakable resolve.

Your breath came in shallow, uneven waves as you stared into his eyes. The weight of his words pressed down on you, making it hard to think, hard to breathe. Your heart wanted to believe him, but your mind, bruised and battered by everything that had come before, hesitated.

"You say that now," you muttered, your gaze dropping to his chest where your hands rested, still clutching his shirt. "But what happens when it gets hard again, Mingyu? What happens when Hyorin looks at you like you’re her whole world, and you start to doubt this—" You swallowed hard, blinking away the tears threatening to fall. "—start to doubt me?"

He tilted his head, his eyes soft but unwavering. "I won’t."

"How can you be so sure?" Your voice cracked on the last word. "How am I supposed to believe you when it’s always been her? She was your dream, your everything. I was just—" Your voice broke entirely, and you hated how vulnerable you sounded. "I was just convenient."

"Stop," Mingyu said firmly, his voice leaving no room for doubt. He cupped your face with both hands, forcing you to look at him, really look at him. His eyes were darker than usual, filled with something you hadn’t seen before — clarity.

"You were never convenient," he said, his thumbs gently brushing away the tears that slipped down your cheeks. His forehead pressed against yours, his eyes closing as he breathed you in, like you were air after suffocating too long. "You were the only thing that ever made sense."

Your chest tightened, your breath hitching as you fought against the onslaught of emotions threatening to pull you under. "You’re just saying that because I left. People always want what they can’t have."

"No," he replied, his voice low but steady, carrying the weight of everything he’d been too blind to see before. "People always want what they’ve already lost."

Silence hung between you, thick and suffocating. The sound of waves crashing against the shore echoed in the distance, rhythmic and unending, a stark contrast to the storm brewing between you both.

"You didn’t lose me, Mingyu," you whispered, your voice small but certain. "You gave me away."

His face contorted with pain, his brows furrowing as if your words had physically struck him. His hands fell from your face, his head dropping low, his breathing sharp and shallow.

"You’re right," he muttered, his hands curling into fists at his sides. "I did."

You took a step back, needing space to breathe, needing distance before your heart betrayed you again. "So why are you here now, Mingyu? What do you want from me?"

He lifted his head, eyes wild with desperation, his gaze locking onto yours with a ferocity you’d never seen before. He stepped forward, closing the distance you’d tried to create.

"I want you," he said with such raw intensity that it left you breathless. "Not as a friend. Not as an arrangement. I want you because I’m in love with you, Y/n. And it took me losing you to realize it, but I know it now. I know it with every part of me."

Your breath hitched. The waves crashed louder in the distance, or maybe it was the thundering of your heart in your ears. You shook your head, backing away another step, but Mingyu followed.

"You’re just scared," he continued, his eyes never leaving yours. "You’re scared because I hurt you. I get it. I hurt you worse than anyone else ever has, and I’ll regret that for the rest of my life. But I’m here now, and I’m telling you I won’t hurt you again."

"Don’t promise me things you can’t keep, Mingyu," you said, your voice trembling with exhaustion and heartbreak. "I’m so tired of hearing people say they’ll stay, only for them to walk away."

"I’m not walking away," he said, his eyes glinting with determination. His voice didn’t rise, but it carried a conviction so strong that it made you pause. He took one slow, deliberate step forward, his gaze unwavering. "If you tell me to leave, I will. But if you tell me to stay, Y/n, I’ll never leave again. I swear it."

His words hung in the air between you, delicate but unbreakable.

Your breath trembled, your body taut like a wire pulled too tight. "And if you’re lying?"

"I’m not," he answered immediately, his gaze steady and sure. "But if I ever do, you won’t have to leave me, Y/n. I’ll walk away myself, knowing I never deserved you in the first place."

Silence. Long, heavy, unbearable silence.

The waves filled it. The seagulls in the distance filled it. But you didn’t speak.

He stood there, waiting, holding himself still like he was afraid that any sudden movement might scare you away. His chest rose and fell slowly, his breath measured, but his eyes... his eyes didn’t waver once.

"I hate you," you said softly, but your voice cracked in a way that betrayed you.

Mingyu exhaled a small, almost broken laugh. "I know."

"I hate how easy it is for you to say these things now," you continued, your lips trembling, tears brimming once more. "I hate how much I want to believe you."

"Then believe me," he said, stepping closer, his hand reaching out to take yours. He held it gently, like he was holding something fragile and precious. His eyes searched yours, soft but certain. "Believe me, and I’ll spend the rest of my life proving you made the right choice."

You stared at him, his words sinking in, the sincerity of it wrapping around your heart like a thread you couldn’t untangle. It terrified you how much you wanted to believe him.

"Mingyu," you whispered, his name a breath, a plea, a warning all in one.

"I’m here," he replied, his eyes never leaving yours. "I’m right here."

The tears you’d been holding back finally spilled over, and you hated him for that too. Why did he always make you cry? Your fingers gripped his shirt, your forehead pressing against his chest as the weight of everything came crashing down.

"You better not be lying," you mumbled into his shirt, your voice muffled but not lost. "If you are, I’ll never forgive you."

Mingyu’s arms wrapped around you, pulling you in with a tenderness that shattered every wall you’d built. He pressed his lips to the top of your head, lingering there for a moment longer than necessary.

"I’m not lying," he whispered, his voice steady as the waves beyond you both. "I’m never lying to you again."

And for the first time in a long time, you let yourself believe him.

*

"Cut!"

The director’s voice echoed through the set, and the entire crew let out a collective sigh of relief. Mingyu watched from the sidelines, his gaze fixed on you. His lips tugged into a small, proud smile as he saw you beam at everyone, bowing politely and thanking each crew member for their hard work. Your energy was infectious, even after a long day of filming.

"That’s a wrap, everyone!" Boo Seungkwan, the ever-lively director, announced with his trademark enthusiasm.

Mingyu stepped forward, his presence as commanding as ever in his sleek suit. Seungkwan spotted him and grinned, walking over with open arms. They exchanged a firm handshake, the weight of trust and friendship clear in the gesture.

"This movie better be a hit," Mingyu joked, his deep voice laced with playful seriousness.

Seungkwan snorted, rolling his eyes. "With your investment? It better be. I’m not about to ruin my spotless reputation."

"You should be grateful," Mingyu shot back, raising an eyebrow. "I let you use my name and my wife's name for this movie. And I even let her make a cameo appearance." His grin widened with mock arrogance, and Seungkwan waved him off like he’d heard it all before.

"Yes, yes, thank you, Mr. Investor," Seungkwan quipped, tilting his head in a sarcastic bow. "I’ll be sure to write that in the credits — 'With gracious permission from Kim Mingyu, the benevolent.' How’s that sound?"

Mingyu's laugh came from deep in his chest, sharp and rich with amusement. "Don’t forget to add 'world’s most handsome husband' in there too," he added, eyes flicking toward you as you approached.

Seungkwan's gaze followed Mingyu's line of sight, and his face lit up as he noticed you walking toward them. Your smile was bright, your strides light and confident, even as exhaustion clung to the edges of your movements.

"Amazing," Seungkwan muttered under his breath, his grin turning sly as he watched Mingyu’s entire demeanor soften.

“Thank you so much for letting me be part of this movie, Director Boo,” you greeted Seungkwan warmly. Your voice was light, your eyes crinkling with genuine gratitude.

“Trust me, I wish I could’ve had you in more scenes,” Seungkwan replied, shooting a teasing look at Mingyu. “But this man refused to let me put you in for more than two.”

Mingyu, as if on cue, jabbed at Seungkwan’s side, but Seungkwan dodged with the agility of someone who had been friends with Mingyu for far too long.

"Don’t listen to him," you said, letting out a soft, melodic laugh. Your hand rested lightly on Mingyu’s arm, grounding him in a way only you could. "I would’ve been happy with more scenes. Honestly, I would’ve loved to do more if you'd asked."

Seungkwan’s eyes widened with dramatic flair as he whipped around to face Mingyu. "See? See? Your wife doesn’t mind. She’s a professional, unlike some people I know."

Mingyu shook his head, his lips quirking into a grin that didn’t quite hide his possessiveness. "Nope. Absolutely not. I’m the one who minds," he declared, his eyes darting to you like he was staking a claim. "My wife is pregnant, and she needs to rest. No long shoots, no late nights, no unnecessary stress."

You shot him a playful glare, pinching his side just hard enough to make him flinch. “My husband is a bit noisy, isn’t he?” you said, glancing at Seungkwan like you were seeking solidarity.

Seungkwan raised both hands in surrender, his smile wide with amusement. “Don’t look at me. I’m not about to go against Mr. Handsome Husband, World’s Best Protector.” He snickered, his eyes darting between you and Mingyu. "But if it were up to me, you’d be in every scene."

Mingyu pulled you close by the waist, his hand resting protectively on your lower back, his thumb rubbing soft, absentminded circles. He leaned in, his eyes filled with that familiar mix of pride and adoration he could never seem to hide.

“It’s not up to you, Seungkwan,” he muttered, his gaze never leaving you. “We’ll be taking our leave now, Director Boo. My wife needs to rest.”

His words were simple, but the affection in his tone made your cheeks warm. You glanced at him, your eyes softening, and this time, you didn’t fight him on it.

“Take care, Director,” you said with a small bow. Seungkwan waved you off with a knowing grin, watching the two of you walk away.

“Yeah, yeah, go be all in love or whatever,” he called out, unable to hide the affection in his teasing.

As you walked side by side with Mingyu, his hand firm and steady on your back, you glanced up at him with a small smile.

“Possessive much?” you teased quietly, nudging him with your elbow.

“Protective,” he corrected, glancing down at you with that look that always made your heart stumble. His eyes softened as they lingered on you, his voice quieter now. "I’m protecting what’s mine."

You rolled your eyes, but your fingers intertwined with his, and you squeezed his hand just a little tighter.

“Okay, Mr. Handsome Husband, World’s Best Protector,” you murmured, leaning your head against his arm as the two of you walked off into the evening light.

*

Seungkwan sat with the entire cast during the promotional interview for his highly anticipated movie. The host was lively and charismatic, effortlessly guiding the conversation while bringing out the natural chemistry between the cast. Laughter filled the room, and the atmosphere was warm and relaxed.

“Director Boo,” the host began with a playful grin, leaning forward with curiosity. “You mentioned that this movie was inspired by your friend’s story, right? Care to spill a little tea on that?”

Laughter erupted from the cast and audience. Seungkwan’s eyes widened, and he waved his hands frantically as if to push away the implication. His cheeks flushed with embarrassment, but he quickly composed himself.

“Ah, I don’t want anyone to misunderstand,” Seungkwan said, half-laughing, half-sighing. “It’s not like that. I drew inspiration from a lot of places — life experiences, stories I’ve heard, observations. But,” he paused, his grin turning sly, “I’ll admit, my favorite actress, Ji Y/n, agreed to make a cameo, and we did use her name and her husband’s name for the characters.”

“Oho!” the host gasped, eyes lighting up with excitement. “Using your friend’s actual names? Sounds very intentional, Director Boo!”

More laughter followed, with some of the cast members playfully nudging Seungkwan as if to expose him further.

“Look, look, look,” Seungkwan chuckled, his hands raised in surrender. “It’s not like their relationship is exactly like the one in the movie. It’s totally the opposite, I promise!” His gaze flickered to the camera, as if directly addressing the viewers. “They’re an amazing couple, honestly. The kind of couple that makes you believe in love again.”

The host’s eyes narrowed with mock suspicion, leaning forward like he’d just uncovered a scandal. “So you’re telling me that you just so happened to name the characters after them and just so happened to cast her as a cameo?”

The audience howled with laughter, and Seungkwan pressed his palms together in a mock plea for mercy. “I’m innocent, I swear! I’m just a man trying to tell a good story!”

"Glad he didn’t mention that the 35 billion won contract was actually true," you muttered, eyes glued to the television as the interview played. Your three-month-old daughter, Sera, lay in your arms, breastfeeding peacefully. Her tiny fingers occasionally curled and uncurled against your skin.

Mingyu let out a long, exasperated sigh from beside you. "I should’ve read the script myself before signing that deal," he groaned, rubbing his face in frustration. "I didn’t think Seungkwan would actually bring up the contract."

"Why? Feeling a little exposed now?" you teased, shooting him a sly grin. "Starting to see what an asshole you were back then?"

His gasp was immediate, his eyes wide with faux horror. "Language, woman!" he said dramatically, reaching over to cover baby Sera’s tiny ears. "She can hear you, you know."

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t hold back a soft laugh. Gently, you lifted Sera from your chest and placed her carefully in her crib. Her lips puckered in her sleep, and her little body shifted slightly before settling back into slumber. You watched her for a moment longer, letting that familiar warmth fill your chest.

With Sera safe and sound, you made your way back to Mingyu, plopping down beside him on the couch. Your head found a home against his shoulder, your hand resting on his chest, fingers tracing slow, lazy circles.

“It’s true, though,” he muttered, staring at the ceiling as if reliving the memory. “Everyone thought I was gay, and somehow, my genius solution was to get a contractual girlfriend.” He shook his head at his younger self, clearly unimpressed.

"But you have to admit," you murmured, your voice low and teasing, "I was way too gorgeous to pass up, huh?"

Mingyu glanced down at you, his eyes softening with that look he reserved only for you. A slow, crooked smile spread across his face, and he let out a quiet chuckle, the deep rumble of it vibrating through his chest.

"You are," he said simply, his hand coming up to rest on top of yours. "The most gorgeous mistake I ever made… and the only one I’d make again."

His words were so sincere, so steady, that it made your heart squeeze in your chest. You tilted your head up, catching his gaze, and for a moment, neither of you spoke. It was one of those rare silences where everything was already understood.

"Smooth talker," you whispered, lips curling into a smile as you leaned up to kiss him softly.

"Only for you," he replied, his voice a little quieter now, his eyes still locked on you like you were the only person in the world.

And in moments like this — with your baby girl sleeping soundly nearby and the man who once made the worst mistake of his life now holding you like you were his greatest treasure — you believed it.

[thedensworld]

Villain Origin Story | c.sc

Pairing: Seungcheol x reader

Genre: Conglomerate au! Revenge au!

Type: angst, slow burn, drama

Word Count: 17k

Summary: At the end, Seungcheol is the only one who see you—not as the villain, but the main character of the story he is willing to write.

Seungcheol smiled faintly as he watched the engagement ceremony unfold. His best friend’s big night was going well — laughter echoed through the grand ballroom, and everywhere he looked, there were fresh white florals, soft golden lights, and faces glowing with celebration. It was branded an “intimate” party, but the extravagance in every corner whispered otherwise.

Love was in the air — in the clink of champagne glasses, the exchanged glances, the carefully curated perfection.

And then his eyes stopped.

A shadow against all the light — you.

Dressed in black, perched quietly on the second-floor balcony, sipping wine like you were mourning something the world had forgotten. Seungcheol tilted his head, amusement curling at his lips. Of course you’d show up like this. It was your stepsister’s engagement, after all.

And she was marrying the man you once loved.

Drawn by something he couldn’t quite name, Seungcheol found himself climbing the stairs, walking to your side with quiet steps. From this height, the room looked like a music box — perfect, spinning, artificial.

“Black suits you,” he said, voice laced with a teasing edge. “A little dramatic for your sister’s big day, don’t you think?”

You didn’t flinch. Not even a blink.

That calm, polished stillness — it unnerved him more than any icy comeback.

Your eyes slid toward him, briefly. Cool. Empty. You raised the wine glass to your lips again before elegantly turning away from the scene below, facing the floor-to-ceiling windows framing the Seoul skyline like a painting.

The city glittered beyond the glass, oblivious to the party, to the people, to the past.

You sighed — quiet but deep — and drank again. Not a single word escaped your mouth.

Seungcheol leaned beside you, studying your profile.

"How’s life?" Seungcheol asked, his voice low, almost hesitant. He admitted to himself — it had been a long time since he’d seen you in person. Sure, he’d seen your face everywhere: on posters, luxury brand ads, movie trailers. But the real you? The one standing beside him now? Maybe not since college.

"Terrible," you murmured, eyes vacant as they stayed fixed on the city lights beyond the window.

Seungcheol turned to follow your gaze, then leaned his back against the railing beside you. You didn’t look like the girl who used to light up a hallway with drama and perfume. You looked tired. Polished, but hollow.

“You’re a rising star,” he offered.

You scoffed — not bitter, not sad — just... amused in a way that felt cold.

You turned to him for the first time that night, eyes meeting his. “You must’ve missed the latest headline then. Apparently, I’m a homewrecker now.” You raised your brows slightly, your tone laced with indifference. “Dropped just last week.”

Your gaze drifted to the glowing couple in the center of the ballroom — Baek Ara and Joshua, hand in hand, surrounded by the buzz of celebration.

“Not even sure whose home I supposedly wrecked,” you added lightly. Then, your eyes locked with his again, sharp and knowing. “But I have a pretty good idea who orchestrated it.”

Seungcheol blinked, caught off guard by the directness. His brows rose. “Me?” he repeated, letting out a scoff that bordered on a laugh. “I don’t have time for that, Y/n.”

You smiled. Not the soft, glowing smile you once reserved for Joshua. No — this smile was the one that used to make underclassmen trip over themselves in the school hallway. The one that promised destruction to anyone who dared cross you.

Seungcheol recognized that smile. He didn’t enjoy the drama you used to bring, but he remembered the chaos — and how much he’d secretly lived for the way it made Joshua squirm back in the day.

He sighed and let his amusement fade, studying you more seriously now. “I heard being a celebrity is hard,” he said quietly. “I wouldn’t know firsthand... but I hope you’re doing okay.” He hesitated, then added, “Just don’t do anything you’ll regret later.”

You let out a quiet chuckle — then, to his surprise, it blossomed into a laugh. A full, honest laugh that echoed off the high ceiling of the balcony. Seungcheol watched you in confusion, brows furrowed. You weren’t laughing with him. You were laughing at him.

“It’s funny hearing that from you, Choi Seungcheol,” you said, his full name slipping from your lips for the first time. He stiffened slightly. All those years, you barely acknowledged him. Back then, you were too busy making heart eyes at Joshua to notice anyone else.

You held out your half-empty wine glass to him, an elegant gesture that felt more like a dismissal than anything else. He took it without thinking.

Then you turned, walked down the stairs, and disappeared from the ballroom without looking back.

Seungcheol stood still, staring after you.

That wasn’t the girl he remembered. That wasn’t drama.

That was something else.

And it unnerved him more than he cared to admit.

*

To his surprise, he saw you again just two days later — and in the most unexpected place. The elevator of Choi Group's main building.

He was returning from a business lunch, casually heading up to his office when he spotted you standing by the elevator with someone he assumed to be your manager. You wore an oversized blazer and sunglasses that covered half your face, your posture reserved but poised. You gave him a polite bow.

Seungcheol blinked, unsure why at first — then it clicked. You were an ambassador for one of Choi Group’s skincare brands. Technically under his father’s empire. That explained it.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Choi,” your manager greeted him warmly as you all stepped into the elevator together. He was much friendlier than you, practically oozing eagerness. “I’m Kim Byungho. I’m Y/n’s manager. We’re heading to the marketing department to discuss the revised contract.”

Seungcheol nodded, only half-listening. He glanced at you, who hadn’t said a word.

“I hope we can count on your kindness,” your manager added, bowing deeply as the elevator doors closed. “It’s been a rough week for her, and we’re trying our best to handle the damage.”

Seungcheol frowned slightly, unsure what he was talking about. He glanced toward Jun, his secretary, who stood beside him with a subtle shift in posture — tense.

Before Seungcheol could respond, your voice cut through the space, calm and sharp like a blade.

“Stop it,” you said to your manager. “It’s not up to him. It’s up to his father. So let’s stop begging.”

You didn’t even turn your head, your voice muffled only slightly by your sunglasses. The bitterness was controlled, but not hidden.

Byungho clenched his jaw, clearly frustrated, but didn’t argue further. Seungcheol, still processing the tension, turned to Jun for an explanation — and saw his secretary clenching his tablet a little too tightly.

The moment the elevator doors slid open, you and your manager turned in the opposite direction, heading to the marketing floor. Seungcheol watched you disappear around the corner, your heels clicking against the marble tiles like a metronome marking the slow descent of your public image.

He didn’t say anything until he and Jun stepped into his office.

“She’s the one who’s been rumored to be a homewrecker,” Jun handed Seungcheol his tablet, already pulled up to the article. There was a blurry screenshot of messages — one-sided, emotional texts supposedly from you. The headline screamed “Top Star Ji Y/n Exposed as Third Party in Chaebol Love Triangle?”

“A screenshot leaked. People say she was blowing up the phone of an engaged man — supposedly begging him to break up with his fiancée.”

Clingy. Desperate. Pathetic.

That was the narrative.

"Apparently, she was also a bully in high school," Jun added casually, scrolling through his tablet.

Seungcheol’s brow furrowed. Was she?

He dug through his memory, trying to match that claim with what he remembered of you. You were definitely intimidating — the kind of girl who walked through the halls like you owned them, confidence woven into every step. Popular. Sharp-tongued. Beautiful. But a bully?

He couldn’t recall a single instance of you picking on anyone. If anything, your silence did more damage than words ever could. Maybe people just assumed that someone like you — magnetic and unapologetic — had to be cruel.

“We were in the same high school,” Seungcheol murmured.

Jun blinked. “Seriously? That’s real?”

Seungcheol didn’t answer. His gaze drifted to the floor for a moment, lost in a flicker of memory — you in your perfectly pressed uniform, arms looped around Joshua’s like he was yours and the world was just extra.

Jun scoffed. “Damn. I’m honestly disappointed. I was a fan of her acting. But turns out she’s just… a terrible person.”

Seungcheol’s jaw clenched.

He remembered what you’d said on the balcony just two nights ago — how your voice was low, detached, as if the world had already given up on you and you were only matching its energy.

“Terrible.”

The word had hung between you like a joke only you understood.

Seungcheol repeated it under his breath. “She’s… terrible.”

Jun perked up at the agreement. “Right? I knew it!”

But Seungcheol wasn’t so sure. Something about the way you’d laughed that night — bitter, hollow, nothing like the queen bee from back then — stuck with him. That laugh didn’t belong to someone evil. It belonged to someone hurt. Someone exhausted.

Maybe you had been terrible once. Or maybe… they just needed you to be.

And he was beginning to wonder which was worse.

*

Seungcheol stood in front of a painting one quiet afternoon, stealing an hour for himself at the museum — a rare act of rebellion against his punishing schedule. It was meant to be soul-searching, a breath of calm before drowning in the flood of paperwork waiting at the office.

The painting was titled Discarded, signed simply, G.

It was achingly beautiful — and heartbreakingly tragic. A woman in a white dress, stained with chaotic swipes of color, sat alone in the middle of a road. People passed by on either side, their faces blurred into motion, ignoring her as if she weren’t there at all. She looked misplaced, messy, like something no one wanted to claim.

Something about it made his chest tighten.

“This is one of her latest pieces,” came a gentle voice beside him. The curator, observant and perceptive, had noticed how long he’d been staring. “She’s been on a long break, but she recently started painting again. If you’re interested, I can show you the rest of the collection.”

Seungcheol turned toward him slowly, not realizing he’d been holding his breath.

“This one…” he started, but the words stuck in his throat.

The curator smiled knowingly, his hands folded behind his back. “I know. It hits hard, doesn’t it? There’s something cathartic about it. Tragic, yes — but honest. That’s why we saved it for last.”

Seungcheol looked back at the canvas, unable to shake the haunting familiarity of the figure. The mess. The silence. The beauty of being unseen.

“Yeah,” he whispered. “It feels like she’s waiting for someone to notice her. But no one does.”

The curator nodded, then motioned gently. “Come. I’ll show you the others from G.”

Seungcheol followed, but not before casting one last glance at the woman in the painting — alone, forgotten, yet unforgettable.

The late afternoon sun poured through the tall windows of Seungcheol’s office, casting long shadows across the piles of documents on his desk. Contracts, proposals, reports — all neatly stacked, all waiting for his attention. But his pen hadn’t moved for the last twenty minutes.

His gaze was unfocused, distant, pulled back to the painting now carefully stored in the private gallery wing of his home. Discarded.

He bought it without hesitation. The moment the curator mentioned it was available for purchase, Seungcheol wrote the check like it was a lifeline — not for the artist, but for himself.

Because that woman in the white dress, stained and overlooked in the chaos of the world, wasn’t just a figure on canvas. She was him.

He could still see her — sitting in the middle of that imaginary road while people rushed past her, uncaring. She wasn’t screaming or crying. She wasn’t begging to be seen. She had simply given up.

It haunted him.

Because it was familiar.

The shadows in this office were nothing new to him. He had always been someone’s shadow. His older brother, the golden child — charming, accomplished, his father’s pride. Joshua, the favorite among friends — warm, articulate, and effortlessly adored. Even his father, whose name carried the weight of the company, cast a long silhouette across his life.

Seungcheol was there, always. Present, reliable, good — but never bright enough to stand on his own.

He couldn’t even bring himself to hate them for it.

There was no bitterness, just... exhaustion. A quiet ache from being half-visible all the time. Like he was allowed to exist, just not too loudly.

His fingers brushed over a printed memo. He didn’t read it. He just sat there, eyes locked on nothing, remembering the sadness in that painted woman’s posture. She hadn’t given up because no one cared. She had given up because she had cared too much for too long without anyone noticing.

He leaned back in his chair, rubbed the bridge of his nose, and exhaled slowly.

It was strange.

*

Joshua stepped into Seungcheol’s office with his usual easy stride, a cup of iced coffee in hand and a folder tucked under one arm. His eyes immediately drifted to the new artwork hanging on the far wall — subtle yet striking pieces, all seemingly from the same artist.

"You purchased paintings?" he asked, curiosity laced in his voice as he walked closer to one of them. “These are... different for you.”

Seungcheol didn’t look up from his laptop. “Needed some change,” he replied simply, fingers still tapping away before finally pausing to take a sip from his lukewarm coffee. “The walls were too bare.”

Joshua tilted his head slightly at one of the canvases, squinting at the signature in the corner. “They’re all from the same person. ‘G’?” He turned back toward Seungcheol. “You know the artist?”

“Not personally.”

Joshua raised a brow but didn’t press. He set the folder down on the desk, then leaned casually against the armrest of the nearby couch. “How’s everything going here? You look like you haven’t left this chair since Tuesday.”

“Probably haven’t,” Seungcheol muttered. Then, as if remembering, he added, “How’s Ara? Haven’t seen her since the engagement.”

Joshua let out a light laugh, “Busy. Planning things. Overthinking things. You know how she is.”

Seungcheol finally looked up, a faint, knowing smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “She’s always had a plan.”

“She does,” Joshua said with a chuckle. “Down to what I’m supposed to wear on our honeymoon.”

There was a comfortable silence for a few seconds before Joshua’s eyes returned to the painting. “You sure you’re okay, though?” he asked, this time more quietly. “You seem a little... distant.”

A pause.

“I ran into Ji Y/n,” Seungcheol said casually, eyes still on his screen.

Joshua blinked. “Really?”

“She was at the company this week. Elevator ride. She’s still the ambassador for the skincare line, apparently.” He tilted his head. “Marketing kept her while the other brands dropped her.”

Joshua looked thoughtful. “Kind of surprised, to be honest. I figured the whole thing would scare off everyone.”

“Yeah, well. Father said she still sells. Numbers don’t lie.”

There was a brief silence between them.

“She didn’t look great,” Seungcheol added after a moment. “Not that she ever talks much to me. But still… she seemed tired. Detached.”

Joshua didn’t say anything right away, just nodded slowly and tapped his fingers against the armrest of the chair.

Then, he sighed. “This whole thing’s messier than I thought.”

Seungcheol gave him a glance, sharp but unreadable. “You say that like you’re surprised.”

Joshua didn’t respond — just stood up, smoothing out the front of his shirt.

“Well,” he said lightly, “I’ll tell Ara you asked about her. And maybe bring her some flowers so she doesn’t kill me over the honeymoon wardrobe.”

Seungcheol gave a faint smile. “Good call.”

Joshua paused at the door, hand on the knob, before turning slightly. “I met Y/n... before the engagement.”

Seungcheol looked up, surprised. “Before?”

“Yeah. A few months before Ara and I got engaged.” He let out a slow breath, as if choosing his words carefully. “It… complicated things more than it should’ve.”

Seungcheol raised a brow but didn’t interrupt.

“Ara’s always been a bit…” Joshua hesitated, then gave a short laugh, “jealous. With her step-sister, I mean.”

Seungcheol leaned back, folding his arms as he watched Joshua.

“I’m not saying it’s justified,” Joshua went on. “She wouldn’t have been, honestly — if Y/n ever acted like a sister. But she never did. Not really. I guess I get where it starts from. That weird invisible tension between them. But… things happened.”

Joshua didn’t elaborate, and Seungcheol didn’t push, though the implication hung in the air like smoke.

“I thought Ara was managing the label now?” Seungcheol said eventually, voice even.

“She is,” Joshua nodded. “It’s technically under her father's group, but she’s been running it since last year. Y/n was already under contract before that. Ara didn’t have a say in it… at first.”

“And now?” Seungcheol asked, his voice just a touch quieter.

Joshua offered a tired smile. “Let’s just say it’s a mess I’ve learned not to get involved in. Or at least, I try.”

He turned toward the door again, tapping lightly on the frame. “Just… don’t mention to Ara that you saw her. It’ll only spiral.”

“Right.”

The door shut behind him with a muted click.

Left alone, Seungcheol stared at the spot where Joshua had stood. The image of the painting—of that woman in white, messy, aching and ignored—flashed behind his eyes again.

And somehow, this time, she looked a little more like you.

*

Your presence in front of him brought back memories of high school in a rush—moments of crowded hallways, student council speeches, and the way you used to own every room you walked into. You still carried that same quiet confidence, the kind that demanded attention without trying. That main character aura—so distinctively yours—hadn’t faded.

But something was different.

Gone was the loud, commanding prom queen, the sharp-tongued yet respected queen bee of high school. The woman sitting across from him now was Actress Ji Y/n—composed, refined, and heartbreakingly untouchable. A woman who had earned her place in the industry with undeniable talent, not just a pretty face.

“I’m sorry,” you said softly, your voice steady, almost too calm. “But I’m leaving South Korea.”

Seungcheol stilled. “Why?”

There was a pause. A small breath. And then you answered, “Some people want me there.”

His mind immediately went to your Hollywood debut—buzzing headlines, red carpet premieres, glowing reviews.

“So... LA?”

You nodded.

Seungcheol leaned back in his chair, exhaling. “I was about to offer you a job.”

“I appreciate it,” you replied, polite but distant. “But I don’t think you understand—I’m an actress, not just a pretty face for an ad campaign.”

The words weren’t sharp, but they landed with precision.

He watched you carefully. You didn’t flinch. Didn’t try to soften the blow. There was something admirable about that. The girl he once knew had always been fierce—but this version of you was unshakable.

He cleared his throat and adjusted his posture, choosing his words carefully. “Five-year contract,” he said. “And I’ll cover seventy percent of the debt you owe your label.”

You blinked, visibly taken aback for the first time. The silence stretched between you.

Seungcheol didn’t break eye contact. His voice, steady and low, carried a rare sincerity. “It’s not just about the face. I want to help you survive. You have so much potential, Y/n. More than any of them ever gave you credit for.”

You let out a quiet chuckle, though it lacked any real humor. Your gaze dropped to your hands resting neatly on your lap.

“That’s... almost more humiliating, to be honest.”

He furrowed his brows, watching as your smile faltered just slightly.

“To be pitied,” you continued softly. “To be seen as someone that needs saving. I’ve fought too hard to still look like a damsel.”

Seungcheol exhaled, the weight of your words settling heavy between you. But he didn’t backpedal. He understood now—this wasn’t just about pride. It was about dignity.

“I didn’t mean it as pity,” he said finally. “I meant it as someone who knows what it’s like to be discarded.”

That silenced you. For a moment, neither of you said a word.

And somewhere in that silence, something unspoken passed between you—recognition, maybe. Or something dangerously close to understanding.

“Why?” you asked, your voice quieter now, touched with something fragile.

Seungcheol took a slow breath, eyes never leaving yours. “It might be too late to say this,” he admitted, his voice low. “But I’ve realized… you might not the person I painted you out to be all this time. You’re not nearly as bad as I convinced myself you were.”

He paused, searching your expression for a flicker of emotion.

“In fact,” he continued, softer now, “I think I was just too proud to see you a little bit clearer.”

*

After Seungcheol helped you clear your debt—every last Won tied to the label Ara managed—he didn't just stop there. Once your contract officially ended, he introduced you to someone he trusted deeply in the entertainment world. Boo Seungkwan, a sharp-witted industry professional with an eye for comeback stories, offered you an exclusive contract under his rising agency.

Unlike others, Seungkwan didn’t see you as tainted or a risk—he saw potential, resilience, and star power buried under the scandal’s dust. And just like that, after months of silence, rejection, and whispered humiliation, your name began to rise again. Slowly, steadily. New endorsements, indie film scripts, magazine shoots—small steps, but they were yours.

Then came Joshua’s wedding.

You had debated not coming. But Seungcheol insisted. “You’ve earned the right to be in the room,” he’d said. And so, you came—not as a girl wounded by the past, but as a woman who had survived it.

You entered the grand ballroom with your arm looped through Seungcheol’s, the train of your gown flowing behind you like a quiet declaration. The low hum of conversation dipped as people turned. Eyes followed you, the infamous Ji Y/n—once the center of controversy, now the embodiment of elegance.

Joshua turned too.

He was standing at the altar, hands clasped in front of him, awaiting his bride. But when his eyes met yours, something in him faltered.

You looked ethereal. Graceful. Almost untouchable.

And beside Seungcheol, who held himself with quiet strength and calm authority, you looked… safe.

Joshua hadn’t seen you in months. Not like this. Not since the tabloids. Not since Ara's label dropped you after 'quietly' blacklisting your name in industry. Not since he met you before the engagement and complicated everything.

He couldn't stop staring. Because it felt wrong. It felt wrong to be standing at the altar, in a suit tailored for a promise, when his eyes were still chasing a past he’d never truly understood—only judged.

You didn’t look at him for long. Just a brief glance, polite and composed. But it hit him harder than any argument ever had. Because in that one glance, he saw it all:

That you were no longer his.

You sat down beside Seungcheol like you belonged there. Your posture perfect, your smile calm. And Joshua… he stood there, a groom on the verge of vows, wondering if the girl he once left behind had finally outgrown him for good.

Joshua assured himself—he loved Ara. He must love her.

He loved her because she wasn’t you.

Ara didn’t flood him with a million questions when he needed space. She didn’t throw tantrums or cry in the hallway when he didn’t text back. She didn’t show up unannounced to his classes demanding explanations with teary eyes and trembling lips. Ara was quiet, composed, graceful. She stayed in her lane, gave him room to breathe, and never made him feel overwhelmed.

She wasn’t you, and that was the point.

He never once thought of Ara as difficult. Not when he was with you. Because back then, chaos had a name, and it was you. You were loud and alive and far too much for him when all he craved was stillness. Ara gave him that stillness. That peace.

Joshua's mind drifted, uninvited, to that day—the day everything truly fell apart.

College campus, mid-semester, the lecture hall packed. He still remembered the low hum of voices before the professor walked in, the clatter of keyboards, the scent of ink and burnt coffee. He had been seated near the front, flipping through his notes, trying to concentrate. Trying to stay focused.

He was under pressure—his family needed him to step up, to start preparing for his role in the business. His father had just handed him a department to manage part-time. His days were full of meetings, documents, and late-night calls. And there was you.

You didn’t fit into that life the way you used to. You needed more than he could give—more of his time, his attention, his affection. You were fighting for him, but he was too exhausted to fight back.

And then you walked in.

The door swung open with a thud and gasps filled the room. All eyes turned to the girl in the black hoodie and dark jeans, your eyes puffy, hair pulled into a messy ponytail. You didn’t care who was watching. You came for him.

“Hong Joshua” you said, your voice trembling but loud enough for everyone to hear. “You can’t even reply to a single text, but you have time to pretend like I don’t exist?”

He had closed his eyes then, wishing the earth would just swallow him whole.

“Not here, Y/n,” he muttered, rising to his feet.

“No. Here. If this is what you care about most, then let’s do it here.”

You were upset. You were hurting. And you were right. But he couldn’t see it at the time.

“Stop it,” he hissed. “You’re embarrassing yourself.”

“I loved you!” you had cried. “I gave you everything, and you’re shutting me out like I’m nothing?”

That was the moment something in him snapped. The pressure, the expectations, the embarrassment—he cracked under it all.

“We’re done,” he said coldly, his voice slicing through the lecture hall like glass. “I can’t do this anymore.”

Silence.

Your expression didn’t fall right away. You held it together just long enough to straighten your spine, to blink away the tears, to lift your chin in that signature prideful way. Then, without a word, you turned and walked out—your head held high even as your heart broke.

He never saw you cry that day. But he knew you did.

And now, years later, as he stood in his wedding hall, waiting for his bride, he looked across the room at the woman you’d become—elegant, untouchable, a thousand miles away from the girl who once begged him to stay.

But he knew better.

He once knew what your love looked like when it was messy and loud and real.

And as Ara walked toward him in white, smiling politely, Joshua’s jaw clenched with the weight of a truth too late to confess.

Ara is not you.

*

The clink of ice in your glass was the only thing filling the silence for a moment, soft jazz humming in the background of the dimly lit hotel bar. You sat beside Seungcheol on one of the plush stools, legs crossed, a half-finished drink in your hand as you watched the golden amber swirl.

"You were great today," Seungcheol said, eyes on you—not just glancing, but looking. Like he was still trying to figure out how someone could walk into a room full of people who used to love her, used to hate her, and act like she ruled the place.

You took a small sip and set your glass down. "I have no reason not to be."

Seungcheol chuckled lowly, impressed. “Right. Why show the ghosts that they haunt you, when you can just haunt them back?”

You smirked at that, tilting your head toward him. "That’s poetic of you. Been reading my old fan letters?"

He rolled his eyes playfully but couldn’t hide the slight flush at your teasing. “Please. If I had a fan letter for you, I’d hand-deliver it.”

You raised a brow. “Would it come with flowers?”

“Only if you signed a ten-year ambassador deal.”

You both laughed, and for a second, the world felt soft. Comfortable. Familiar.

He watched you silently for a moment after that, eyes lingering a little too long on your profile, the way the bar lights kissed your skin. You turned to meet his gaze, lips parted slightly.

“What?” you asked softly.

Seungcheol leaned back, swirling the drink in his hand before answering, “Nothing. Just thinking how weird it is… that I know the version of you people were too afraid to claim. And now I get to sit here next to the woman no one can ignore.”

You bit your lip—subtle, unintentional, but he noticed. “Sounds like someone’s getting sentimental.”

“I think I’ve earned the right,” he replied, and you weren’t sure if it was the drink or the way his voice dropped just slightly—but suddenly the air between you felt warmer.

Dangerous, almost.

So you turned back to your drink, smirk playing on your lips.

“Don’t fall for me, Choi.”

He tilted his glass toward you. “I don't fall easily, Ji.”

You smirked, lips brushing the rim of your glass. “You didn’t do a very good job at it.”

He finally glanced at you, and this time it lingered. Just long enough.

“I never said I succeeded.”

A beat passed. Tension curled between you two like smoke. He wasn’t making a move, but he didn’t need to—not when the pull between you was this thick, this unspoken.

You leaned in just slightly, voice almost a whisper, teasing but not joking. “Be careful. Ara might start another rumor.”

“I’m not the type to hide behind someone else's narrative,” he said easily, eyes flicking down to your lips and back. “Let them talk.”

You blinked, just once, and leaned back with a soft chuckle. “You’ve changed.”

“Not really,” he said, smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I just got better at playing your game.”

You didn’t say anything, just let the silence stretch with the same thrill of a held breath. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you knew this could end badly—but you also knew you wouldn’t be the one walking away first tonight.

The silence between you stretched through the elevator ride—thick, magnetic, every breath laced with possibility. You didn’t touch, didn’t speak, but the heat simmered in the air like static before lightning.

When the elevator dinged at his floor, Seungcheol stepped out first, pausing just long enough to glance over his shoulder. You followed.

His suite was spacious, minimal, clean. A half-empty glass of whiskey rested on the table from earlier, but he ignored it. You stepped inside slowly, heels tapping against the floor, fingers brushing your hair behind your ear as you looked around.

“Still the same taste,” you said softly, running your hand along the edge of the table. “Neat. Expensive. Subtle.”

“Like it?” he asked, closing the door behind him.

You turned around, arching a brow. “You didn’t bring me here to give me a room tour, did you?”

He gave a small, breathy laugh, loosening the first two buttons of his shirt. “Depends. Do you want the full experience?”

You stepped toward him, but stopped just short. “Are you flirting with me, Seungcheol?”

Seungcheol tilted his head, eyes meeting yours with a quiet boldness. “Only if you’re going to flirt back.”

The pause that followed was heavy—your heart drumming against your ribs, his gaze never wavering. You stepped closer, slow and deliberate, until the air between you barely existed.

Your voice dropped. “You’re playing a dangerous game.”

“I’m not scared of you anymore,” he said, and there was no cockiness in it. Just truth.

You let out a soft laugh, shaking your head. “That’s the problem.”

You didn’t kiss—not yet. But your hand brushed his arm, slow, and lingered. His eyes dropped to your lips, then back up. His restraint was impressive, but you could feel the tension in the way his shoulders stayed firm, jaw clenched just a little too tightly.

“You look tired,” you whispered, changing the subject just to mess with him.

He smirked, stepping a hair closer, his voice low. “You’re exhausting.”

You tilted your head. “You like it.”

His hand finally moved—fingers brushing lightly down your bare arm. “Maybe.”

Neither of you made the next move yet. But the invitation hung in the air—unspoken, charged, and undeniably mutual.

You turned away first, walking slowly toward the window, your back to him. The city lights outside blinked through the sheer curtains, casting a soft glow across the room. You could hear him behind you, his quiet steps, the sound of him undoing his cufflinks.

“I didn’t think you’d let me get this close,” he said, voice lower now, a little rough around the edges.

You didn’t turn around. “You didn’t get this close. I let you.”

Seungcheol chuckled under his breath. You felt him step behind you—close, not touching. His presence was magnetic. You could feel the heat of his body near yours, his breath just brushing your neck.

“You were the storm in every room you walked into,” he murmured. “And somehow tonight, you walked in like silence… and I still couldn’t look away.”

Your breath caught—he noticed.

When you finally turned, his hand moved to your jaw, not quite cupping it, just the slightest touch, his thumb brushing your cheekbone. He was looking at you like he was memorizing the way you’d changed—how your eyes didn’t burn like wildfire anymore, but something softer, something wiser. And yet, you were still you.

“You look like you’ve got something to prove,” you whispered, barely audible.

His smile was slow. “Only to you.”

You tilted your head, letting his hand steady you as you leaned in. “Then prove it.”

The space between you disappeared. His lips found yours—unrushed, firm, like he’d waited long enough and wanted to do this right. It wasn’t desperate. It was deliberate. The kind of kiss that said he was still holding back, just a little, because the night was young and you had time.

He pulled away just enough to press his forehead to yours.

“Tell me if you want to stop,” he said, voice hoarse.

You shook your head. “You already know I don’t.”

He kissed you again, deeper this time, and his hands found your waist, pulling you into him. Every step backward you took was guided by his touch, until the backs of your knees met the bed.

Still clothed, still caught in the tension between boldness and restraint, Seungcheol looked down at you like he wasn’t sure if this was real—like after everything, having you here, like this, might still be a dream.

But you were real. And this was happening.

And tonight, for once, neither of you was pretending.

*

The morning light slipped through the curtains, golden and gentle. Seungcheol stirred, reaching out instinctively to the other side of the bed—empty, but still warm.

He opened his eyes slowly, gaze landing on the slight indent in the pillow where your head had been just hours ago. Your scent still lingered faintly on the sheets, and the memory of your skin, your breath, your laugh pressed against his senses like a soft echo.

Then he noticed the phone on the nightstand blinking with a message.

[Y/n]

I had an early shoot. Didn’t want to wake you. I ordered breakfast—it should be arriving soon.

A small smile tugged at his lips. It was such a simple gesture, but it settled something warm in his chest. He ran a hand through his hair, still lying back against the pillow.

Peace. That’s what this felt like.

But the next notification made his brows furrow.

[Joshua]

When did you and Y/n get close?

He blinked at the message. No greeting. No preamble. Just straight to the point. A day after his wedding.

Seungcheol sat up, the sheets slipping down his torso, and stared at the screen. For a moment, he didn’t know if he wanted to reply or throw the phone across the room.

He took a breath.

[Seungcheol]

Didn’t realize you were checking in this soon. Everything alright?

A beat passed before Joshua responded.

[Joshua]

Just answer me.

[Seungcheol]

We reconnected. That’s it.

He didn’t offer more. Because Joshua didn’t deserve more. Not after everything.

Seungcheol dropped the phone on the desk and turned toward the room. The bed was still messy from last night, your scent faint on the pillow. He smiled to himself—not because of the intimacy, but because of the quiet trust you gave him.

No theatrics. No clinging. Just you, choosing to stay for a night and go without a scene. Leaving coffee, breakfast, and a piece of peace he didn’t know he craved.

[Joshua]

You never told me.

Seungcheol rested his arm on the windowsill of his office, the city below flickering with late lights. The coffee on his desk had gone cold, untouched since the text from Joshua hours ago. He hadn’t responded further—and didn’t plan to.

But memories had their own way of seeping in. Joshua once told him about you during college. Late one night after drinks, tipsy honesty filling the space between laughter and bitterness.

“She was loud,” Joshua had said, lips curled into something between a smirk and a wince. “Demanded everything. Even in bed. Too aggressive. She wanted to control how I moved, how I touched her, like it was her stage.”

Seungcheol had just hummed back then, pretending not to care. But he remembered how Joshua laughed like he needed to laugh—like he was trying to prove he wasn’t affected. Like he needed to make you smaller, just to feel bigger.

But now, standing here with last night still clinging to his skin, Seungcheol couldn’t relate to a single word Joshua had said.

You were all fire, yes—but not in the way Joshua made it sound. There was no chaos, no demand. Just honesty. Just heat. Just the kind of intimacy that came from finally being with someone who wasn’t scared to want.

You were present. Intentional. Unapologetic.

And for the first time in a long time, Seungcheol felt seen without ever needing to explain himself.

He smirked to himself, recalling how you'd pressed your lips to his jaw, how you’d texted him about breakfast like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Joshua had complained.

But Seungcheol had no complaints.

Only a feeling. One that told him—this wasn’t over.

*

Night after night was spent with you—no pressure, no promises. Just two bodies colliding, wrapped in warmth and need, with emotions neither of you dared to unpack. Whether it was after a sunrise shoot or squeezed between late-night meetings, you always ended up together.

There were no labels. Not lovers. Not even friends, really. Colleagues, maybe—by day, you worked as the face of his brand, smiling in front of cameras and attending sleek product launches. By night, you laid tangled in his arms, limbs heavy with exhaustion, silence filling the spaces where feelings should’ve been spoken.

It was an arrangement. A quiet, sacred escape. And both of you prayed no one would ever know. Let it stay like this—uncomplicated, unspoken, and only yours to understand.

One afternoon, Seungcheol found himself sharing coffee with Ara after a quick business lunch. What was supposed to be a brief check-in had stretched longer, the conversation drifting into the familiar waters of the entertainment industry Ara had been part of for five years.

“You interested in entertainment now?” Ara asked, casually setting down her cup, eyes glinting with curiosity.

He leaned back, expression unreadable. “This isn’t about your step-sister, right?” he said, his voice smooth. “That situation your label made 'helped' her a lot.”

Ara tilted her head, her smile strained. “You’re saying that like you weren’t involved.”

Seungcheol raised his brows. “It was all business. I saw potential. That’s it.”

“But it started with her,” Ara pointed out. “That sudden interest in the industry, the sponsorships, the rebranding… it wasn’t just coincidence.”

He didn’t deny it. Instead, he let a small smirk tug at his lips. “The entertainment world is complicated. Messy. Political. And layered in ways most industries aren’t. It’s fascinating.”

Ara chuckled dryly. “Well, my husband runs an agency too, in case you’ve forgotten. Maybe ask him for lessons—he’s been in the game far longer than I have.”

Seungcheol met her gaze with an amused glint. “True. But I think you’re more impressive.”

She narrowed her eyes, a faint crease forming between her brows. “What are you trying to imply, Choi Seungcheol?”

His smile didn’t falter, but he leaned forward just slightly, sensing the shift. “Nothing,” he said smoothly, holding his hands up in mock surrender. “You’re sharp, and you’ve handled your position well. That’s all.”

But the tension lingered. Ara’s tone dropped, voice tighter now. “Her mother married my father for money, Seungcheol. You expect me to pretend we’re sisters and braid each other's hair? Please.”

Seungcheol didn’t respond right away. He only observed her—sharp lines, guarded eyes, that perfectly placed bitterness. There was more to her story. Just as there was more to yours. And maybe that’s what fascinated him most.

“How’s your relationship with Ara?” Seungcheol asked one night, his voice low and rough against the crown of your head.

Your bare skin pressed against his, arms wrapped lazily around him as his warmth soaked into you. The air was thick with the silence that always followed—after he picked you up from the late-night shoot, after the tangled sheets and unspoken feelings. Now it was just his breath, fanning your hair as his fingers traced idle circles along your back.

“She’s…” you hesitated, then exhaled softly, “She’s like a step-sister. A good stepdaughter for my mom, actually. Kind of like Cinderella—except she gets the spotlight wherever she goes.”

His hand stilled for a moment, then continued moving in gentle motions. “I didn’t ask what kind of person she is,” Seungcheol murmured, his voice deeper now, quieter. “I asked about your relationship. Are the two of you... good?”

You paused, searching for the right word, then shrugged lightly against him. “We barely talk. Almost never. But I don’t hate her. She’s just... there. Existing in the same house, the same air, but never really touching mine.”

He didn’t speak right away, but you felt the subtle shift in his breathing, the way his arms tightened around you just slightly—like he was bracing himself for the weight of your truth.

You swallowed the lump in your throat, then began, voice barely above a whisper.

“My mom remarried when I was eleven. She didn’t love him, not really. But he had money. A big house. Enough to get us out of the debt my dad left behind.” You paused. “It wasn’t a choice made out of love. It was survival.”

Seungcheol’s thumb grazed over your shoulder gently. You leaned into him more, your words tumbling out slow and soft like they’d been waiting years to be said.

“I never blamed her. But I wasn’t happy. I don’t think I ever was in that house.” You let out a small laugh, bitter at the edges. “It was always Ara this, Ara that. She was pretty and charming and everything I wasn’t. She knew how to smile in front of people. I just... slowly faded.”

He stayed quiet, his hand now resting flat against your back, grounding you.

“I was never seen. Not by my stepdad. Not by his family. Not even by my mom. It was like—I existed in that house as a shadow. And Ara… she shone so brightly. She didn’t do it to hurt me. But... it still hurt.”

You felt your voice shake, but you kept going. “Joshua was the only one who ever looked at me. He was just… kind. He noticed. He talked to me when no one else did. Asked how I was. Remembered things I said. He made me feel human when everything else made me feel invisible.”

That moment lingered for a beat longer than comfortable.

“I’m sorry,” Ara said, shifting in her seat across from Seungcheol at the polished table. “It’s… very discomforting to talk about my husband’s ex.” Her words were cool, clipped with a professional courtesy that didn’t quite hide the tension behind them.

Seungcheol nodded, biting back the words at the edge of his tongue. She’s your sister, though. But now he understood. The dynamic between you two wasn’t just complicated—it was detached. Ara didn’t just dislike you. She resented your presence in any form, even as a memory.

Still, he offered a diplomatic smile. “I’m glad you and Joshua married,” he said simply, his tone even, sincere. “He seems happy. Genuinely.”

Ara let out a breath, shoulders softening a little. She nodded, accepting the statement as though it was a gift. “He is. He really is.”

But even as Seungcheol smiled, part of him couldn’t stop remembering the warmth of your skin against his, the quiet sadness in your voice when you said “she’s just there.” And in that silence, he realized—he didn’t want you to be just there anymore.

*

“You took days off.” You glanced at him as the plane ascended, your voice a mix of disbelief and amusement.

The two of you sat side by side in business class, on a flight bound for Jeju. Somewhere quiet—somewhere Seungcheol had planned for the both of you. A much-needed vacation. You had just wrapped your first major project in a while, and he, after endless launches, meetings, and late nights at the office, decided it was time to breathe.

“You, of all people—the workaholic—took days off,” you repeated, eyeing him like he’d grown a second head.

Seungcheol smirked as he leaned back in his seat, arms folding behind his head with practiced ease. “Tell me something I don’t know, Y/n.”

You sighed, mirroring his position, the tiredness finally sinking out of your shoulders. “You’re crazy.”

“I know someone crazier, back in high school.” He turned his head toward you, lips curving mischievously.

“What?” you narrowed your eyes, suspicious.

He gave a soft laugh, shaking his head. “You don’t want to know. She once went after the football game committee and demanded the referee be fired because her boyfriend got injured without the other guy getting carded.”

You groaned, sinking into your seat. “I didn’t technically get him fired. His boss made the decision.”

“After a call from your stepfather’s office.”

You shrugged innocently. “Something could’ve gone seriously wrong with Josh. Someone had to be responsible.”

Seungcheol laughed, shaking his head in disbelief. “He wasn’t six, Y/n. He was seventeen. You were unhinged.”

You lowered your gaze to your hands, fingers fidgeting slightly. “I know,” you murmured.

There was a pause.

Seungcheol tilted his head, watching you more closely now. “You really cared about him, didn’t you?”

Your nod was small, but immediate. “Of course I did,” you said softly. Then you looked up at him with a teasing smile. “Didn’t you?”

He chuckled at the way you dodged the depth of the question, as always with that playful glint in your eye. He let it slide.

“Has anyone told you how much you’ve changed from your old self?”

You smirked, turning your attention to the screen in front of you, searching through the inflight movies. “I haven’t changed, Seungcheol.”

He raised an eyebrow, expecting the twist.

“I’ve grown.” You threw him a wink before pressing play on the action film you’d been looking forward to since boarding.

Seungcheol didn’t reply—he just leaned his head back and smiled. The kind of smile that stayed long after the words faded.

The resort was everything Seungcheol promised—secluded cliffs overlooking Jeju’s deep blue sea, private villas built with wood and stone, where the wind carried the scent of salt and pine. You stepped onto the terrace, hair slightly damp from a shower, wearing one of the white robes provided by the resort. The breeze kissed your skin, and the sound of waves crashing in the distance melted some invisible weight from your chest.

Seungcheol came out behind you, two wine glasses in hand. He handed you one and leaned on the railing beside you. “You look like someone who finally remembered what rest feels like.”

You sipped your wine with a grin. “I feel like someone who forgot how good silence can be.”

He clinked his glass gently against yours. “To silence, then.”

The night crept in, painting the sky in deep indigo. Neither of you said much. There was no need to. His presence beside you was enough.

Later, in the dim light of your shared villa, you sat on the rug beside the fireplace, your legs tucked beneath you, watching the flames move. Seungcheol sat behind you, his hand gently massaging your shoulders.

“You’ve been tense for months,” he murmured, his voice low and close to your ear.

“You’ve been watching me for months,” you replied just as quietly.

His hand stilled for a moment, then resumed its motion. “Someone had to.”

You leaned back slightly into his touch. “Why do you do this?” you asked, eyes still on the fire.

“What?”

“This. Us. It’s not just sex and you know it.”

Seungcheol didn’t answer right away. Instead, he placed a kiss on your shoulder, slow and intentional. “Maybe because I don’t want to be another man who takes and leaves. Maybe because… when I see you, I don’t feel like I need to lie.”

You turned to face him, your gaze sharp. “That’s dangerously close to romantic.”

He smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “We agreed not to talk about emotions, didn’t we?”

You leaned in, kissed him softly, and whispered, “That’s because we’re cowards.”

The fireplace crackled as his hands slid to your waist, pulling you closer, your robe slipping slightly off one shoulder. Neither of you said anything more that night.

And in the quiet hum of dawn, wrapped in sheets and the scent of him still clinging to your skin, you realized that whatever this was—it was no longer casual.

You were still asleep when Seungcheol stepped out onto the villa balcony with his phone pressed to his ear. The ocean breeze tousled his hair as he leaned against the railing, his body still relaxed from last night—until he saw the caller ID: Joshua Hong.

He hesitated, thumb hovering over the screen, then finally answered. “Yeah?”

There was a beat of silence before Joshua spoke, voice flat but tight. “Did you go to Jeju with her?”

Seungcheol’s jaw tensed. “What are you talking about?”

“There’s a video of her at the airport yesterday. Some media caught it. She was covered up, but not enough.” Joshua inhaled sharply. “You were in the background.”

Seungcheol didn’t respond right away. His gaze shifted toward the bedroom, where the curtains fluttered and the silhouette of your sleeping body could be seen beneath the sheets.

“You’ve been seeing her, haven’t you?” Joshua asked again, his tone sharper this time. “Since when?”

Seungcheol let out a slow breath. “We reconnected. That’s all you need to know.”

“That’s all?” Joshua’s laugh was bitter. “You’re sleeping with her.”

“That’s not your business anymore,” Seungcheol said, a finality in his voice. “You’re married. You chose your path. So did she.”

“You know what happened between us—how it ended. You were there when she—” Joshua stopped himself. His voice cracked, either with anger or regret. “I just didn’t expect you.”

“I didn’t expect me either,” Seungcheol replied. “But here we are.”

There was another pause. Then Joshua said quietly, “You’re not just sleeping with her.”

Seungcheol’s grip tightened around the phone. “Goodbye, Joshua.”

He ended the call before the man on the other end could say another word.

When Seungcheol stepped back into the bedroom, you stirred slightly. Your eyes opened, still heavy with sleep, and you blinked up at him with a soft smile. “Who was that?”

He walked over and sat at the edge of the bed, brushing your hair away from your face. “No one important.”

But he knew better. Joshua was important—to you.

And this… whatever this was between the two of you… wasn’t going to stay quiet much longer.

*

"You did amazing," Seungcheol said as he climbed back onto the boat, water dripping from his hair as he reached over to help you out of your gear. His hands were steady, warm against the cool metal of your breathing apparatus. "Seriously. You did amazing."

You exhaled, catching your breath as you pulled the mouthpiece from your lips. “Really? I was worried I looked like I was flailing down there. It’s been a while since I last dove.”

“I couldn’t tell. You looked calm. Natural,” he replied as you shrugged off the rest of your gear and made your way toward the seating area in search of your robe.

He was already a step ahead, handing it to you as you approached. You murmured a quick thanks, wrapping it around your body, still slick from the sea.

"You were amazing too," you added, glancing at him as he ruffled his wet hair with a towel. "I mean, you’ve been doing this for a while, right?"

Seungcheol tilted his head, eyeing you with curiosity. "How do you know that?"

You smirked lightly. "I remembered Joshua mentioning it once. Something about how you always went diving every semester break. Guess you were coming here?"

He paused for a moment, eyes studying your face like you’d just said something he hadn’t expected. Then he nodded slowly. “Yeah… I used to come here a lot. Especially back in high school. The water felt like the only place I could breathe.”

You met his gaze, the silence stretching comfortably between you as the wind tousled both your hair. He broke it first.

“I didn’t think you’d remember something like that,” he said, quieter this time.

You chuckled as you settled onto the bench of the boat, wrapping the robe tighter around your body. “I know a lot of things about people, Seungcheol. I’m not as ignorant as you might’ve thought… and I never was.”

Seungcheol sat beside you, his shoulder brushing against yours. “I figured that out. But… why didn’t you ever talk to me in high school?”

Your brows furrowed as you turned your head toward him. “I thought you hated me. I mean… everyone kind of did. But with you, I figured you especially didn’t like my presence, so I just—stayed away.”

He shook his head instantly, reaching out to place a hand gently on your arm, grounding you. “No. God, no. Of course not. Did I ever say anything like that to you?”

You hesitated, biting your lower lip, eyes flickering away for a second. “I… I don’t know. I can’t remember exactly. Maybe Joshua said something? Or maybe I just inferred it from the way things were.”

His gaze didn’t waver. “Joshua told you I didn’t like you?”

You exhaled a short breath. “No. I told you, Seungcheol. I forgot. Maybe no one said it. Maybe it was just... the way everything felt back then.”

A beat of silence hung between you, filled only by the gentle sound of waves lapping against the boat. His hand didn’t move from your arm.

“I didn’t hate you,” he said softly. “If anything, I think I noticed you more than I was supposed to.”

*

It was a memory Seungcheol never quite managed to forget.

He had just arrived at campus that day, walking leisurely down the hallway with his headphones on, music playing loud enough to drown out the world. But the moment he turned the corner toward class and saw a group of students peeking through the door, murmuring with their phones half-raised, something tugged at his gut. He paused, pulled the headphones down around his neck, and stepped forward.

Inside, he saw it—the moment Joshua broke up with you. Publicly.

Your face was pale, jaw tight, but your eyes didn’t flinch as Joshua stood there, saying things he clearly hadn’t rehearsed enough. His voice was calm, yet his hands betrayed him—fidgeting, twitching, unsure.

“Y/n is so crazy about her reputation. Anything she’ll worry about is how people think about her.”

Those words had echoed in Seungcheol’s head for a long time, not just because Joshua once said them to him in passing, but because they didn’t fit with what he saw that day.

Joshua ended it in front of everyone, knowing full well how much you hated being watched, being judged. Seungcheol had always thought Joshua wouldn’t intentionally humiliate you—but then, why do it like that? He could see it in Joshua’s eyes too—something inside him was breaking just as much.

And then you ran. You rushed out of the classroom, your shoulder colliding with Seungcheol’s chest as you stormed past him. No apologies. Just heartbreak in motion. He remembered watching your figure disappear down the hallway, the faint sound of your heels against the tiles lingering far longer than they should.

Now, sitting across from you with glasses of whiskey in hand, the sea breeze from Jeju brushing in from the half-open window, Seungcheol finally asked what had been sitting at the base of his chest for years.

“How did it feel?”

You sipped your drink slowly, eyes staring into the amber swirl in your glass. “It was humiliating, of course,” you said. “He didn’t have to do it that way.”

Seungcheol nodded. He agreed. “But?”

“But I was relieved,” you continued softly, a dry smile playing on your lips. “At least it woke me up.”

There was a pause. Heavy. Honest.

Then you looked up at him, your voice just a breath. “I knew Joshua liked Ara.”

Seungcheol blinked. “What?”

You gave a slow nod. “I saw it. The way he looked at her during her sweet seventeen. Like she was… something he desired. Like he forgot I was in the room.”

“Did you ever confront him?”

“Of course I did,” you said, letting out a soft chuckle. “But I didn’t say her name directly. I just asked, ‘Do you like someone else?’”

“And what did he say?”

You shrugged. “Does a cat say anything after it knocks a vase off the table and watches it shatter?” you said with amusement, your smile laced with bitterness. “He didn’t answer. He just stood there like silence would undo the damage.”

Seungcheol watched you carefully.

“Maybe that’s why it didn’t hurt that much. That day,” you murmured.

“But still… he hurt you,” Seungcheol said, voice quiet but firm.

You looked at him, a ghost of a smile on your lips. “Who cares?” you said lightly. “Who cares if he hurt me? When I realized he wasn’t the same person who saw me like I existed—like in high school—I chose to be hurt. That was my decision. My freedom.”

Seungcheol looked away, his jaw tightening. He stared at the bottom of his glass as if the answer to everything might be swirling in the amber liquid. Then he looked back up at you, eyes unreadable. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “For everything you had to go through. You didn’t deserve any of it.”

And for the first time, Seungcheol saw you cry.

Not the quiet, composed kind of tears that slid down silently—but the kind that surprised even you. It cracked something in your voice, your expression trembling as the tears pooled and broke, slipping down your cheeks. You tried to laugh it off, blinking rapidly, but your chest stuttered on a breath you couldn’t quite catch.

“I’m sorry,” you said, brushing at your cheeks. “God, I don’t even know why—”

But Seungcheol reached out, not to stop your tears, but to be with you in them. He didn’t speak. He just looked at you with the kind of gaze that saw straight through the armor you'd built, right into the hurt you thought you’d buried.

“You don’t have to be strong around me,” he finally whispered.

And for once, you let yourself believe that.

“I’m tired, Seungcheol,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. The kind of tired that didn’t just sit in your bones—it lived in your chest, in the corners of your mind, pulling everything down with it.

“I’m so tired of fighting. Of defending myself. Of always having to prove I’m not what they think I am. Not a homewrecker. Not a villain. Not someone cold just because I don’t cry in public or fall apart when they expect me to.”

You looked away, ashamed of the crack in your voice. “I tried so hard to hold myself together. To keep my name clean. To be someone my younger self would be proud of. But somewhere along the way, I forgot what it’s like to just... breathe.”

Seungcheol leaned in slightly, his hand still resting near yours, but he didn’t try to console you with empty words. He just listened. Present. Unflinching.

“Sometimes I think I survived everything just to be this exhausted version of myself,” you exhaled. “And I hate that. I hate that it still hurts, even when I know I did the right thing.”

“You’re not just surviving anymore,” he said gently. “You’re healing. It’s slow, and it’s ugly, but you’re doing it.”

You laughed softly through the ache. “Does healing always feel this lonely?”

Seungcheol’s eyes softened. “Not when you have someone who stays.”

*

“What is this?”

Ara’s voice trembled as she shoved her phone into Joshua’s face. The screen lit up with an article, the headline bold and accusatory, accompanied by a grainy photo of Joshua standing in front of you in a hotel lobby. The timestamp showed it was taken just last week.

Joshua exhaled, chest tightening. He hadn’t expected anyone to snap a photo that night—let alone that it would end up online so fast.

“Ara, I—”

“What were you doing talking to another woman when you’re married, Joshua? And not just any woman—her?” Ara hissed, eyes blazing. “She’s your ex.”

“She’s your sister,” Joshua reminded her, the words heavy with frustration.

“I don’t care!” Ara shouted. “She’s still your ex! You promised me—promised—you’d stop talking to her! And then I find this? In a hotel lobby? What am I supposed to think, huh? That you were just there for coffee and childhood memories? Or should I believe you slept with her?”

Joshua clenched his jaw. “Is that really how little you think of me? After everything? You know me, Ara. You know I’ve always been loyal.”

Ara scoffed bitterly, folding her arms. “Then explain to me why the entire internet thinks my husband is cheating—with my own sister.”

It was supposed to be just a talk.

That’s what Joshua told himself when he texted you last week, asking to meet. Just a small catch-up in the hotel lobby while you were in town for a schedule. A moment to ask about your career, which he was quietly relieved to see bouncing back after the scandal. But the conversation drifted, as it always did with you, into places it shouldn't have gone.

He shouldn’t have asked. But he did.

“You two… are you dating?” he asked, voice low and cautious.

You looked at him, eyes cool, unreadable. “That’s none of your business, Joshua.”

Joshua flinched at the words. “You’re my ex,” he said, voice tightening. “And he’s my best friend.”

“And you’re married,” you snapped back, your voice cutting through the air with quiet finality.

Silence dropped like a curtain between you. Joshua stared at you, taking in the version of you that sat in front of him—no longer the girl he once held in his arms, but a woman. Confident. Grown. Blossomed in a way he never imagined.

He wasn’t sure if it was regret or longing creeping up his spine, but he hated it.

“You still love me, Y/n…” he whispered, almost as if testing the weight of his own delusion.

You blinked at him, lips parting slightly in disbelief. But you said nothing. You didn’t need to.

You scoffed, shaking your head in disbelief.

“Joshua… it was all in the past. I don’t love you anymore. And honestly? I don’t even know if it was love to begin with… or just obsession. I was hurt—by my family, by everything. You were just a way out.”

Joshua’s throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. “Obsession? Y/n, you were obsessed with me? How could you say that…”

He watched you stand up from your seat, your body tense with finality. Panic sparked in his eyes, and without thinking, he reached out and gripped your wrist.

“Don’t go. Please… don’t go to him.”

You looked down at his hand on your wrist before meeting his eyes, cold and sharp.

“Why are you always like this, Joshua? Seungcheol is your best friend. You said that yourself. So why?”

Joshua blinked. Why? Why did it always feel like he needed to prove something? Like he needed the world—and maybe himself—to believe Seungcheol would always come second? That he was the one who shone brighter?

You pulled your hand back, voice low but laced with exhaustion. “Stop being jealous of him. We’re not seventeen anymore.”

His chest tightened. Then he said the one thing he’d been clinging to.

“You called me that time. You texted me.”

You froze. He was talking about the screenshot. The one floating around the internet. The one Ara had weaponized into a full-blown scandal.

You turned back to him, eyes burning.

“That was because your wife tried to ruin me, Joshua!” Your voice trembled, fury shaking through every word. “Ara tried to kill my career. She turned down every offer sent to me. She wanted me jobless. I texted you because I was desperate—I thought maybe you could talk some sense into her.”

Joshua opened his mouth, but no words came out.

“And you ignored me,” you whispered, voice breaking. “You left me hanging. And now… now you make it look like I’m a homewrecker? You let them believe that? You stayed silent while she tore me apart.”

There was a pause. A silence that felt heavier than any scream. And in that quiet, Joshua saw it—what he’d done. What he didn’t do.

“Ara, it’s over. It’s been over for a long time. You’re the only one,” Joshua said softly, reaching for her hands and holding them firmly in his.

Ara stared at him, eyes glassy, hurt simmering beneath the surface.

“Then tell me,” she said through gritted teeth, “why were you captured with her? Why were you seen with your ex in a hotel lobby like you had nothing to hide?”

Joshua sighed, tension coiling in his shoulders. “It wasn’t like that. We just… talked. But things got complicated. Everything’s been complicated lately, and you know that.” His voice faltered, almost pleading. “I’ve always loved you, Ara. Even when I was still with her.”

Ara bit the inside of her cheek, swallowing the bitter taste his words left behind.

“Then why…” she whispered, voice trembling, “why do you keep getting distracted by her these days? Why do your eyes drift when you think I’m not watching?”

Joshua looked down. His silence was louder than anything he could’ve said.

Because Ara wasn’t you.

And that truth—shameful, quiet, and damning—sat heavy on his chest.

*

Seungcheol had read every article. Every damn headline that twisted the truth into something grotesque. And still—he hadn’t seen you since that night. Since everything with Joshua hit the internet like wildfire.

He hated to admit it, but he was scared. Not of the public, not of the media—but of the possibility that you were avoiding him. That you might be too hurt, too tired, too ashamed to even face him. And the thought gutted him.

But more than anything, Seungcheol didn’t care what the world said. He knew you. He knew you wouldn’t do anything reckless. He knew your mind—how it worked, how it processed things wisely even when you were breaking. He was proud to say he knew you now, not just the girl from the past, but the woman you had grown into.

Still, it didn’t stop the media from fanning the flames.

Old wounds were reopened and picked apart. Every detail of your past with Joshua was dissected like you were nothing more than a scandal. Reporters interviewed your high school classmates, hungry for scraps of gossip. And somehow, overnight, you were painted as everything you never were: a homewrecker. A manipulative ex. A washed-up actress. A high school bully. A villain. Cancelled.

Seungcheol couldn’t stomach it. He couldn’t even look at your name trending without feeling sick. He called Seungkwan, desperate for answers, but Seungkwan only offered a tired sigh and a polite refusal.

“She’s somewhere safe. That’s all I can tell you.”

It was a déjà vu of the darkest kind. All over again, you were losing everything. Sponsors withdrew. Brands pulled out. Upcoming projects were "postponed indefinitely." And the public, once so quick to idolize, now tore you apart with bloodthirsty glee.

Then, a week passed. No word from you. No appearances. No social media activity. Just silence.

Until your name resurfaced.

This time, attached to a formal letter. A retirement.

Seungcheol stared at the screen, his blood running cold as he read your words. Calm. Gracious. Final.

You were leaving the industry.

And it broke something in him.

Two days later, he was standing at Joshua and Ara’s doorstep, fists clenched, jaw tight. He didn’t care about courtesy. He didn’t come to talk. He came to confront.

To demand answers.

Because while they lived comfortably inside their quiet home—married, unscathed—you were out there picking up the pieces of a life they helped destroy.

And Seungcheol wasn’t about to let that slide. Joshua opened the door, surprised to see Seungcheol standing there. He looked disheveled—no styled hair, no jacket, just a plain black shirt clinging to his chest, damp from the light rain outside. His eyes were bloodshot, tired, and angry.

“Seungcheol?”

Seungcheol didn’t say anything at first. He stepped inside without being invited, brushing past Joshua with a force that made it clear he wasn’t here for small talk.

Ara appeared from the hallway, her expression stiffening the moment she saw him.

“Seungcheol,” she said carefully. “What brings you—”

He turned to Joshua. “You let it happen again.”

Joshua blinked. “What?”

“You let her go through all of it again. You stood there and watched the world tear her apart—again. And this time, it was because of you.”

Ara folded her arms. “Don’t bring that tone in here.”

“Don’t tell me how to speak when she’s out there suffering because of you!” Seungcheol snapped, pointing at her. “You knew exactly what you were doing when you pulled those strings—blacklisting her, blocking projects, feeding lies to the media.”

“I never—”

“Don’t lie to me,” he growled. “You tried to bury her, Ara. And you—” he turned to his old friend, “you let her take the fall alone. You saw the articles. You saw the comments. And what did you do? Hide behind your silence like a coward?”

Joshua’s jaw tightened. “It wasn’t supposed to go this far.”

“But it did!” Seungcheol shouted. “Because you never stopped it. You never protected her. You just stood there while she wrote her own damn retirement letter like she was the villain in a story you wrote.”

“Cheol…” Joshua’s voice cracked. “I didn’t mean to hurt her.”

“But you did,” he said coldly. “You hurt her. And then you let the world finish the job.”

Silence fell. Joshua couldn’t meet his eyes anymore.

Seungcheol took a shaky breath, voice lower now, but no less sharp. “She loved you. Even after everything, she respected you. And you disrespected her name like it was nothing.”

“Then why are you here?” Ara asked, her voice tight.

“Because I’m not like you,” Seungcheol said, eyes locked with hers. “I don’t stay quiet when someone I love is bleeding.”

Joshua looked up sharply at that.

Seungcheol didn’t flinch. “Yeah. I love her. And I’m not going to sit still while people like you rip her apart.”

With that, he turned and walked toward the door, chest heaving.

“Fix it,” he said, without looking back. “Both of you. Before you lose whatever soul you still have left.”

And then he was gone—leaving the door open behind him, the air thick with the weight of everything they refused to face.

*

A year had passed.

Seungcheol found himself once again wandering an art gallery in Samcheong-dong, his safe haven. On days like this—quiet, gray-skied afternoons with no schedules—he liked to get lost in colors and silence. Museums, paintings, sculptures… they helped him think, helped him breathe. They grounded him when the world felt too fast. But today, they did little to soothe him.

Because today, he missed you.

More than yesterday. More than last week. More than he was willing to admit to anyone else.

He hadn’t seen you since that night—since your name was dragged through headlines, since your tear-stained retirement letter was posted across every screen, since he watched you disappear like smoke in a storm. No goodbye. No closure. Not even a whisper.

Still, deep inside, he believed you were okay. That you were somewhere far, healing. Creating. Living quietly. He told himself that every time your name made his chest ache.

After your contract officially ended, Seungcheol had taken care of everything. Without asking for your permission, he’d paid off the remaining debts you owed to Seungkwan.

“Just let her know I did this for her,” he told him quietly. “Not out of pity. But because I care.”

He never asked for anything in return. He only hoped you knew.

As he drifted past the modern impressionist section, a familiar texture caught his eye. Thick, dreamy brush strokes. G. The artist he’d admired. But it had been a while—almost two years—since G last released anything.

“She just launched five new paintings,” the curator beside him said. “Would you like to take a look, Mr. Choi?”

He followed, curious but detached—until his eyes landed on Beautiful Beach.

And suddenly, he couldn’t breathe.

It was a painting of a man standing at the shoreline, his arms wide open to the sea. The ocean crashed behind him, the wind caught his white shirt, and his pants fluttered around familiar legs. The way his hair curled in the wind—it was unmistakable.

It was him.

Seungcheol’s heart skipped.

“This one has drawn the most attention,” the curator said, handing him a pair of headphones. “There’s a recorded synopsis from the artist herself.”

The headphones pressed against his ears, and for a moment, only the sound of waves and seagulls filled the silence. Then a voice—soft, warm, clear. Familiar.

Your voice.

“Jeju. When the beach was beautiful… and you were too—beautiful.”

The date mentioned in the audio matched the exact day you both stayed in Jeju. He remembered that day clearly: leaving for almost a day to meet old friends while you stayed behind at the villa. When he returned, your painting tools had been scattered on the balcony, though you had brushed it off, asking the staff to clean them up before he could say a word.

He should’ve known. Should’ve asked.

He turned to the curator, voice tight. “Is G a woman?”

The curator nodded. “We believe so. Still in her thirties, based on the timing of her first portfolio. But we don’t have any biographical information—she chooses anonymity. Her agent manages everything.”

Then Seungcheol stared at another painting, breath caught in his throat. His fingers trembled. His chest tightened—not from fear, but longing. And then dread.

Love of My Life, G.

“I need her personal contact or information,” he said, turning toward the curator, urgency coating every syllable. “Please… can you help me?”

*

You were halfway through folding laundry when your phone buzzed with an unknown number. You picked it up absently, expecting a telemarketer.

“Hello, this is from Haesung Delivery. We’re arriving shortly with five paintings for Ji Y/n-ssi. Just confirming someone will be home to receive them.”

You froze. “I’m sorry—paintings?”

“Yes, five canvas pieces, already in shipment. Should be arriving in about fifteen minutes.”

Your mind started spinning. You hadn’t ordered any paintings. Not one, let alone five. None of your friends had mentioned sending you anything either. Confused and mildly anxious, you thanked the caller and hung up.

When the delivery arrived, the workers carried in large, bubble-wrapped canvases, each labeled with careful handling instructions. You signed the receipt in a daze.

The moment they left, you tore the packaging open—urgently, like unraveling a mystery that had been quietly waiting for you.

Your breath caught in your throat.

They were your paintings.

Paintings you had sold—some long ago, some to private collectors you never met in person. Yet here they were, standing like memories reincarnated in oil and color.

Villain Origin Story—the jagged depiction of a woman painting her own portrait while shadows loomed behind her, each one holding knives. A piece you created in the darkest part of your twenties.

An Actress—a surreal image of a man pulling off layers of masks, each one playing a different female role.

Detached—a woman sitting alone in the middle of a road while people rushed past her on either side, all in blurred motion. A painting about grief disguised as resilience.

Beautiful Beach—the serene figure of a man staring into the ocean from Jeju, his back turned, as if the sea might offer an answer he couldn’t speak aloud. That was the first one inspired by Seungcheol.

And then there it was—Love of My Life.

A baby’s tiny hand reaching up, fingers curled, with a paper label around the wrist. Scribbled in your brushstroke handwriting: love of my life.

You swallowed thickly. Your heart clenched.

Taped gently to the back of the final canvas was a small envelope. Inside, a handwritten note, no signature.

I enjoy these paintings so much.

You’re a piece yourself.

You stood there, the letter trembling slightly in your hand. You didn't know who sent them back or why—but the message was clear: someone saw you. Someone remembered. Someone thought you were worth returning to.

Your eyes lingered on the letter as your phone began to vibrate beside the unboxed paintings. You didn’t recognize the number, but something—your instinct, your gut, your heart—told you to pick it up.

You did.

“Hello?” you breathed.

A pause, just long enough to make your chest tighten.

Then a voice. Familiar. Deep. Gentle.

"Are they arrived safely?"

Your heart stopped for a moment.

You clutched the phone tighter. “You sent them...”

A low hum rumbled through the speaker, warm and quiet.

“The moment I found out it was you,” he said softly, “I couldn’t think of anything else but returning these pieces to you. They never belonged with me.”

You sat down slowly on the edge of your couch, knees weak, surrounded by fragments of your own soul painted on canvas.

“You bought all of them?”

“I had.” He paused, like he was choosing his next words carefully. “Turns out they held pieces of you I didn’t get to keep. But I realized… they’re not mine to hold onto.”

Tears burned behind your eyes. You blinked fast. “Why are you calling now?”

“Because I couldn’t go another day pretending that I was okay with the silence. I know I helped from afar… but I never asked if you wanted me to.” His voice cracked faintly. “I just wanted you to know… I still see you.”

A single tear slipped down your cheek.

“I see you,” he repeated. “Not the headlines. Not the scandal. Not the rumors. Just… you.”

You whispered, “Choi Seungcheol… I miss you.”

There was a sharp inhale on the other end of the line, like he’d been holding his breath for a year just to hear those words.

“I miss you too, Y/n,” he said, barely above a whisper. “Every damn day.”

Your eyes fluttered shut, as if that could somehow slow the racing of your heart. The silence between you was no longer heavy—it was full. Of everything unsaid. Of everything still waiting.

“I wanted to call you after everything,” he confessed. “After the letter. After the way the world turned its back on you. But I thought… maybe I’d done enough damage.”

“You didn’t,” you said softly, wiping your cheek. “You were the only one who didn’t.”

He let out a shaky breath, relief bleeding into his voice. “Do you think… maybe I can see you?”

You looked around your apartment, now filled with the ghosts of your past, returned like gifts. A warmth bloomed in your chest—not because the pain was gone, but because someone had carried it with you, even when you didn’t ask them to.

“You’re not here?” you asked as you opened your door, half-expecting to see him on the other side. Empty.

You heard Seungcheol chuckle softly through the phone, the sound tinged with affection.

“They wouldn’t even give me your address. They’re pretty strict with their artist… which, honestly, I’m glad.”

You bit your lip, your breath hitching as a sob threatened to escape. You turned away from the door, wiping your tears with the back of your hand, trying to steady your voice.

“I’m in Busan.”

There was a pause on the line. “Busan,” he repeated, like he was picturing it—like he could already see you there.

“That’s unexpected…” he murmured. “If I go there today… would that be okay?”

Your heart twisted. You looked down at the phone, your fingers trembling slightly as you held it closer.

“Totally,” you whispered, voice thick with emotion. “I’d really like that.”

And for the first time in a long time, hope didn’t feel like a heavy thing.

*

Seungcheol stood in front of your door, his heart pounding so hard he could hear it in his ears. His fingers hovered over the doorbell, then curled into a hesitant fist. For someone known to command people and boards, this—this quiet moment in front of a small apartment door in Busan—was the most nerve-wracking thing he’d done in years.

He took a deep breath. The salt in the sea breeze lingered in the air, and for a second, he remembered the painting—Beautiful Beach. It was him. It was you. It was everything they never said out loud.

He pressed the doorbell.

Inside, you froze. You hadn’t expected him to come this fast. You were still in your oversized sweater, your hair pinned up messily. But you moved to the door anyway, barefoot on the warm wooden floor.

When you opened it, he looked up.

For a beat, neither of you said anything. You took in the sight of him—dressed simply, holding nothing, but carrying everything. The way his eyes searched your face. The way his shoulders dropped like he could finally breathe.

“You’re really here,” you whispered.

“I had to see you,” he replied. “I couldn’t wait anymore.”

And then, as if time folded in on itself, you took one step forward—and he pulled you into his arms. Tight. Like he needed to prove you were real.

You stood there in his arms for a long moment, neither of you saying a word, the hallway holding its breath around you. You felt his chest rise and fall against yours, the warmth of his skin through the soft cotton of your sweater. He smelled like a memory—faint cologne, a hint of coffee, and the ocean air clinging to his coat.

When you finally pulled back, your hand lingered on his arm. “Come in,” you whispered.

The door clicked shut behind him.

Inside, the apartment was small but warm, art supplies scattered on the table, half-finished sketches on the wall. He walked in slowly, like he was stepping into a sacred space. His eyes scanned the paintings, some new, some old—some he had bought back with trembling hands, now resting again where they belonged.

“It’s strange,” he said, voice quiet. “They look different here. Like they can breathe again.”

You watched him as he ran his fingers along the edge of Villain Origin Story. “I used to stare at this one the most,” he murmured. “I kept wondering what kind of pain could birth something so bold. And then I realized… it was everything I missed while you were breaking.”

You swallowed hard, tears stinging your eyes. “I didn’t want you to see me like that. I didn’t want anyone to.”

“But I would’ve stayed,” he said, finally turning to you. “If you’d asked me to. I would’ve fought for you. I still would.”

You sat down on the couch, the heaviness in your chest both familiar and new. “I needed to lose everything. To see what I could survive without.”

He took a seat beside you, his hand finding yours.

“And now?” he asked.

You looked down at your intertwined fingers. “Now I’m starting to wonder what I want to live with.”

His thumb brushed your knuckles. “You know… I never said it back then. I thought it was too late. That I didn’t deserve to. But I’ll say it now, if you’ll let me.”

You met his eyes, steady and warm.

“Say it.”

“I loved you then,” he said, voice cracking. “And I still do. I don’t know if I deserve a second chance, but if there’s even a piece of you that still wants this… I’ll be here. For every version of you.”

You exhaled shakily, emotion flooding through your chest.

“I never stopped wanting you, Cheol,” you whispered. “Even when I had to let you go.”

He reached for you again—and this time, the kiss came softly. No fire, no rush. Just a promise. Just the beginning.

“Love of My Life,” Seungcheol said, his voice low but intent. “Enlighten me… because the moment I saw it, I thought—” He paused, brows furrowing as he gently pulled you closer, cupping your face with both hands. “I thought you had my baby.”

Your breath hitched at his honesty. You let out a soft sigh and gave a small, almost bittersweet smile as you shook your head.

“No,” you whispered. “I didn’t get pregnant or anything like that.”

You looked away for a second, then back into his eyes.

“It’s just… that painting,” you said, voice trembling slightly. “That was the moment I realized how deeply I loved you. My love for you—that love—was born the day I painted it.”

His hands tensed slightly around your cheeks, eyes scanning your expression like he was memorizing every word.

“I didn’t know how else to hold you,” you added softly. “So I held you there… in that painting.”

Seungcheol exhaled shakily, a small, relieved smile tugging at his lips.

“You have no idea,” he said, voice thick with emotion, “how long I’ve waited to hear something like that from you.”

You laughed again, this time with a lightness in your chest you hadn’t felt in years.

“And you have no idea how long I’ve wanted to say it.”

He leaned forward, forehead resting against yours, eyes closing as he breathed you in.

“You’re still the love of my life,” he whispered. “Even after everything. Even now.”

And as his lips met yours—soft, slow, and full of promise—it didn’t feel like starting over.

It felt like finally coming home.

*

Seungcheol sat beside you in the dressing room, his fingers intertwined with yours, grounding you as the hum of reporters buzzed through the walls. The press conference had just begun, and the moment you’d been running from for years was now moments away.

"You ready?" he asked softly, eyes steady on you.

You looked down at your name card—Ji Y/n, Artist—and took a deep breath. "I’m not sure I’ll ever be ready," you admitted, then smiled faintly, "but I’m here."

“That’s more than enough,” he said, lifting your hand to press a kiss against your knuckles. “Let them meet the soul behind the art. The woman I never stopped believing in.”

The emcee's voice echoed from the stage, calling your alias.

“Painter G has agreed to speak today…”

You stood, hands trembling just slightly, and walked toward the light with Seungcheol right behind you.

The cameras clicked furiously the moment you stepped into view. Whispers rushed through the crowd like a wave crashing against the rocks.

And then you spoke.

"Hello. I’m Ji Y/n,” you said calmly into the microphone. “Some of you know me as Painter G.”

A stunned silence washed over the room. You didn’t flinch.

“I want to begin by apologizing for the way I disappeared from the narrative. For what happened in the past.”

You paused, your fingers gently grazing the edge of the podium, heart steady despite the lights and cameras.

“For years, I painted anonymously. Not because I feared being seen, but because the world I came from didn’t have space for me to exist freely. So I spoke the only way I knew how—through colors. Through shadows. Through light.”

A soft breath escaped your lips as your gaze found the familiar face watching from the wings—Seungcheol, eyes full of quiet encouragement.

“My art was born in silence, but I hope it spoke loudly. And now, standing here as Ji Y/n, I hope my paintings can continue to be what they’ve always been meant to be—a place of comfort, a mirror, a home—for anyone who needs it.”

You smiled, a gentle but certain curve of your lips.

“Thank you for listening to me now… for seeing me.”

There was a heartbeat of stillness.

Then came the applause—hesitant at first, but quickly growing into something loud and warm.

Later that night, you stood in front of your newest piece at the gallery. The curator had insisted on exhibiting The Return, a new painting you created in Busan after Seungcheol came back.

It showed two silhouettes under soft light—one standing, one opening the door. Between them was a blur of colors, a reunion in motion.

Seungcheol came up behind you, arms circling your waist.

“Do you know how proud I am of you?”

You leaned back into him, eyes on the painting. “I think I’m starting to.”

He kissed the top of your head and whispered, “Welcome home, Y/n.”

*

The morning sun filtered through the sheer curtains, casting golden lines across the wooden floor. You were curled up on the couch, sketchpad in your lap, feet tucked beneath you as soft jazz played from the speaker in the corner. The house smelled faintly of fresh coffee and vanilla candles—Seungcheol’s favorites, even though he insisted he didn’t have favorites.

From the kitchen, you heard the familiar sound of him humming. You peeked over your sketchpad.

Seungcheol stood at the stove, hair slightly messy, wearing a faded gray hoodie and plaid pajama pants. He was flipping pancakes with a focus so intense, you had to smile.

“You’re taking this very seriously,” you teased.

He turned his head just enough to smirk. “These pancakes are a celebration. One year of not running from love deserves fluffier batter.”

You laughed, closing your sketchpad. “I’m glad you’re not running anymore.”

He set the pan down and walked over to you, lifting your feet and settling beside you, resting your legs on his lap. “You make it easy to stay.”

You reached out to touch his face, thumb tracing the scar on his eyebrow you always loved. “I still can’t believe we get mornings like this.”

Seungcheol caught your hand, kissed your knuckles. “We deserve mornings like this. And afternoons. And quiet nights. Maybe even a dog.”

You raised a brow. “A dog?”

He grinned. “A big one. Clumsy. Terrible guard instincts. But loves you more than anything. Like me.”

You snorted, but your heart swelled.

Then he leaned in, forehead resting against yours, voice softer now. “One year down. Forever to go. You still okay with that?”

You smiled, eyes glistening. “I’m more than okay with that.”

On the day of your first anniversary, Seungcheol took the day off, determined to make every second count.

He showed up at the door—where two of you lived together, with a shy smile and a bouquet of your favorite flowers—messily wrapped, as if he tried to do it himself, which only made it more perfect. "Ready for the best date of your life?" he grinned, eyes crinkling.

You nodded, slipping your hand into his, and the two of you stepped into the day like it belonged only to you.

First stop: an art gallery tucked between tall buildings, the kind only locals knew about. You both wandered through quiet halls, stopping in front of unfamiliar artists' work, whispering thoughts like secrets. He stood beside you with his arm around your waist, proudly watching you lose yourself in the brushstrokes, like you always did.

Shopping came next—just small things. A sweater you said felt like a hug, snacks for later, a new sketchpad. Every step was light, easy, like breathing.

By evening, you were at a rooftop restaurant overlooking the city. The lights below sparkled, but nothing outshone the warmth in Seungcheol’s eyes as he sat across from you. You had just finished dessert when he reached into his coat pocket and slid a small velvet box across the table.

Your breath caught.

“No pressure,” he said, voice gentle, but his fingers trembled slightly. “It’s not what you think, love. Not yet. But it’s a promise."

You opened it slowly. Inside was a simple, elegant ring—silver, with a tiny engraving inside: I see you.

Tears welled in your eyes.

“I’m not asking you to marry me, love. Not tonight,” he whispered, reaching across to take your hand. “But I am asking to keep growing with you. Keep showing up. Keep choosing you. Every day.”

You looked at him—your Seungcheol. The man who saw you behind every canvas. Who came back when you thought everyone else had walked away.

“Actually… I have a gift too.” You reached into your bag with a soft smile, and Seungcheol tilted his head, his brows lifting with curiosity.

“A gift?” he echoed, already intrigued.

You pulled out a small, neatly wrapped box—simple, but with care in every detail. You slid it across the table to him.

His eyes narrowed playfully. “It’s not a watch, is it?”

“Just open it,” you said, barely containing your grin.

He chuckled, but carefully peeled the ribbon away and lifted the lid.

And then—he froze.

The moment his eyes landed on what was inside, his breath caught. His gaze shot to you, wide with disbelief, then back to the box.

He blinked, once. Twice.

“Love… really?” His voice was almost a whisper, trembling with the weight of a thousand emotions.

He closed the box as if needing a second to process, pressing his hand over his mouth. His other hand gripped the edge of the table like the world had just tilted.

You watched him, biting your lip in amusement, your heart swelling at the way he was visibly falling apart—in the sweetest way possible. His joy was so big, he didn’t know where to put it.

After a few beats of stunned silence, he opened the box again, his eyes shimmering. Then, he let out a laugh—soft, breathless, completely overwhelmed.

“We need to get married,” he whispered, leaning in closer, his voice cracking as his eyes flicked between your face and the testpack laying in the box. “Love, we’re going to be parents?”

You nodded slowly, tears pricking your lashes. “Yeah… we are.”

In that moment, the city lights faded behind him. All that existed was you, him, and the quiet miracle growing between you.

He stood up suddenly, walked around the table, and pulled you into his arms with so much love it nearly knocked the air from your lungs.

“Forget everything I said earlier,” Seungcheol said suddenly, pulling back just enough to look into your eyes—his own still glossy with wonder. “I’m not waiting anymore. I’m proposing tonight.”

He reached for your hand, holding it like it was the only thing anchoring him to the earth.

“Let’s get married, love. I want to build everything with you. Starting now.”

*

The living room looked like a battlefield—and Seungcheol was clearly losing the war.

There were wedding brochures everywhere, color swatches pinned to walls like crime scene clues, half-finished to-do lists scattered across the coffee table, and at least three different planners lying open, none of which seemed to be helping his sanity.

“We still haven’t finalized the seating chart,” he muttered, pacing. “And what if the venue changes the lighting last minute? Or the florist forgets we said no roses? Love, seriously, we’re two weeks away!”

From the couch, you let out a soft hum, cradling your slowly growing belly with one hand and flipping a page in your book with the other. “Babe… relax. It’s all under control.”

He spun around, pointing dramatically at you. “You’re too calm. You’re suspiciously calm. You’re either hiding a meltdown or secretly plotting my downfall.”

You just smiled, glowing in a way that had nothing to do with stress and everything to do with the small life inside you. “Why would I be stressed? I’m marrying you. That’s the only thing that matters.”

He opened his mouth to argue—then closed it again. His eyes dropped to the gentle curve of your belly under your loose shirt. That stopped him cold.

Your free hand slid over your bump, soothing it instinctively, and his gaze softened, the stress in his features unraveling just a little.

“I already have everything I need,” you said quietly. “You, and our baby. The rest is just… decorations.”

Seungcheol let out a long sigh and walked over, letting you pull him down beside you. You snuggled into his side, resting your head against his chest, feeling the way his heart slowly calmed. He placed a hand on your belly, rubbing it gently.

“You’re dangerous,” he mumbled, smiling despite himself. “You and this baby—tag-teaming my blood pressure.”

You giggled. “Then you better get used to it, Mr. Choi. This is just the beginning.”

He kissed your forehead, then your temple, then your belly. “As long as I have you both, I’ll survive. Even if the cake is wrong and the napkins are beige instead of ivory.”

You laughed again, softer this time. “See? We’re going to be just fine.”

He nodded, eyes shining. “Yeah. We really are.”

Two weeks later when the morning light filtered gently through the hotel room curtains, casting a golden glow across white satin, soft florals, and the delicate lace of your wedding dress hanging by the window. The air was quiet—peaceful, even—as makeup brushes moved like whispers across your skin, stylists moving carefully, reverently, as if they knew this wasn’t just any wedding.

This was yours. And today, you would marry the love of your life.

Your hands rested gently on your belly, the softest curve showing beneath the silk of your robe. The baby gave a tiny flutter, like even they could feel it—today was special.

“Y/n,” your stylist whispered, handing you a mirror, “you’re glowing.”

You smiled, eyes meeting your reflection. You looked like someone who knew she was loved.

Meanwhile, in the groom’s suite, chaos ruled.

“Where’s my cufflink?” Seungcheol asked, half-dressed, half-breathless. “The gold one—no, the one she picked.”

Jeonghan, his cousin, rolled his eyes as he calmly handed it over. “Relax. You’re still handsome. Even with one cufflink.”

“You don’t get it,” Seungcheol muttered, fidgeting with his collar. “She’s pregnant. She’s walking down the aisle carrying our baby. I need to be perfect.”

Mingyu, another cousin, patted his shoulder. “You love her. That’s already perfect enough.”

And Seungcheol nodded, grounding himself in that truth.

When the music finally began and the doors opened, everyone turned—but for Seungcheol, the world went silent. There you were, walking down the aisle, a soft smile on your lips, bouquet in hand, your other hand brushing protectively over your belly.

He blinked, almost disbelieving, his heart rising to his throat. You were everything. His future. His family.

As you reached him, your eyes locked—and all the nerves in him melted. He held out his hand, steady and sure, and you took it with no hesitation.

“Hi,” he whispered, teary-eyed.

“Hi,” you whispered back, voice trembling with joy.

The ceremony passed like a dream—vows spoken between soft tears and laughter, rings exchanged with trembling fingers, and a kiss that promised forever.

The reception had faded into a blur of lights and laughter, toasts and warm embraces. The music had slowed, the guests slowly leaving, and the stars outside blinked quietly over the city. You were finally alone.

Back in your suite, shoes kicked off and veil set aside, you curled into the couch together—your head resting on his chest, his hand gently resting over the swell of your belly. No cameras, no speeches, no expectations.

Just you. Just him. Just this.

Seungcheol shifted slightly, brushing his lips against your forehead before whispering, “Thank you.”

You looked up at him, brow raised. “For what?”

He smiled softly. “For not giving up on love even when life gave you every reason to. For choosing me. For letting me be the one to build a life with you. I never thought I’d find someone who makes me feel seen the way you do.”

You blinked back the tears, biting your lip as you leaned up to cup his face. “Then thank you… for showing me I’m not hard to love. For holding space for me, for everything I carried before I met you. And for loving me in the softest way I never knew I needed.”

He kissed your palm, holding it over his heart. “You and this baby… you’re my everything.”

You rested your forehead against his, your voice a whisper, “And you’re home. Always have been.”

In that stillness, wrapped in each other and in the promises you made only hours ago, there was nothing left to say. Just quiet gratitude—heavy, full, and endlessly warm.

The end

[thedensworld]

Omg hiii. Are you finally back???

Honestly, idk.. It feels like I'm losing myself🥺

[thedensworld]

Hi👋

No Safe Place | C.Hs

Pairing: Hitman Vernon x reader

Genre: Action, Romance, Suggestive (mdni!)

Word Count: 18k

Preview: He was meant to kill for her, but he didn't expect to fall in love

Amazing gif from @chwedout 🤍🌼🤍🌼

Hansol glanced at the new message notification on his phone—an unknown number. Just two words, "hi". Followed by another, "I need your help."

They weren’t the first. He lost count of how many people had texted, called, or even left anonymous notes with the same desperate plea. Help me.

He wasn't a saint. Far from it. Not really a sinner either—though some might argue otherwise. Honestly, who gets to decide? But one thing was certain: he had helped some people. In his own way.

He grew up in a foster home after his parents died in a car crash when he was six.

It was supposed to be a trip to the beach before starting elementary school. He remembered the smell of sea salt and the soft sound of waves—before everything went black.

Instead of a classroom, he entered a new life in a cramped government house. The foster home wasn’t all bad. He shared it with one other kid, which made things bearable—almost fun sometimes. Minus Mrs. Park, the caretaker. God, she was horrible. He didn’t even want to start unpacking that.

Now, he's a hitman. People pay him to kill. Ironic, right? Some people study ten years behind a desk to keep a heart beating. He was trained to stop it in seconds.

At 12, a man adopted him. Just like that—papers signed, suitcase packed.

Mr. Ki. He never smiled, never yelled. Just barked orders like a military ghost. Hansol never understood why he had to run kilometers every morning, or why his squats and jumping jacks had to be counted out loud. Reflex training. Silence drills. Night vision tests.

Then, one day, Mr. Ki handed him a gun. No words. Just a deer in the woods. His first kill.

Cold eyes. Steady hands.

“You are Vernon now,” the man said.

That was the day Hansol died. And Vernon was born.

Now, he tossed his Nietzsche onto the nightstand and walked toward the computer, phone still in hand. He typed back, "Tell me."

Almost instantly, the reply came. "I'm Jung Y/n. I want you to kill my husband. His name is Lee Seokmin. He works at Shinjeon & Baek Law Group."

He arched a brow. Efficient. His fingers flew across the keyboard. Lee Seokmin.

Dozens of links. Headlines. Smiling photos. Press statements. Typical corporate face. White-collared. Polished. He clicked one photo—Seokmin, arm wrapped around a woman. Her hand rested on his chest. Wedding bands caught the light.

That must be her. Jung Y/n. Out of habit, Vernon clicked her profile next. Her account wasn’t private.

Bio: Kindergarten Teacher. Devoted Wife. Philosophy Lover.

That last part made him pause. A crooked smile tugged at his mouth. A woman who quotes Plato but hires a killer in secret?

Interesting.

He leaned back in his chair, still staring at her photo. “Let’s see what kind of truth you believe in, Jung Y/n.”

*

The café was nearly empty, just the way Hansol preferred it.

Muted jazz played low in the background, blending with the soft clink of porcelain and the occasional murmur of baristas. Rain tapped gently against the windows—persistent, but polite.

He sat in the farthest corner, back to the wall, hood pulled low. His fingers curled loosely around a cup of black coffee—untouched, cooling. He didn’t drink when he worked. And this? This counted as work.

The door creaked open. He looked up.

You stepped in, brushing raindrops from the sleeves of her coat. Hair still damp, cheeks flushed from the cold, eyes scanning the room until they landed on him. You looked… ordinary.

Hansol didn’t wave. He didn’t need to.

He just sat there, a shadow in the farthest corner of the quiet café, the scent of dark roast and rain-soaked pavement wrapping around him like smoke.

Then you walked in.

The soft chime of the door followed you, along with the sharp scent of petrichor clinging to your coat. Your eyes scanned the room, then lit up when they landed on him—

A smile bloomed. Warm. Natural. Disarming.

And it took him aback.

Because you were smiling at a man you believed would soon kill your husband.

“Hey, nice to meet you. You must be Vernon.”

You said it with the polished tone of someone used to customer service counters and PTA meetings—cheerful, bright, oddly soothing. The same kind of tone the woman near his apartment used to sell massage chairs every weekend.

“Yes,” he said simply. He took your handshake—cool fingers, light grip, steady. “That would be me. And you’re Jung Y/n?”

You nodded, setting your coat over the chair before sitting across from him. A few rain droplets clung to your hair, glittering like tears under the café lights.

“I was a little nervous before coming, so… I brought you this.”

You pulled out a box and nudged it toward him.

“If you don’t mind.”

Mini donuts.

Neatly arranged. Some glazed, some dusted with sugar, one with pink sprinkles that didn’t quite match the mood.

Hansol blinked at the box.

In ten years of this life, he’d received death notes, bloody wallets, burner phones—never pastries.

He didn’t reach for one. He just stared at them for a second longer than he meant to.

Strawberry sprinkles. Jesus.

He remembered liking them. Once. Long ago. When someone packed him lunch before first grade. Before things turned cold.

His eyes lifted to yours.

And he watched.

Straight-cut hair, still damp. Your features were quiet, balanced, unremarkable—but somehow the softness in your expression caught him off guard.

You smiled like you didn’t know where you were. Like you didn’t care.

“I forgot my umbrella at school,” you said lightly, brushing hair behind your ear. “Sudden rain, of course.”

“How are you, by the way?” you asked next, like you weren’t sitting across from a killer-for-hire.

Your eyes were curious. Not cautious. That, too, surprised him.

Hansol nodded slowly. “Good. Very good. Like every day.”

You mirrored him. Smile intact. “You… you look normal,” you said without hesitation.

That stopped him. Hard.

Normal.

No one had ever called him that. Not in any tone that wasn’t sarcastic or suspicious.

Hansol cleared his throat, shifting slightly in his chair.

“So,” he said, his voice returning to neutral, “what do you do for a living, Mrs. Jung?”

You waved your hand, almost shy. “Please. Just call me Y/n. Be casual with me.”

“I’m a kindergarten teacher. St. Louisville Kindergarten. Ring a bell?”

He nodded. “Yeah… Heard about it. Kind of far from here, isn’t it?”

“Yes! That’s why I’m drenched.” You glanced down at your clothes—water-darkened at the sleeves, a few strands of wet hair clinging to your cheek. “I hope you don’t mind.”

“No, that’s fine,” he said, watching closely. “But are you fine?”

There was a flicker of concern in his voice.

You shook your head quickly. “I’m heading home anyway. I just didn’t want to miss this.”

Hansol nodded. Still quiet. Still measuring.

Then you tilted your head slightly. “So… what about you, Vernon? What do you do?”

He raised his brows, caught off guard. That wasn’t a line people usually crossed with him.

A beat passed.

Then your eyes widened as you groaned under your breath.

“Ah—I’m sorry, I tend to forget things when I’m nervous. That’s… ridiculous.”

Hansol inhaled slowly. He had to bring this back to what mattered. “So, Y/n. Y/n, right?”

You smiled again. “Right.”

“Listen.” His tone lowered, firm now. “I don’t do business without reason. My rules are clear. I kill bad people. That’s it. Sinners only. I don’t touch the innocent.”

His gaze locked onto yours. There was nothing playful left.

“So if you want me to kill your husband…” He leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table, voice like steel behind velvet.

“You need to tell me. What’s his sin?” Hansol noticed it immediately—the way the color drained from your face the moment he mentioned your husband.

It was subtle. The way your shoulders tensed, your fingers curled slightly in your lap, your eyes losing that soft shine. He’d seen it before. Too many times. That quiet shift before a story that hurts.

You took a deep breath, voice quieter now, careful. “I’ve been married to Lee Seokmin for five years.”

Your thumb brushed the rim of your coffee cup. “He was a good man. Really. Funny, dependable, affectionate when he wanted to be.”

Hansol didn’t blink. He listened.

“But… things changed. Slowly. At first, it was just the way he talked—he got mean when he was angry, started throwing things when we fought. But it escalated. Last year, he started getting physical.”

Hansol’s brows pulled together slightly. “Why?”

That made you pause. You blinked, lips parting.

“I just wanted to have a child,” you said, almost like a confession. “That’s all I asked. A baby. A family. But he was… afraid. Said I was trying to trap him. Said he wasn’t ready.”

You looked away, jaw tightening.

“The more I brought it up, the more he pulled away. And then one night…”

Your voice trembled slightly as you reached into your coat pocket and pulled something out—a small mirror. You angled it under your chin and slowly lifted your scarf.

Hansol’s eyes narrowed as he leaned in.

There it was. A healing cut, faint but unmistakable, just under the curve of your jaw.

A blade. Close. Intentional.

“He threatened to kill me,” you said softly. “That night, I knew it wasn’t just words anymore.”

Hansol sat back. A deep silence stretched between you.

You stared at your hands. “I just wanted a happy family. That’s it. A house with a kid, maybe two. Someone to come home to. Laugh at stupid movies with. Fight about groceries and then make up the next day. I didn’t ask for too much, did I?”

Happy family.

The words echoed.

Hansol looked down briefly, his fingers tapping against the table, almost like they remembered something his mind didn’t want to.

Then he looked back up. “Have you ever considered divorcing him?”

You let out a breath that sounded too close to a laugh.

“I did. Twice. But every time I packed my things, he’d cry. Apologize. He’d tell me he’d change, say he’d go to therapy. He even bought baby clothes once. Told me we could try.”

Hansol tilted his head, unreadable.

“And did he?”

Your silence was answer enough.

“No,” you whispered. “He just got better at hiding the threats. At gaslighting me. At making me question my own memories. And I… I got tired.”

Your voice cracked then. Just slightly. Just enough to make Hansol lean back, look at you differently.

He’d seen people cry before. Seen them beg, scream, curse. But this— This quiet surrender in your voice. This was different.

And for the first time, Hansol took a sip of his coffee.

*

The amber glow of the bedside lamp stretched over the pages of the book resting in Hansol’s hand, it cracked open to a passage he’d read too many times to count. His eyes moved slowly over the line, Schopenhauer’s quote lingering at the edge of his mind:

“A man can do what he wills, but he cannot will what he wills.”

He paused. The sentence seemed to hum beneath his skin, more familiar than he wanted to admit. He leaned back against the headboard, the leather spine creasing beneath his thumb, and let the words take him somewhere else.

A week ago.

A rainy afternoon.

And you.

His memory slipped easily into that quiet café, where the sound of soft jazz tangled with the patter of rain against the window. You had sat across from him, your damp sleeves clinging to your arms, fingers wrapped around a lukewarm mug of tea. The donuts sat untouched between you, half-glazed offerings between strangers.

Your voice had trembled only slightly when you told him about your husband. Married for five years. A good man, once. Then cruel in slow, almost invisible degrees. Throwing things. Silence as punishment. One night, the blade. The thin scar you showed him was still pink beneath your neck.

And Hansol had said, his voice quiet but unyielding,

“You should punish him, not kill him.”

You had looked up, startled. Your eyes widened—not with fear, but disbelief. Hope, maybe, or the lack of it.

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the edge of the table. “Men can’t run from who they are,” he said. “They’ll never change.”

His fingers tapped once against the rim of his cup. “Killing him won’t give you anything. Not peace. Not justice. Not freedom. And it won’t give his family anything either—just another grave they’ll never understand.”

You didn’t answer immediately. You simply blinked slowly, and your lips parted as if you wanted to say something but didn’t trust the words to come out right.

Back in the present, Hansol closed the book gently and placed it on his nightstand. The silence in the room felt heavier now, like the echo of a decision that hadn’t yet been made. He rubbed the back of his neck, then glanced at his phone, the screen still dark. No new messages. No name at the top of the list.

Only yours—still saved as Jung Y/n.

Hansol remembered how the conversation ended that day—unexpectedly gentle for a man like him.

You sat with your fingers tangled together in your lap, eyes fixed on the corner of the table like the grain of the wood might reveal a hidden answer. The scar you’d shown him still hovered in his memory like a question mark. But it wasn’t the wound that haunted him—it was the way your voice trembled after. Not with rage. Not with vengeance. With fear. With exhaustion.

You were scared.

And Hansol, for once, didn’t feel like a weapon. He felt like a man sitting across from someone trying not to drown.

“Think about it,” he’d said after a pause, sliding the untouched box of donuts toward you. “You don’t want to do this. Not really.”

You looked up at him, surprised, as if his words cracked through some wall you hadn’t realized you’d built.

“I don’t usually offer that,” Hansol added, leaning back into his chair. “Options. Most people come to me with answers, not fear.”

Your lips parted. You wanted to argue—he could see it in your eyes. But instead, you nodded. Slow. Grateful. A little broken.

He let you go. Told you to take your time. Think it through.

That had never happened before. He never gave people time. They either meant it, or they didn’t.

But something about you made him certain—you didn’t. You weren’t a killer. You were just cornered, and no one had ever handed you a way out that didn’t end in blood.

Back in his apartment now, Hansol stared at the ceiling, the quiet pressing down like a weight. He rolled onto his side, phone still silent, screen dim.

He should’ve heard something by now. A text. A thank-you. Even a final word, saying you’d changed your mind. Maybe you’d filed for divorce. Maybe you were healing.

He almost smiled.

For once, he hoped he’d done something good.

He hoped, in this twisted life of contracts and kill orders, he’d managed to give someone a different ending.

And for the first time in a long time, Hansol told himself he should try to believe in that.

He shut his eyes, and let that quiet hope keep him warm. A frustration sighed out, he started to think he'll make a good therapist

Hansol didn’t believe in coincidences. But when he reached for a jar of jelly—blueberry, the good one—only for his hand to brush against someone else’s, he paused.

And blinked.

You.

You, with your hair tied up messily and a basket half full with tofu, milk, and instant coffee. You, wearing a soft blue sweater and looking at him with the same wide-eyed surprise he must’ve mirrored.

“…You shop here too?” you asked, sounding more breathless than the question warranted.

Hansol glanced at his own basket—just two items. Packed kimchi and jelly. It almost felt embarrassing. “Only for essentials,” he replied, raising a brow. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Same,” you smiled, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “I just moved in with my sister. She lives a block away.”

His eyes narrowed slightly. “You moved?”

“Yeah,” you said, shifting your weight to one foot. “I filed for divorce this morning.”

That made him straighten a little. “You did?”

You nodded, and for the first time, he saw something new on your face—relief. Not full, not yet. But it was a start.

“I needed to. I mean… you were right.” Your voice softened as you looked down at the neatly stacked rows of jelly. “Killing him wouldn’t have made me feel safe. It would’ve made me something I’m not.”

Hansol exhaled slowly through his nose. The faintest curve touched his lips. “I see…” He placed the jelly in his basket and leaned a little closer. “Is that a sign I’ll be seeing you a lot around this area?”

You looked up, surprised again—he kept catching you like that.

“Depends,” you said slowly, teasingly. “If you keep your grocery list this short, maybe not.”

Hansol smirked. “Then I guess I’ll start cooking.”

You laughed, and the sound lingered, unexpected and warm among the quiet fluorescent aisles. It felt strange. Natural. Dangerous, even. But Hansol didn’t walk away. For once, he didn’t want to.

Again… Hansol never believed the world was small. He believed it was deliberate. The way things happened. The way people crossed paths. Like how he saw you again—twice that same week.

Once, in a quiet bakery when he was grabbing his usual black coffee and you were hunched over a cinnamon bun with whipped cream. You waved when you saw him and offered a bite without hesitation.

Then again, outside the pharmacy. You were picking up vitamins, hair still damp from a shower, bundled in a hoodie and slippers like the world was your living room. You smiled, and that smile sat in his mind for the rest of the day.

The next night, he texted you.

[Unknown Number]

“Don’t tell me you’re going to show up at my gym next.”

You replied ten minutes later:

[Y/n]

“Do you go to the one with the green sign near the station?”

“Asking for a friend. Who likes jelly and kimchi.”

Hansol stared at his screen longer than he meant to, lips twitching into something dangerously close to amusement.

[Vernon]

“If I say yes, you’ll show up on purpose.”

[Y/n]

“No comment.”

It wasn’t normal for him—this kind of banter. But nothing about you was. You weren’t like the people he dealt with. You didn’t walk in with envelopes or plans. You walked in with donuts. With a storm in your past and a laugh that somehow cut through his quiet.

He started texting more after that. Little things.

“Saw this and thought of you.” —attached was a photo of a small bookstore display featuring Nietzsche.

“Is the school near the coffee place?”

“Don’t forget your umbrella this time.”

You answered. Every time. And slowly, it stopped being surprising that you were in his day. It started feeling… expected. He didn’t know if it was dangerous. Maybe it was. But then again, so was he.

*

Hansol had just finished dinner—nothing fancy, just some rice and grilled mackerel from a nameless place down the street—when he stepped into the alley behind the building to cut across toward the main road. The air was damp, heavy with the smell of rain and old grease.

Then—

An arm coiled tight around his neck.

His reflexes kicked in. No time to think.

He dropped his weight low, elbow driving backward into the assailant’s ribs. A grunt. Another twist, and he slammed the stranger against the wall. The man fought hard, fists flying, but Hansol moved faster. A punch to the jaw, then a brutal knee to the gut. The man collapsed in a heap, unconscious before his body fully hit the ground.

Hansol didn’t wait.

He darted through the alley, turning corners, hand sliding into the pocket of his coat where his gun rested.

Every sound was a threat. Every shadow, a question. Someone wanted him dead. That much, he knew.

Then—

Movement.

A flash of white fabric. Soft footsteps. Running. He raised his weapon.

But then your voice cracked through the air.

“Vernon!”

You came into view like a ghost out of a nightmare—wearing what looked like a nightgown, breath coming in short, fast puffs. And in your hand—

A gun.

He blinked. “What the hell—?”

You looked just as shocked to see him. “Why are you here like this? What happened? What is this?” his eyes dropped to the weapon in your hand, then to your clothes—ripped slightly, stained from the scuffle.

You followed his gaze and swallowed. “Someone broke into my place. I—I knocked him out and took his gun.”

His jaw tightened. “You should’ve called the police.”

“I was too scared,” you said, voice breaking. Your fingers gripped his jacket like it was the only solid thing left. “I couldn’t think straight.”

He understood that. Who could think clearly when death brushed your skin?

With a sigh, Hansol pulled off his coat and draped it over your shoulders, steadying your hands. “Stay with me.”

He gripped your wrist, careful but firm, and led you toward another alleyway—a shortcut to his apartment. His mind raced, calculating. Someone was targeting both of you. This wasn’t a coincidence.

Then he saw it. A flicker of movement near the stone gate at the far end. A silhouette.

Gun raised.

In one motion, Hansol spun, pulling you flush to his chest, shielding you. His arm extended, finger on the trigger—

Bang.

The shot rang out clean. The figure crumpled, weapon falling from their grasp with a metallic thud.

Silence. Then just your breathing, heavy and uneven against his collarbone.

Hansol slammed the apartment door shut and double-locked it. The air inside was warm, lived-in. Sparse lighting and the faint smell of black coffee clung to the corners. He didn’t speak as he dropped his coat, yanked open a drawer beneath the shoe rack, and tossed you one of his black jacket.

“Here. Wear this, you’re shivering.”

You caught it silently, hands still trembling from the alley encounter.

Hansol was already moving—opening cabinets, drawers, retrieving a duffel bag from under the couch. He threw in a handful of ammunition, a switchblade, burner phones, an old passport. The shift in his demeanor was swift—methodical, practiced. This wasn’t the first time he had to move quickly.

“You’re not safe anymore,” he muttered as he knelt beside a safe hidden in the floorboards. He clicked it open and pulled out two more handguns. “Keep these. One in your bag, one on you. Safety’s on. Don’t take it off unless you’re aiming to kill.”

He placed one gun in your palm, firm and cold.

But you didn’t grip it.

Not yet.

Hansol turned his back to you, kneeling again to tie up the duffel’s zipper.

And that’s when he felt it—

A sharp, chilling pressure at the back of his neck. Metal. He froze. His eyes shifted to the window’s reflection in front of him—and there you were.

Gun in hand. Arm steady. Finger near the trigger.

His breath caught.

“Shit.”

Hansol’s fingers were still wrapped loosely around the gun when you reached into your night gown pocket and pulled out something small—flat, encased in leather. You flipped it open.

The badge caught the dim apartment light, flashing gold and stark against the dark—

NIS. National Intelligence Service.

His jaw locked.

You looked up at him, expression unreadable now. Everything—your trembling hands, the nervous smiles, the soft-spoken fear—fell off you like a mask. Your voice, when you spoke again, was steady. Crisp. Cold.

“Let’s go down,” you said. “People are waiting outside.”

The shift hit Hansol in the gut like a steel punch. Your tone—professional, sharp, devoid of warmth—wasn’t the woman who brought him donuts, or the one who clung to his jacket in the alley, whispering that she was scared.

You were someone else. Someone trained.

Hansol didn't move right away. He let out a bitter chuckle, short and humorless. “So that’s what this was.”

They’d been waiting for this. For him. For a while. And the worst part? He hadn’t seen it coming. Not once. He, the one who could smell death in a three-mile radius, had been outplayed. Cornered. By you.

The agents closed in. And all Hansol could do was walk. Then he noticed it—no one had their weapons trained on him. Every barrel, every laser dot, every cold, quiet threat… was aimed at you.

His steps faltered.

Eyes narrowing, he turned just enough to catch your profile. Your jaw was clenched, unreadable. But your grip on his wrist trembled—only for a second—before locking firm again. It was a slip, but it told him everything.

“They’re not here for me,” Hansol muttered, voice low and certain. “They’re here for you.”

You didn’t answer.

Didn’t need to.

Your breath hitched. The silence screamed louder than any denial.

Hansol scanned the crowd again, his eyes landing on the man nearest—a clean-cut figure with sharp posture and a standard-issue Glock. The man didn't even spare Hansol a glance as he barked the order.

“Agent Jung. Step away from the target.”

Hansol froze.

Agent Jung.

So even your name… had been real.

The gun you still held to his neck hadn’t wavered, but he could feel it now—your arms weren’t braced in duty anymore. They were trembling beneath the weight of something heavier. Regret.

“Y/n,” the man said again, harsher this time. “You know the protocol. You’ve compromised the mission. Step away—now.”

Hansol turned slowly, deliberately. Your eyes met his. Not the eyes of a stranger, not the eyes of a spy—but of someone who had cooked with him, shared stolen laughter in the quiet aisles of a grocery store, who had once clutched his jacket in fear and now held a gun to his neck with shaking hands.

You blinked. And something broke.

The muzzle dropped an inch. Then another.

Hansol didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. He didn’t want to rush you. This wasn’t about the agents or the mission anymore. This was about whatever war was being waged inside you.

Then, slowly, you reached into your coat pocket and pressed something cold and familiar into his hand.

One of his guns. The one he’d given you.

Your fingers curled over his. You leaned in, your lips grazing his ear, and whispered, “In three.”

Hansol’s mouth twitched. Damn.

He didn’t know what twisted part of him found this thrilling—but it was there. He could feel it rising like heat under his skin. A hell of a night was about to begin, and his heart wasn’t afraid.

It was alive.

He counted in silence.

“One…”

Your eyes flicked sideways. Your stance shifted.

“Two…”

The man in front of you stepped forward, aiming. “Agent Jung, do not engage—”

“Three.”

In a single motion, Hansol twisted left, catching your wrist to pivot you behind him as he fired up, shattering the overhead lights. The alley plunged into chaos—glass rained, red beams danced across the walls like wild eyes.

You dropped low, scooping a weapon from a fallen agent and rolled behind a car.

Hansol was already moving—swift, calculated, every movement a blur.

Two agents dropped before they could find cover. Another shouted, trying to call for backup, before a clean shot from you silenced him.

“Parking lot,” you said between breaths. “East exit’s clear.”

Hansol reached for your hand. “Then what are we waiting for?”

You didn’t hesitate. Your fingers met his, tighter than ever. No orders now. No protocol. No lies. Just two fugitives, running headfirst into the dark.

And Hansol—grinning, blood thrumming—knew one thing for sure.

This was far from over.

*

The road stretched endlessly in front of them, headlights carving through the darkness like a scalpel. Hansol gripped the steering wheel in silence, the hum of the engine the only thing filling the air between you. You sat rigidly in the passenger seat, tapping furiously on your phone, switching between encrypted channels, hoping for a response.

Nothing.

No confirmation. No debrief. No explanation.

Just silence… and that one chilling command you’d caught before the line went dead.

"Terminate if compromised."

Your pulse roared in your ears. The phone shook in your hands. With a breath that barely stayed in your lungs, you shut it off and—without a second thought—hurled it out of the window. The sharp crack of glass on asphalt echoed like a closing door.

Hansol didn’t say anything at first. But you caught the smirk twitching on his lips through the faint dashboard light. Of course he noticed.

“What?” you snapped, your voice rougher than intended.

He didn’t look at you. Just kept his eyes on the road. “Nothing.”

You turned fully toward him, eyes narrowed. “You’re enjoying this.”

Hansol let out a breath that was nearly a laugh, but there was a thread of disbelief in it. “No. I’m trying to wrap my head around it.”

“Wrap your head around what?” you asked, biting back the storm in your chest.

He glanced at you, just briefly. “I mean, first off—you’re not a wife with a violent husband. You’re NIS.”

You said nothing.

“Second, you tried to arrest me. After I saved you.”

You rolled your eyes.

“And third—plot twist of the year—they weren’t even coming for me.” He turned to you with a smirk. “You really buried the lead there.”

“You’re such an ass,” you muttered under your breath. Your fists clenched in your lap.

“And what?” Hansol continued, quieter now. “You were going to let them take me? Tie up a loose end?”

You looked away, jaw tight. “It wasn’t supposed to go like this.”

“That’s not a no.”

“No,” you snapped. “It’s not.”

His silence returned, but it wasn’t comfortable—it was sharp. Heavy. He shifted in his seat, his hands tightening on the wheel. The smirk was gone.

“Figures,” he muttered.

You exhaled through your nose, shoulders tense. “Don’t pretend you’re some innocent bystander. The agency had every reason to keep eyes on you.”

“Yeah?” he bit back, calm tone fraying. “Then why are those same eyes on you now?”

That stopped you.

He chuckled, low and cold. “Exactly.”

The tension in the car was thick enough to strangle. The betrayal ran both ways, and neither of you were pretending otherwise now. You stared ahead at the road, your pulse drumming against your ribs.

“I don’t know what they’re hiding,” you said finally, voice brittle. “But they weren’t just watching you. They used me to get close.”

Hansol scoffed under his breath, but didn’t interrupt.

“And now they’re trying to erase it. Erase me.”

A long pause.

The night stretched on, the highway empty except for their car cutting through it like a blade.

Hansol’s knuckles were tight on the steering wheel, but his tone stayed even when he spoke again. “Then… is Lee Seokmin real?”

You nodded slowly, still staring out into the dark. “An old friend. Got him a lot of cash for the role. We're going to his safe house.”

The car’s engine cut off with a low rumble, and the world fell into silence again. A worn cabin stood before you—quiet, nondescript, half-buried by trees and dusk. No lights, no sign of life. But you knew better.

You moved first, brushing past Hansol as you stepped toward the entrance with practiced caution. He followed, eyes sharp, tense fingers near the hem of his jacket—close enough to draw if anything went wrong.

The front door creaked open under your hand. No alarm. No traps. Just the smell of dust and old wood.

As you stepped inside, Hansol scanned the place in quick, calculated sweeps. A map folded on the table. A lantern, a half-empty mug, sealed ammunition cases. The kind of house built for vanishing.

You dropped your bag to the floor, exhaled slowly.

"Seokmin was an agent as well," you said, breaking the silence as you pulled off your jacket. “He ran a month ago. Burned all his ties. Don’t know the reason… just vanished mid-mission.”

You ran your fingers along the edge of the desk, as if grounding yourself with something familiar. “He left me this. Said if anything ever felt off at HQ, come here and don’t look back.”

Hansol raised a brow. “So he knew something.”

You nodded. “He always knew things before anyone else. It’s why they hated him.”

There was a pause.

Then Hansol asked, voice low and unreadable, “Was he… close to you?”

You didn’t answer immediately. Just met his eyes.

“We trusted each other,” you said finally. “More than most.”

Hansol didn’t push. He turned instead, eyes flicking toward the window, body never fully relaxed.

“Do you think we’re safe here?” he asked.

You shrugged. “Safe enough to breathe. Not enough to sleep.”

He smirked, just barely. “Good. I wasn’t planning to sleep anyway.”

You scanned the safe house—barebones, dim, but stocked. Your hands moved quickly, gathering weapons, spare mags, folding maps. One bag, efficient. No room for mistakes.

“We drive to Busan before sunrise,” you said, checking a pistol’s slide before slipping it into the side pouch. “Lay low for a day or two. I have a contact who can forge IDs. After that, we head to China by boat.”

Behind you, Hansol leaned against the doorway, arms crossed casually. “I’m coming with you?”

You paused mid-movement. Turned slightly. “What?”

“One bag. Two sets of plans,” he said, one brow raised in mock surprise. “I assumed I was invited.”

You scoffed, flustered. “You’re not. I mean—I didn’t think you would even want to. I figured you'd have your own escape planned or… I don’t know. Whatever. I don’t have to explain this.”

Hansol’s lips curled into a smirk. He pushed off the doorframe, walking toward you. “Relax,” he said softly. “I’ll come with you.”

He reached out, gently taking the bag from your hands, setting it aside without looking.

His fingers brushed against a loose strand of your hair, tucking it carefully behind your ear. Then, they lingered—just for a second too long—against your cheek.

“The fact that I don’t feel betrayed by you,” he murmured, his voice low and unsettlingly honest, “is dangerous.”

You didn’t move. Didn’t speak. But you didn’t stop him, either.

His fingers traced the line of your jaw, and you leaned into the touch without thinking. Your breath hitched.

He tilted his head slightly. “At least now, I don’t need to feel bad about liking you.”

Your eyes flicked up to his just as he leaned in—deliberate, slow, with the kind of tension that made the air feel sharp. His hand slid to the back of your neck, gentle but firm, and then—

He kissed you.

There was nothing rushed about it. No fury, no heat of survival. Just something solid, something dangerously steady in a world that had just fallen apart.

When he pulled back, your forehead rested against his. You could feel the weight of his breath, feel your pulse pounding through your ribs like it wanted to say something your mouth couldn’t.

“You sure about this?” you whispered.

Hansol gave a soft, short laugh. “No. But I’m sure about you.”

Your breath tangled with his, and for a moment, time warped—flickering between everything you were running from and the person standing in front of you.

Hansol’s hands didn’t leave you. They rested at your waist, grounding you. But the silence between you cracked like a match striking dry wood.

You should’ve stepped away. You didn’t.

Instead, your fingers reached for him—curling into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer. You didn’t need to say anything. He was already moving with you, pressing you back until your spine met the wall of the safe house.

The kiss deepened, no longer careful.

It was urgent now—desperate, laced with the kind of heat only shared between people who had seen death knock and chose to cling to something alive instead.

His jacket dropped first, then yours. Hands fumbled against belts and holsters, mouths parting only to breathe hard, uneven. There was no room for caution—only want, and the tremble of adrenaline refusing to fade.

“You should hate me,” you whispered against his skin.

Hansol’s mouth grazed your neck, voice low and ragged. “I should. I don’t.”

The bag of weapons lay forgotten on the floor. The outside world—the betrayal, the chase, the agency you once trusted—felt miles away.

*

Morning slammed into you like a slap to the face—uninvited, merciless, and too bright for a pair of fugitives with no time left to lose.

You woke to the weight of a warm palm brushing your cheek. The low hum of a car engine idled outside the cabin’s thin windowpane, muffled by cheap curtains and the restless hush of wind through pine branches.

“Hey.” Hansol’s voice cut through the fuzziness in your head, a soft rasp close to your ear—gentle, but edged with urgency. “Y/n. Up. Now.”

Your eyes cracked open. For a fleeting moment you didn’t know where you were. Then the night came back in pieces: the safe house. The loaded bag on the floor. The stolen heat of his mouth on yours. The truth sitting between you like a live grenade, its pin half-pulled.

You shoved yourself upright, blinking the sleep from your eyes. “What time is it?”

Hansol shot a glance at the crooked wall clock above the door. “Eight. We should’ve been gone an hour ago.”

You groaned, pressing your palms to your face, trying to squeeze out the ache behind your eyes. “God—did we really—”

His low chuckle cut you off. Rough, amused, and infuriatingly unbothered. “We really did. Also… you snore, by the way.”

Your head snapped up, a weak glare in place of a retort. “Shut up,” you muttered, already fumbling for your jacket and shoving your half-loaded pistol deep into the bag beside the spare clips. He caught your wrist just as you brushed past him—strong fingers wrapping around the pulse point, halting you like it was nothing.

Hansol leaned in, close enough that his breath brushed your lips. Forehead pressed lightly to yours, grounding you in the middle of this storm.

“Hey,” he murmured, voice steady as an oath. “You’ll be safe with me. I promise. Even if the whole damn country wants us dead.”

You stared at him—really stared—and for one quiet heartbeat, all the running, the betrayals, the blood that wouldn’t wash off yet… none of it mattered more than this.

You nodded, the word stuck in your throat but clear in your eyes.

“Okay.”

The car rumbled down the highway an hour later, tires humming against cracked asphalt, a battered duffel bag tossed in the back seat next to leftover ammo boxes and half-spilled maps.

You pulled into a quiet rest stop near the coast—last chance for a hot drink and anything vaguely pretending to be breakfast before Busan swallowed you both whole.

Hansol returned from the convenience store, dropped a packaged sandwich and a steaming coffee in front of you where you sat on a cracked picnic bench beneath a lonesome pine. Salt air drifted in from somewhere past the highway, a briny promise of freedom you weren’t sure you’d ever touch.

You ate in silence for a while, trucks and early commuters groaning by in the distance. Your body was wound tight, yet beside him, your heart felt oddly, stubbornly steady—like he was an anchor in the storm you’d unleashed together.

But the quiet didn’t last.

“Why did you become a hitman?” you asked suddenly, your voice rough from sleep.

Hansol didn’t answer right away. He turned the coffee cup in his hands, thumb pressing down on the cheap plastic lid, releasing and pressing again—like he needed something to hold him here.

When he finally looked at you, there was no mask left. Just Hansol—raw, unguarded, heartbreakingly young beneath the man you’d come to trust with your life.

“I didn’t choose it,” he said simply. His voice was so calm it almost hurt. “I was trained for it before I even knew what the word meant.”

Your half-eaten sandwich sagged in your lap, forgotten.

Hansol gave a small, bitter laugh that didn’t touch his eyes. “The first time, I thought maybe… if I took out people who deserved it, it would mean something. That it would balance out whatever was broken inside me.”

He looked past you then, eyes lost to a road only he could see. “I kept telling myself that lie. That I was doing good work. That ending bad people made up for how I started. And it gave me… a life. Purpose.”

His gaze flicked back to yours—steady now, but threaded through with a grief you knew too well.

His gaze flicked back to yours—steady now, but threaded through with a grief you recognized too well.

He drew in a slow breath, then murmured almost to himself, “He who fights with monsters should look to it that he himself does not become a monster.”

Your eyes snapped to his, the quote sparking recognition deep in your chest. “Nietzsche.”

A small smile ghosted across Hansol’s lips, tired but real. “Yeah. Funny thing to live by for a hitman, huh?”

You huffed a laugh, more air than sound. “I remember that line.”

Hansol cocked his head, studying you like he was reading a puzzle he already knew the answer to. “Did you ever actually read philosophy, Y/n?”

You dropped your gaze, nudging the sandwich aside, suddenly fascinated by the cracks in the old picnic table. “No. Tried. But it just… messes with my head.”

Hansol barked a short laugh, not mocking but almost relieved. He reached out, nudging your knee with his own under the table, his hand still wrapped around his coffee cup like it was armor.

“It does,” he agreed quietly. “Breaks it open, then leaves you to pick up the pieces.”

You looked up at him then, the salt wind tugging at your hair, the taste of half-meant promises between you. For a breath, neither of you were fugitives. Just two people stranded in the same question: Who am I now?

A truck engine rumbled to life behind you, snapping the moment. You stood, offered him a hand.

“Come on, philosopher. Busan’s not gonna wait for us.”

Busan swallowed you whole in the haze of late afternoon—salt air heavy with brine, fish stalls, and the sharp cries of gulls circling overhead like they could smell secrets slipping through the alleys.

Hansol wedged the borrowed car into a narrow spot behind Jagalchi Market, where rows of battered scooters leaned against graffiti-tagged walls. You tugged your cap lower over your brow as the sea breeze tugged loose strands of hair across your mouth.

“First things first,” you said, scrolling through your phone for the address burned into your memory. “We need clothes. Food for the ferry ride. And then—my contact.”

Hansol cocked an eyebrow as he fell into step beside you, weaving through the crush of fishmongers and tourists trailing plastic bags dripping with saltwater.

“Contact,” he repeated, voice edged with a lazy mockery that didn’t fool you for a second. “Should I be worried?”

“Only if you hate pretty faces and suspiciously efficient paperwork.”

He gave a sharp bark of laughter, but you didn’t miss how his eyes flicked sideways at you, narrowing just enough to betray the flicker of possessiveness he probably thought he hid well.

“Oh, I hate both,” he said dryly. “Definitely hate both.”

You bumped his shoulder as you pushed through a cluster of chattering students in matching uniforms. “Relax, Vernon. He’s harmless.”

Hansol clicked his tongue, but you could feel the tension rolling off him—like a blade pressed flat against your spine, warm and unspoken.

“Yeah, we’ll see about that.”

You led Hansol through a maze of back alleys behind the market, ducking under hanging laundry and sidestepping crates of flopping fish that stank of yesterday’s tide. Finally, you stopped at a battered metal door tucked between a noodle shop and a storage shed. You didn’t bother to knock—just rapped twice and shoved it open.

Inside, the air smelled faintly of oil and cheap cologne. Files and fake passports littered a metal desk, an old radio murmured some upbeat pop song in the background. And there he was—Kim Mingyu.

Tall, tanned, muscle packed tight into a plain white shirt stretched across broad shoulders. His grin was wide and careless, boyish dimples carved deep into his cheeks—a dangerous combination with those quick, clever eyes that flicked straight past Hansol and pinned you like a butterfly.

“Well, well, well…” Mingyu drawled, arms already open as he crossed the room in three easy strides. “If it isn’t my favorite headache come crawling back.”

Before you could stop him, he caught your shoulders and planted a kiss on one cheek—then the other, lingering just enough to feel his smirk against your skin.

“Mingyu—” you warned, shoving him back a step with a palm to his chest.

He laughed, ignoring the shove entirely, then flicked a teasing glance over your shoulder at Hansol. “Relax, man, I’m just saying hello. She’s the one who taught me how to greet French diplomats—very convincingly, might I add.”

Hansol didn’t say a word, but you felt his presence shift closer behind you—a quiet threat wrapped in casual silence.

Mingyu winked at you and released your shoulders, only to cup your face lightly and squint at you like he was looking for cracks. “Here’s my favorite person—finally got your pretty ass here in one piece. So tell me, boss… what happened? You look like you crawled through a bar fight and made out with a hurricane.”

You rolled your eyes, flicking his hands away. “We made it out of Seoul—barely. Turns out the Agency didn’t want me alive long enough to file paperwork.”

Mingyu’s grin faded a fraction. He dropped his hand, gaze flicking to Hansol, then back to you. “No surprises there. Seokmin was here an hour ago getting the same escape kit you’re about to beg off me.”

Your pulse jumped. “Seokmin was here?”

“Yup.” Mingyu tapped a stack of IDs on the desk, then leaned a hip against it, folding those annoyingly perfect arms. “Asked for a new identity and ferry papers to Shanghai.”

Hansol shifted beside you, voice quiet but edged in iron. “Where is he now?”

Mingyu’s smile returned—wolfish now, eyes flicking between you both like he was watching his favorite drama in real time. “That, jealous friend, depends. How nicely are you gonna ask?”

Before Hansol could open his mouth—and before Mingyu could smirk his way into getting punched—you stepped in, palm pressed lightly to Hansol’s chest to hold him back.

“Mingyu, behave,” you warned, voice low but firm.

Mingyu’s grin only widened, eyes dancing. “Behave? When did you ever like me behaving?” He flicked his chin toward Hansol, who stood a step too close behind you, bristling like a guard dog. “So… who’s Mr. Sunshine here? Bodyguard? Stalker?”

You shot him a look. “He’s… a friend.”

Mingyu clutched at his chest dramatically. “Friend? More than me?”

You almost rolled your eyes out of your skull, but then you felt Hansol’s stare burn into the side of your face—sharp, questioning.

You ignored it, turning back to Mingyu. “He makes sure I’m safe. That’s all you need to know.”

Mingyu cooed like you’d just handed him the gossip of the year. He leaned in, stage-whisper conspiratorial. “Mmm. Lover? You always did have a thing for the tragic types.”

You pushed at his shoulder—hard enough to shove him back a step. “Shut up. Just give me what I asked for.”

But behind you, Hansol’s voice rumbled soft and dangerously amused, low enough for only you to hear.

“Lover, huh?”

You felt your ears heat immediately, but refused to turn around. “Don’t start.”

Mingyu just laughed—loud and delighted—as he bent over the battered desk, rifling through stacks of fresh IDs. “God, I missed this. Okay, Romeo and Juliet. Let’s get you two ghosts out of my city before you ruin my clean record.”

*

The dusty back office rattled with the hum of an ancient fan while you and Hansol lingered by the grimy window, the staff cursing under his breath as he double-checked exit stamps and ferry tickets.

Hansol leaned one shoulder to the wall, eyes drifting lazily over the port beyond the glass—where fishing boats and rusty cargo skiffs rocked gently on choppy water. Then something snagged his gaze. A shape too familiar to dismiss.

“Y/n.” His voice cut through the staff's muttering. “Look.”

You turned just in time to see a tall figure slip through a gap between two crates stacked high with fishing nets—black leather jacket, faded cap pulled low.

Seokmin.

For a split second, your breath caught in your throat—then your body moved before your mind caught up. You shoved past him, crashing through the door into the bright slap of salt air.

“Seokmin!” you shouted, but he didn’t turn. He broke into a sprint instead—boot soles slamming the wet dock boards.

“Shit—Hansol, come on!”

Hansol was already at your side, boots pounding in rhythm with yours, the two of you tearing past startled fishermen hauling ropes and crates of wriggling octopus.

Seokmin darted left, vaulted a rusted railing, and landed hard on the deck of a battered trawler bobbing against its moorings. He scrambled for the cockpit, fumbling with the ignition as the old diesel engine coughed awake.

You hit the deck a heartbeat later, Hansol right behind you, gun drawn but lowered—eyes locked on the man who, for years, had been your friend, your cover, your silent co-conspirator.

“Seokmin—don’t!” you yelled, hands spread, voice raw from wind and betrayal.

But Seokmin barely glanced over his shoulder, one boot kicking at the gear lever, desperate to launch the boat out of the harbor before you could close the distance.

Hansol’s hand shot out, grabbing your elbow just as you lunged for Seokmin’s jacket. Together, you slammed him back against the rusty cabin door, the engine roaring beneath your feet.

Cornered. Caught. Nowhere to run but open water—and not fast enough.

Breathless, you locked eyes with him.

His chest heaved, eyes darting between you and the silent threat that was Hansol at your shoulder.

“You're here…” Seokmin rasped, voice cracking with something deeper than fear—guilt, maybe, or something darker. “…they're coming for us. There's no safe space.”

“Seokmin—” you stepped forward, trying to steady him by his shoulders. “Who? Who’s coming? Who sold us out?”

But Seokmin just laughed—high, splintered, wrong. His knees buckled before you could catch him properly. Hansol stepped in, grabbing under his arm to keep him from cracking his skull on the deck.

Too late. His head lolled forward, eyes rolling white for an instant before flickering shut.

You and Hansol were left half crouched on the swaying boat deck, your fingers fisted tight in Seokmin’s jacket, the sound of the harbor all around you—seagulls crying, waves slapping hulls, engines growling as if mocking you with the normalcy of the day.

“What the hell—” you gasped, heart pounding so hard you thought you’d pass out too.

Hansol looked from Seokmin’s unconscious face to you, mouth twisting into something between a snarl and a grim laugh.

“Fantastic,” he bit out. “Just fantastic. Now what, Agent Jung?”

Your mind spun—Seokmin’s words echoing like a gunshot in a tunnel: No safe space.

The salty wind lashed strands of your hair across your mouth as you crouched on the old trawler’s weather-beaten deck, knees tucked up, braced against the gentle heave of waves beneath you. Seokmin lay sprawled on his back beside you, jacket half unzipped, face pale under the slap of late afternoon sun.

Hansol stood a few feet away, half-shadowed by the rusty cabin wall—legs braced wide, one hand resting casually on the grip of his holstered gun, the other shielding his eyes as he swept a glare across the endless sprawl of water. He looked carved from stone: all hard lines and coiled patience, like he’d been born with the ocean wind snarling through his hair.

Seokmin’s eyelids twitched once, twice—then fluttered open to the white glare of the sky. His brow crumpled in confusion at the sight of gulls swooping lazy arcs overhead, their cries shrill and mocking. He sucked in a thin breath, licked cracked lips, and turned his head just enough to catch a shadow looming over him.

Hansol stared down at him like a cat sizing up an injured mouse. He didn’t blink. Didn’t smile.

“Welcome back, Sleeping Beauty.” His tone was so dry it could’ve sanded rust off the deck.

Seokmin’s mouth opened. Closed. Then opened again, the shape of your name forming on a hoarse exhale. He dragged his gaze sideways until it landed on you—your face half hidden by wind-tangled hair, eyes sharp as broken glass but weirdly soft around the edges when they landed on him.

“Y/n…? What—where—what the hell—”

You didn’t bother with sympathy. You thunked a plastic water bottle against his chest so hard he wheezed. “Drink. And breathe, genius. Or pass out again, I don’t care.”

Hansol’s chuckle rumbled under the whine of the old engine. He shifted his weight, boots scuffing the deck. “We’re on our way to Shanghai, by the way. Mingyu said that’s where you were headed—so… surprise. Road trip, but wetter.”

Seokmin choked on the first mouthful of water, hacking like an old man as a splatter hit his chin. He pointed an accusing finger at Hansol, hand shaking so badly he nearly smacked himself in the nose.

“Shanghai?! Who are you?! Why is he—what is this—”

Hansol shrugged, unbothered, mouth curling into a shark’s grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Bodyguard. Lover. Emotional support hitman. Depends who you ask.”

You shot him a death glare but didn’t dignify it with a comeback. Instead, you jabbed a finger at Seokmin’s forehead, ignoring how he flinched. “We didn’t have options, Seokmin. Either I drag your sorry ass with me or they’d find your corpse floating back to Seoul in a week.”

Seokmin’s wide eyes ping-ponged between you and Hansol—then to the rolling gray water stretching forever in every direction. He sagged back down with a dramatic groan, using the bottle now like an ice pack pressed to his temple.

“Perfect. I faint for five minutes and wake up in the middle of the sea. God, I hate my life!”

Hansol crouched down just close enough to cast Seokmin’s face in shadow, voice dropping to a low, pleasant threat that made even your skin crawl in a good way.

“Behave, buddy.”

Seokmin squeaked something that sounded like a prayer to every sea god he could remember. You laughed—sharp and sudden, the sound ripping through the salt and the fear like sunlight splitting storm clouds.

Hansol flicked you a glance, half-smirk playing on his lips despite the tension pulling his shoulders taut. And just for a fleeting second, the ocean didn’t feel so vast.

Your laugh hadn’t even finished echoing across the choppy water when you turned back to Seokmin—knees digging into the rough deck, eyes narrowing as the weight of everything you still didn’t know came crashing back in.

“Alright, Seokmin—enough stand-up comedy,” you said, voice low and sharp. “Tell us. All of it. Why did you run? What the hell is really happening to us?”

Seokmin rubbed a shaking hand over his mouth, still pale and clammy, breath misting the air between you. For a moment he just stared at you—like he was cataloging whether you could handle it. Then he huffed out a bitter laugh so soft it almost didn’t survive the wind.

“This wasn’t supposed to get this messed up,” he muttered, voice cracking at the edges. He wiped a tear that wasn’t really a tear, just the ocean salt stinging his eyes. “God, we were kids… Should’ve known better.”

Hansol shifted behind you—close enough that you could feel the tight coil of muscle and mistrust vibrating off him. He didn’t say a word, but you knew he was listening to every syllable.

Seokmin lifted his eyes to yours, dark and raw. Older.

“Remember what we talked about… about the foster home?” he rasped. “How we were all placed there, how they called it a ‘haven for war orphans’? We knew It wasn’t. It was a breeding ground.”

You felt the blood drain from your face. “I remember. But we knew that. We knew we were trained—conditioned.”

Seokmin swallowed hard, a muscle in his jaw jumping. “I got orders months ago. Quiet ones. My assignment was to start eliminating everyone from that program—everyone. Us. The old handlers... You.”

The words punched the air right out of your lungs. “Why? Why now?”

Seokmin barked a humorless laugh. “They’re phasing us out, Y/n. Cleaning up the old experiment. Making room for a new one. A better one. Perfect little soldiers—no flaws, no memories, no stupid feelings that make us hesitate to pull the trigger on each other.”

He dropped his gaze to the deck, shoulders curling in on themselves. “I tried to dig deeper. To see who’s funding it. How far it goes. It’s worse than we thought. They’ve got a whole batch of kids—trained harder, broken younger. They don’t want anyone left to question it. So they started tying up loose ends. Us.”

The gentle slap of waves against the hull filled the silence that followed—too gentle, too normal for the earthquake cracking through your bones.

“How many more of us are alive?”

Seokmin met your eyes. Defeated. Hollow. “I don’t know. Not many. And we’re next if we stop moving.”

*

The harbor at Shanghai cracked open before dawn—fog clinging to rusted cranes and the scent of diesel heavy enough to choke on. You’d barely spoken since you left the South Korean coast behind.

Hansol had watched you the whole way—how your shoulders stayed stiff even when you pretended to sleep, how your fingers ghosted over the old scar on your neck you’d lied about once upon a time.

When the boat bumped against the dock, he pressed a cheap chocolate bar into your hand. The wrapper crinkled, loud in the hush before morning chaos.

“You’ll be fine,” Hansol murmured, low enough that only you caught it. His eyes held yours steady, unwavering even as the deck crew shouted around you. “Worst case, I teach you how to kill. Properly this time.”

It was stupid. It was wrong. But the corner of your mouth twitched—just for a breath—and the flicker of it was enough to make his own chest ease for the first time in hours.

Seokmin jumped down from the railing beside you, rubbing at his sore shoulder from where Hansol had kindly yanked him out of that fishing net he’d almost fallen into earlier. He jerked a thumb your way, grinning at Hansol like they weren’t all fugitives now.

“What are you babysitting her for, Vernon? She’s the biggest badass out of the three of us— she dragged my corpse out of Seoul. I say let her handle you instead.”

Hansol shot him a dry look, then turned to you—taking in the smudge of fatigue under your eyes, the chocolate still unopened in your palm.

“She is,” he agreed simply. No teasing this time, no heat. Just the truth—sharp and steady as a blade.

The drive out of the harbor city was long and winding—through roads that spat them out at nameless villages, rice paddies blurring in the rearview until even memories of Seoul felt like a half-forgotten nightmare.

Thanks to you and Seokmin—both fluent enough to barter for a dusty secondhand van and a moldy apartment above a closed-down bakery—Hansol didn’t have to do much but watch, silent and absorbing, while the two of you did the talking.

The first month was awkward. Hansol hovered at the edges of local diners while you negotiated extra bowls of rice or free pickles from soft-hearted aunties who liked your accent. He ate in silence, listening to you and Seokmin argue over soy sauce ratios like a pair of squabbling siblings—each word foreign yet comforting in how it filled the spaces his old life had left hollow.

By the second month, the routine softened. Hansol found the abandoned town library a mile from your shared apartment—its books dusty, its shelves crooked, its windows permanently clouded by sea mist. He asked the local council for permission to “watch over it” for free, and they agreed with a shrug—no one visited anyway.

Most days, the door creaked open once or twice at most: a child looking for picture books, a bored housewife browsing old romance novels. Between those fleeting interruptions, Hansol read. Philosophy—whole shelves of it, Chinese and Western alike. He liked the quiet arguments on paper better than any order barked through a phone back when killing people was his job description.

Sometimes you would come by after your morning shift at the Chinese restaurant two blocks away—your apron still dusted with flour, your fingers warm from the wok. You’d press your nose to his cheek, ignoring the stale scent of old paper and coffee in favor of the steady comfort he’d grown into.

By the third month, it all felt real enough that the old ghosts only murmured now and then.

Nights were his favorite. The library keys heavy in his pocket, the hush of closing time settling like a promise. And you—tucked into his side on the thrifted couch in the corner of the tiny living room you both called home.

Hansol didn’t expect this. Happiness, he realized, wasn’t the roaring thing people described. It was quieter: your laughter bubbling from the kitchen, Seokmin’s footsteps creaking on the floorboards upstairs, your weight soft against him as he traced the lines of your collarbone while a half-read Nietzsche balanced on the armrest.

He’d forgotten how to be gentle—until you gave him the perfect excuse to remember every day.

Even paying rent was bearable, with Seokmin grumbling about leaks and sharing the bills without complaint.

An ex-hitman. A runaway agent. A traitor turned tenant upstairs.

And you—at the heart of it all.

Hansol closed his book one slow night and pressed a kiss to your hair, the words still echoing somewhere behind his ribs:

If this is freedom, I’ll guard it better than any job I ever did.

It was the crack of gunfire that tore the hush of your little safe life apart—one sharp echo that rattled the thin windows and the fragile peace you’d built in three stolen months.

You jerked awake, pulse stuttering as you instinctively reached for the warmth beside you—Hansol, already half up on one elbow, eyes wide and sharp in the dark.

For a heartbeat, neither of you spoke—just stared at each other in the faint spill of streetlight sneaking through the curtain. It was a look that spoke in the language you’d both learned the hard way: Are you okay? Stay with me.

Then came the heavy thud of feet on the hallway stairs—boots or shoes, too many to count, muffled orders barked in a dialect that even your sleepy brain recognized as local police slang.

Hansol slipped from the bed, a predator’s grace in every careful step. He tugged on sweatpants, grabbed the pistol he still kept tucked in a false book spine near the dresser—old habits die slow deaths—and turned to you with a rough whisper.

“It’s okay. Stay behind me, yeah?” His palm pressed briefly to your cheek—warm reassurance against the cold coil tightening in your belly.

Out in the dim hallway, Seokmin was already cracking open the door to the stairwell, his hair sticking up wildly, only half awake but eyes snapping clear the moment he caught Hansol’s low question:

“You heard it too?”

Seokmin just nodded, jaw tight. You stepped close behind Hansol, fingers brushing the bare skin of his back—anchoring yourself as much as him.

“What was that?” you murmured, voice raspy with sleep and dread.

Seokmin glanced back at you both, then stepped outside barefoot, the boards creaking under his weight. He disappeared down the landing while you and Hansol waited, every second stretching thin and tight as piano wire.

Hansol wrapped an arm around your shoulders, pressing you against his chest. You felt the steady hammer of his heart, the calm strength in the way he kissed the top of your head despite the tension rolling off him in waves.

“It’s nothing, okay? Just some idiot with bad timing.” His whisper ghosted against your temple—equal parts comfort and promise.

The door swung open again. Seokmin came back in, hair ruffled from the wind, an exasperated scoff riding his breath.

“Local cops. They’re hauling in one of the dragsters from the pier. Guy tried to bolt through the alley—gun went off, but he’s in cuffs now. Just dumb luck they passed our floor.”

Hansol let out a quiet huff—half laugh, half leftover adrenaline—and pressed another kiss to your hair.

“See?” he murmured. “Wrong place, wrong time. We’re fine.”

Seokmin rolled his eyes, already trudging back upstairs to his bed. “Next time, lock the damn window. I need my sleep.”

Hansol just chuckled under his breath, his arm never leaving your shoulders as he guided you back inside—past the ghosts that still sometimes rattled your door, but couldn’t touch the sanctuary you’d both built from scratch.

*

The library was a tomb at midday—dust motes drifting through shafts of sunlight, the faint hum of an old fan the only thing keeping the heat from swallowing the narrow aisles whole. Hansol sat alone at the back desk, sleeves pushed to his elbows, ink smudged on the side of his palm from labeling the new arrivals.

Half of him was content, oddly at peace in this quiet sanctuary of forgotten books and old stories. The other half—it never slept, not really. It flickered awake the moment he tugged open the last battered cardboard box and found, nestled beneath romance paperbacks and old newspapers, a thin manila file marked in Korean:

GwFH-02 PROJECT

Hansol stared at it for a long moment. He knew better than to touch ghosts. But some things called you whether you wanted them or not.

His chair creaked as he sat down at the back table, the file spread open before him. Faint pencil notations, official stamps, the yellowed edges of old secrets. His eyes caught on a seal—simple, sharp, unmistakable.

A logo he hadn’t seen—except once, half-hidden at the bottom of your old badge, the one you’d tucked away beneath the bed back in Busan.

His heart thudded.

He turned the pages with care, his pulse a slow hammer in his ears. A list of names lined the next page, each neat row ending in a brutal red line through the middle—strikeouts like silent executions. His eyes tracked them one by one, jaw tightening, until the list stopped—two names untouched by red ink:

정Y/N — Jung Y/n

이석민 — Lee Seokmin

And there, typed beneath in faded letters: Raised in Gwangju Foster Home.

Hansol’s fingers trembled as he flipped to the last page—a photograph. Black-and-white, edges curled with time.

A group of children in mismatched clothes stood in front of a squat old building with a crooked sign: Gwangju Foster House.

Faces blurred by age—except for the ones circled in red pen.

He found you immediately. A girl, maybe nine, hair pinned back, standing shoulder to shoulder with a boy who was unmistakably Seokmin—round-cheeked but with the same sharp glint in his eyes even then.

And to the far left, nearly cut out by the edge of the photo, half-hidden by an older boy’s shoulder—was him.

Hansol.

Staring at the camera with a blank face.

He hadn’t remembered this place. Not until now.

A distant, sick hum filled his ears—like the sea roaring in a seashell pressed too hard against his head.

He snapped the file shut, breath caught somewhere in his ribs.

You, Seokmin, him. Not a coincidence. Never had been.

Dinner was quiet that night. Too quiet.

The old kitchen table creaked under the weight of three mismatched plates—steamed dumplings, stir-fried greens, and leftover rice warmed a second time because none of you had really remembered to cook.

Seokmin ate like nothing was wrong—shoulders hunched, sleeves rolled up, cracking dumb jokes about the neighbor’s runaway dog. You smiled politely, chiming in when you had to. But Hansol barely tasted the food.

His chopsticks paused halfway to his mouth more than once, the clatter of the neighborhood muffled under the roar inside his head: Your name circled in red. Seokmin’s too. And his own face—hidden in plain sight.

He heard your voice only faintly through the noise.

“Baby?”

You said it again, softer this time, a gentle nudge at the edge of his wandering mind.

“Vernon.”

His eyes snapped to you—startled, caught like a man dragged back from somewhere deep underwater.

You tilted your head, a faint wrinkle between your brows. “Where did you go just now?”

Seokmin let out a small scoff, jabbing another dumpling onto his plate. “He’s been weird since he got home. What did you read this time, professor? Another dead philosopher?”

Hansol ignored him. His eyes were only on you.

“Tell me about it,” he said suddenly, voice so low it almost didn’t sound like him.

You blinked. “About what?”

“The foster home. How they trained you. You and Seokmin.”

The room stiffened at once. Seokmin froze mid-bite. You set your chopsticks down too carefully, a small, deliberate click against the chipped ceramic.

“Baby—” you began, your tone suddenly fragile and tired all at once.

But he pressed on, needing it like a splinter needed pulling. “Tell me. I just… I need to hear it from you.”

You looked at him then—really looked. Not with fear. Not with the fragile softness he’d grown used to waking beside. But with a quiet, raw disappointment that cut deeper than any bullet ever could.

“You promised,” you whispered, voice barely above the hiss of the old kettle on the counter. “You promised me, Vernon. No past. No ghosts. That was the deal.”

Hansol swallowed. But the truth burned his throat too bitter to swallow down now.

“But I deserve to know!”

Seokmin pushed back from the table, hands raised, voice trembling. “Hey—hey—can we not do this now—”

But neither of you heard him.

You glared at Hansol, fighting to keep your voice steady while your chest wanted to break open. “If you open that door, Vernon… if you drag that hell back into our life—then you kill this. Us.”

Hansol’s lips parted—like he might say I’m sorry. Like he might lie and promise to stop digging. But the truth was right there in his eyes: he couldn’t.

*

Sleep never came easy for Hansol these days.

That night, after the argument you hadn’t really finished, he lay awake far too long—listening to your breathing, to Seokmin’s restless shuffles upstairs, to the faint hum of night insects outside the cracked window.

And when he finally drifted under, the dark did not cradle him gently.

A hallway. Dimly lit. The creak of old floorboards under his tiny feet. Seven years old, maybe eight. Too small to understand what real cruelty tasted like—but old enough to hear it.

A scream, raw and jagged, echoing from somewhere past the sleeping quarters. Not the first one—never the first.

He remembered whispering to the boy next to him, “Did you hear that?”

He remembered the boy rolling over, blank eyes, saying “Sleep, Hansol. It’s nothing.”

It was never nothing.

Tiny Hansol had pressed his ear to the splintered door, trembling, heart a rabbit in a snare.

Then courage—foolish, childish courage—pushed him to slip into the hallway. Bare feet on cold wood. The scream again. Then a groan, low and choked, like someone drowning in their own throat.

He found the room. Half-open door. A girl—in his age—pinned to a cot by rough straps, tears streaking her dirty face. A man leaned over her, syringes lined up on a metal tray. Her eyes found him through the gap—pleading, delirious.

“Help— please—”

Little Hansol backed away. The man turned. A cold look, then a smile, teeth too white. “Back to bed, It’s just a test. You dream too much.”

He ran.

Hansol sat bolt upright, breath ragged, the ghost of a scream ringing in his skull long after the room had gone silent again.

He wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of a trembling hand. Next to him, your arm lay draped loosely across his stomach, your breathing slow and steady—utterly untouched by the storm still raging behind his eyes.

A month. Maybe more. This same memory, rising from the grave he’d buried it in the moment he left that damned foster home for good. He’d told himself it was a trick of childhood fear — a boy’s overactive mind before he was rescued by Mr. Ki and forged into the thing people later called Vernon.

Except tonight, in the hush between sleep and waking, it hadn’t felt childish at all. It felt like a warning.

Hansol slid out from under your touch, careful not to rouse you. He crossed the creaking floor and pushed open the window, gulping down the wet night air like a drowning man.

Behind him, you stirred. A sleepy mumble.

“...Vernon?”

He shut the window, cutting off the sticky air, and turned.

You were sitting up now, hair a soft mess around your face, your eyes searching his in the half-dark. “Bad dream again?” you asked, voice barely more than a whisper.

Hansol let out a short laugh—rough, humorless. “You could say that.”

You reached for him, fingers brushing his wrist, grounding him to the now. To you. Not the hallway. Not the screams.

“You’re shaking,” you murmured, concern deepening the line between your brows.

He covered your hand with his own, rough palm swallowing yours completely. “Go back to sleep, love. It’s nothing.”

You frowned, but before you could press, he bent down, kissed your forehead, and let the old name slip away into the dark.

Hansol’s hands stilled over the spine of a returned book—some local student’s half-torn poetry collection—when he spotted it:

A plain envelope, cream-colored, sitting dead-center on his desk like it had grown there overnight. No postage. No fingerprints. Just his real name printed in neat, slanted ink:

Offer for Mr. Choi Hansol.

His breath caught behind his ribs. He looked around, too sharply. The library was its usual graveyard at this hour—two old women gossiping by the history shelf, a single high school boy nodding off over a math workbook. No CCTV. No staff besides him.

Careful not to crumple it, Hansol picked up the envelope and turned it over twice. Nothing else—no seal, no logo. Just him, staring at the truth of his name like a bullet meant only for his skull.

He sank into his creaky chair behind the low desk, the old wood groaning under his weight and his pulse hammering so loud he almost expected the dozing kid to hear it.

With stiff fingers, he broke the flap and slid out a single piece of thin paper.

Only a few words, typed.

Wanna know more about your parents? Do me a favor.

That was it. No signature. No instructions. Just a hook baited perfectly for a man who’d spent thirty years burying questions he’d never dared say out loud.

Hansol’s eyes flicked over the shelves—dusty stacks, uneven rows, the quiet hum of a ceiling fan. He forced himself to breathe, folding the letter once, twice, and tucking it inside the battered leather notebook where he hid receipts for overdue fees and grocery lists.

For a moment, he let his fingers rest on the cover. Choi Hansol. Not Vernon. Not the hitman. Not the runaway boy.

Just him. And somewhere out there, someone knew exactly which ghosts would break him open again.

He stood abruptly, startling the napping kid. “We’re closing in fifteen,” he called, voice steady, though inside him something old and half-dead had begun to claw its way back toward the light.

A few days passed. He tried—truly tried—to pretend the first envelope hadn’t wormed its way into his skull. He shelved books like a machine. He kissed your temple each morning as if his hands didn’t tremble the moment you turned away. He told himself the past was ash, and he was done breathing it back to flame.

But fate—or whoever was playing puppeteer—wasn’t done with him.

It was a Wednesday afternoon when he found it. Same paper. Same ink. Same neat, mocking words. No stamp, no return name. It was waiting for him on the seat of the staff break room chair this time—like a cat dropping a dead mouse right where he’d have to look.

“What do you know about your parents, Hansol?”

Just that.

He read it once. Twice. He didn’t realize how hard his knuckles had clenched until the thin paper began to tear at the fold.

Hansol scanned the empty break room. The cracked kettle. The cheap instant coffee. The tiny window rattled with winter wind. He shoved the envelope deep in his coat pocket, heart pounding. The hum of dusty fluorescent lights suddenly sounded like whispers above his head.

He pressed a palm to his mouth, forcing his pulse to calm. Then he stepped out, forcing a bland smile at the old woman asking about folk tales, guiding her kindly to aisle four.

But inside him, Vernon the hitman sharpened his knives again. Whoever they were, they weren’t playing for fun. And if they knew how to push him—

They knew how to reach you, too.

He finished his shift with the same careful face, every muscle tight as wire beneath his skin. As closing time came, he replayed the single question over and over,

What do you know about your parents, Hansol?

What did he know?

The next day, Hansol pushed open the library door, the faint creak cutting through the hush of rain tapping on the old windows. He shook off his damp hood, eyes adjusting to the dim aisle of shelves—then froze.

A man in a dark suit, sleeves immaculate, hair slicked back like he owned every step he’d ever taken. He stood casually at Hansol’s work desk, setting down a thin envelope right on top of Hansol’s old philosophy book—like he’d done it a thousand times before.

The man didn’t flinch when Hansol entered. Instead, he turned, slowly, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. Arrogant. Inviting.

Hansol’s eyes flicked to the envelope—To: Choi Hansol scrawled in tidy block letters—and back to the stranger’s face.

“Choi Hansol,” the man drawled, voice smooth as silk and twice as dangerous. “Finally, we meet properly.”

Hansol let the door close behind him. He flicked the lock shut with a click that echoed through the empty library.

“Cute trick,” Hansol said, rolling his shoulders back, hands loose at his sides. “You think paper scares me?”

The man’s grin widened. “No. But truth does.”

They stared at each other—two animals testing the cage. Rain pattered the windows, the only witness.

Hansol’s smile turned feral. “Last chance. Who sent you?”

The man didn’t answer. Instead, he stepped forward—and Hansol’s body moved before his mind caught up.

The first punch came fast, the stranger’s fist grazing Hansol’s jaw. He twisted with it, absorbed the pain, then slammed his elbow into the man’s ribs. Wood creaked under their boots as they crashed into a shelf—books thudded to the floor like muffled applause.

The man swung again—Hansol ducked, caught him by the coat lapel, and drove him backward into the stacks. Shelves rattled. A dictionary split open at their feet.

“You think you know me?” Hansol snarled through clenched teeth, knuckles burying into the man’s stomach—once, twice—each hit a wordless curse for every envelope, every lie.

The man wheezed but laughed through bloodied lips. “Oh, I know you, Vernon. Or should I say—Hansol.”

Hansol grabbed a fistful of hair, yanked the man’s head back, eyes burning. “Keep talking.”

The man’s grin was red now, teeth stained. “I’m just the first. You want your past—fight for it.”

Hansol’s vision tunneled—red, white, then cold clarity. He slammed the man against the window so hard it rattled in its frame.

“Say that again,” Hansol growled, voice a blade of ice.

“You were adopted before your training…” the man hissed, spit and blood flecking his grin, “but life brings you back again, doesn’t it? Funny, ain’t it?”

Hansol’s knee drove up into his gut, cutting off the words in a choking gasp. He didn’t let him crumple—he hauled him back up by the collar, nose to nose.

“I’m free enough to bury you here if you don’t start making sense.”

The man choked on a laugh, then spit blood at Hansol’s boot. “They want you back. All of you. The old ghosts—they’re not done—”

Hansol felt it—a shift in muscle. He dropped instinctively just as the man swung the hidden knife, steel singing past his ear.

Hansol caught the wrist mid-swing, twisted—crack—the knife clattered to the floor. With a roar born of every lie he’d ever swallowed, Hansol drove the man back into the shelves, books exploding around them.

When it was done, the man lay half-buried under an avalanche of hardcovers, groaning, one arm bent at a sick angle.

Hansol’s chest heaved, blood dripping from the shallow slice on his forearm. He stared at the man—this messenger, this threat wrapped in a suit—and saw no more answers in him than in those cursed envelopes.

Quietly, almost gently, Hansol crouched, fisted a handful of the man’s shirt, and hissed against his ear,

“Tell your puppets I’m done running. They want me? They can come themselves.”

*

Hansol stood at the doorway for a beat, the envelope heavy in his hand, before stepping into Seokmin’s room. The floor creaked under his weight, but he didn’t care. He didn’t even knock. The door swung open with the kind of casual finality that made Seokmin’s head snap up from his seat by the window.

“Hansol?” he blinked, caught off guard. “What’s going on?”

He immediately noticed the tension radiating off Hansol’s frame—his shallow breaths, the twitch in his jaw. But what Seokmin didn’t see, at least not yet, was the faint purpling bruise hidden at the corner of Hansol’s mouth.

Hansol didn’t answer at first. He simply walked into the room, shutting the door behind him. Then he held up the envelope—creased, slightly blood-smeared at the edge from a cut across his knuckle.

Seokmin’s brows drew together. “What’s that?”

Hansol didn’t speak. He pulled out the photograph, unfolded it carefully, as if it might explode in his hand.

There, frozen in grainy color, were three couples. Young. Dressed in uniform. All smiling like the world hadn’t yet asked them to die for it.

He pointed to the couple in the middle. “These are my parents.”

Seokmin leaned forward, squinting. His expression faltered—recognition flickering like static in his gaze.

Hansol pulled out another sheet—documents with the stamp and insignia he’d seen before.

GwFH-01. National Intelligence. Strategic Human Asset Division. Special Forces.

Two other names were highlighted beneath his parents: Jung and Lee.

Hansol didn’t need to ask.

“How did your parents die?” he asked quietly, too quietly.

Seokmin flinched. “What kind of question is that?”

“Just answer me.”

“I was six.” Seokmin’s voice turned sharp. “Why does it matter?”

“Mine died in a car crash,” Hansol said, stepping closer, eyes dark. “Off a beach highway. No other vehicle. I woke up in the hospital with a concussion and no parents. They told me it was an accident. That I was lucky. Then I was sent to Gwangju Foster Home.”

Seokmin’s blood drained from his face. “You… you too?”

Hansol gave a mirthless smile, paper trembling slightly between his fingers. “They planned to move me into the same program. GwFH-02. I was supposed to be trained alongside you. And her.”

He didn’t need to say your name.

Seokmin slowly stood up. “How… how do you know about the project name?”

Hansol let the envelope fall to the floor, his voice a low growl.

“Because someone sent me this. With all the information about our past and our parents.”

Seokmin stared at the document, then back at Hansol—expression somewhere between horror and disbelief.

Seokmin stood still, barely blinking, as Hansol’s words settled in the space between them like ash.

Hansol ran a hand through his hair, fingers trembling with something between rage and disbelief. Then, in a quiet voice too steady for the fire burning in his chest, he spoke again.

“They offered me a deal,” he said.

Hansol looked up at him, and something about the hollowness in his gaze made Seokmin take a step back.

“They want me to kill you,” Hansol said, then paused—his throat dry. “And her.”

Seokmin’s jaw tightened. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not.” Hansol exhaled slowly, forcing the venom out with the air. “They said if I did it—if I ended what’s left of GwFH-02—I’d be rewarded. Recruited as a mentor for the next batch.”

Seokmin’s fists clenched at his sides. “So that’s their plan now? Make you their new monster?”

Hansol gave a dry, hollow laugh. “That’s always been the plan, Seokmin. We’re not people to them. We’re blueprints. Test groups. And our parents too.”

He took a step forward, the fire in his voice rising. “I’m telling you, these people—they’re not just corrupt. They’re evil. And there’s no safe space for us. Not here. Not in China. Not anywhere.”

Seokmin’s chest rose and fell, his pulse thundering in his ears. “Why are you telling me this?”

Hansol’s answer came without hesitation.

“Because I’m not going to do it. I couldn’t kill her even when I didn’t know the truth. And I’m sure as hell not killing the only people left who know what we went through.”

The silence that followed was thick with something unspoken—shared trauma, trust half-formed, a desperate need to believe they weren’t truly alone in this fight.

Hansol turned to the door. “We need to get ahead of this.”

Seokmin’s voice stopped him. “You didn’t tell her, did you?”

Hansol shook his head. “Not yet.”

The small dining table creaked as you set down the last plastic container, the steam curling up between you in lazy ribbons. You dropped the chopsticks beside the plates with a sigh, wiping your hands on your apron.

“I accept no complaints,” you declared, flopping into the chair opposite Hansol. “Because these are made by Minghao and I’m too tired to fix the taste.”

Seokmin chuckled, but there was a twitch in the corner of his mouth—something uneasy. “Oh no, Minghao’s food is sacred. Wouldn’t dare.”

Hansol gave a half-smile, eyes lowered as he opened a container of mapo tofu. “Wouldn’t dream of criticizing the chef. Especially not when she has a kitchen knife collection bigger than mine.”

You smirked and pointed your chopsticks at him. “Damn right. Eat fast. There’s a war tomorrow.”

The table fell into a comfortable rhythm—quiet chewing, the soft clink of chopsticks against ceramic. But you weren’t stupid.

You noticed the glances.

Quick ones. Fleeting. The kind that carried meaning.

Between Hansol and Seokmin.

You caught one exchange mid-bite and raised a brow. “Okay. What’s with the looks? Did one of you break something? Or are you two communicating telepathically now?”

Seokmin coughed into his tea, looking away. Hansol, ever the calmer liar, shrugged and shoveled more rice into his mouth.

“Nothing,” he said. Too quickly.

You leaned back in your chair, narrowing your eyes. “I may be tired, but I’m not blind.”

“Really, it’s nothing,” Seokmin added, trying to sound casual. “Just something… we were talking about earlier.”

“Uh-huh.”

You let the moment go—for now. But you saw the way Hansol’s chopsticks paused mid-air when you looked at him a little too long. The way his eyes didn’t quite meet yours when you smiled.

Something was unraveling. You could feel it.

But you were too tired to tug the thread tonight.

So instead, you ate your dumplings in silence.

And Hansol, across from you, forced himself to do the same—while the truth burned a hole through the lining of his gut.

Then, the floor trembled.

It was so slight you almost mistook it for a passing truck—but Seokmin’s head snapped up. Hansol froze mid-bite. The silence that followed was loud. Too loud.

Then—

BOOM.

The window nearest the kitchen exploded inward, shards of glass raining across the tile like ice shrapnel. You didn’t scream—you couldn’t. Instinct slammed into your chest like a switch flipped on.

Hansol was already on his feet, toppling the table to its side just as bullets ripped through the dining room wall.

“Go! Go!” he shouted, grabbing you by the elbow.

Seokmin was behind the pantry door in seconds, yanking it open to reveal the hidden trapdoor beneath. A storage crawlspace that, to most, looked like a forgotten floorboard—inside it: three duffel bags, one metal crate, and enough weaponry to start a riot.

You dove in, heart in your throat, hands moving without thought. Seokmin tossed you your pistol while grabbing the loaded AR.

Hansol pulled out his favorite — compact, silenced, perfect for indoor retaliation.

“We’re boxed in,” he growled, listening as footsteps approached the front porch.

You popped the mag, checked the rounds, slammed it back in. “I haven't touched the dumpling!”

Hansol met your eyes, and even through the rising smoke, there was something calm there. Cold. Focused.

“You take back. Seokmin, right. I’ll hold center.”

You nodded, breath short.

The door blew open before you moved.

Black figures poured in, tactical gear and masks, rifles drawn. You rolled behind the broken couch as Hansol fired first, two clean shots dropping the first man to enter. Another tried to flank, but Seokmin was already sweeping the hallway with ruthless precision.

The war was today.

*

“They’re still tailing?” Seokmin’s knuckles were white on the steering wheel, eyes cutting between the dark road ahead and the side mirror as the ruined town faded behind them.

Hansol, in the passenger seat, didn’t answer right away. His jaw was tight, his bruised lip cracked open again, the taste of blood metallic on his tongue. He’d seen it coming—just not this fast.

You sat in the middle of the backseat, hair messy, a cut just above your brow, chest still rising and falling too quickly from the ambush. Your voice cut through the suffocating silence.

“Somebody want to tell me what the hell just happened?”

Seokmin didn’t respond, not right away. His glance toward the rear view was brief but loaded—then toward Hansol, who exhaled sharply. The weight of the truth finally became too heavy to dodge.

“We’re running again,” Hansol said, voice low and cold. “They found us.” he turned to you.

Your blood ran cold. “What?”

Hansol shifted in his seat, facing forward again. The light from passing road lamps flickered across his bruised features, casting shadows like ghosts over the truth he was about to release.

“I got a message,” he began, voice rough. “Anonymous. At first, just words. Then photos. Then files. Things no one else could’ve known—not unless they were part of it.”

You leaned forward slightly, hands braced on the back of his seat, your breath still uneven.

“What kind of files?”

Hansol’s jaw clenched. “A project name. GWFH-03. My parents’ names… with red stamps across their profiles. Deceased. Labeled ‘eliminated.’ Then yours. Seokmin’s. GwFH projects. Both still marked active. That’s how I knew. We weren’t just orphans. We were curated.”

Seokmin’s hands tightened even further on the wheel, veins bulging beneath his skin. His mouth was shut tight, but his eyes—through the rearview—were locked on Hansol.

“They staged our parents’ accident,” Hansol continued, a cold edge in his voice now. “Said it was a rainy cliffside crash. I remembered the ocean. The blood. But I never questioned why I survived. Why I had no relatives, no trail to follow. They wiped it all.”

He paused, hand drifting to the envelope wedged in his coat pocket, thumb brushing its frayed corner.

“I was supposed to be part of GwFH-02. But I got intercepted. Someone else got to me first. A hitman. He took me. Raised me.”

You inhaled sharply, not daring to interrupt.

“He trained me to kill, but not for them. For his own reasons. Which means—” Hansol looked over his shoulder at you again, eyes now burning with clarity, “—I was the only one from the project who slipped through the cracks.”

Seokmin finally spoke, voice low and stunned. “You’re telling me… you were supposed to be one of us. But someone stole you from the system?”

Hansol gave a grim nod. “And now they want to pull me back in. Not as an agent—” he scoffed, bitter— “as a mentor. They offered me the job. Said if I did one thing—eliminate both of you—they’d let me in.”

Your blood turned to ice.

He turned fully now, his body tense, eyes unreadable. “And I didn’t. Because you’re the only people I’ve ever really had. And I’m done being someone’s weapon.”

Silence stretched, tense and uncertain. The hum of tires on the highway underscored the weight between you all. Seokmin didn’t say a word.

You slowly leaned back, your hand unconsciously brushing the healing cut on your brow. When you finally spoke, your voice was softer than before.

“So now what?”

Hansol looked ahead, eyes narrowing as the black road carved deeper into the unknown.

*

The car rolled through the backroads of Gyeonggi-do under a gray, tired sky. The silence inside was heavier than the fog outside — thicker than the tension Seokmin wore on his face after leaving Seungcheol’s place.

He was gripping the steering wheel like it owed him an answer. Hansol, next to him, kept an eye on the side mirrors, his gun tucked at his hip, resting but never forgotten. You sat in the back, hoodie up, headphones in, not listening to anything — just needing the quiet, just needing space.

“He’s scared,” Seokmin muttered finally, voice gravel-thin. “Can’t blame him. Regional office or not, helping us puts a target on his entire department.”

Hansol exhaled slowly, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “We didn’t ask him to burn the building down. Just help validate the evidence. Point a press contact. Something.”

You leaned forward, unplugging the dead headphones. “He didn’t even look at us after the video.”

The video.

It had been live for forty-eight hours.

Posted under an anonymous name, with no edits, no filters, no masks.

GwFH: NIS Strategic Human Assets Division

— a title dry enough to sound like nothing, but heavy enough to break the country apart.

The video opened with old footage—news clips of three seemingly unrelated car accidents over decades ago. One in Incheon, one in Busan, one on the coast near Mokpo. Each accident had no surviving adult. But each had one child.

Each child ended up in the same foster home.

Gwangju Foster Home.

And then came the interviews.

You and Seokmin—on camera, faces shown, voices steady—speaking of the drills. The beatings. The surveillance. The drugs. The way they turned a trauma-bonded family into machines.

Hansol was last to speak, and his voice cracked mid-way through his segment when he said:

“This wasn’t fate. This was designed. Curated. Our lives were manufactured in grief so they could be sharpened into weapons. Even our parents—agents of GwFH-01—were removed to clear the path. And now it’s happening again. A new project. A new batch. This video is a last stand.”

The public reaction? Loud. Divided. Explosive.

Some cried conspiracy. Others saw the truth too clearly.

But the NIS?

They responded with silence.

And then with shadows.

“This is not over,” you muttered as you checked your phone, notifications coming in too fast to process. “Our faces are out. Our story is viral. And that bastard—Kim Jong-il—is finally being pulled out of his nest.”

Seokmin snorted humorlessly. “He won’t go down easy. If we don’t finish this, he’ll erase us before morning.”

Hansol’s voice was calm. Too calm.

“Then we don’t give him until morning.”

You all went quiet for a beat.

The apartment Mingyu rented under a fake name was hidden between a bookstore and a defunct bar in the maze of Mapo’s older alleyways. From the outside, it looked like nothing—just another sun-bleached door and a flickering hallway light. But inside, it was wired.

A monitor lit the room with a sickly glow. Phones, routers, portable hard drives, and at least two stolen signal jammers littered the floor. Mingyu had always been reckless in a way that worked. Chaotic, loyal, and brilliant.

“You’re late,” he said the moment you walked in, without looking up.

Hansol shut the door and immediately went to the window to check the alley again. Seokmin dropped into the nearest chair, wincing from a healing wound on his side, bandaged fresh the night before.

You stepped closer to the table, where Mingyu tapped his fingers against a keyboard with one hand and held a half-eaten gimbap with the other.

“Is the journalist in?” you asked.

Mingyu didn’t answer for a moment, too focused on encrypting the newest drive you handed him. Then he said, “Yeah. They’re in. Got connections at JTBC, but I told them to go independent first. We don’t need censors this early.”

“Do they believe us?”

He shrugged. “You’re trending in five countries. Half of Seoul wants you canonized, the other half thinks you’re traitors. But the journalist? She believes you. And she’s mad.”

You raised a brow.

Mingyu finally looked up at you and grinned.

“She’s an orphan too. Grew up in a similar home, though not military-grade. She’s running this piece like it’s war. Asked if she could meet you before the next release.”

Hansol moved closer to the table, his jaw clenched but his voice even. “It’s not safe.”

“No shit,” Mingyu said, standing. “That’s why we’re doing it my way.”

He stepped into the back room and came out with three burner phones and a bag of wires.

“We’re splitting the next part into three clips. One with the black site locations. One with a live audio recording from the last year’s training session—courtesy of our boy Seokmin—” he pointed with his gimbap, “—and one video that Seokmin gave me. From Gwangju.”

Seokmin stiffened.

You blinked. “Wait—what video?”

Mingyu’s expression sobered. “The basement tapes. From the home. Footage of the injections. The training drills. The... the punishments.”

A cold swept through the room. Hansol stopped breathing.

“How did you—” you tried to ask.

“I’ve been saving them,” Mingyu interrupted, softly. “Back when you and Seokmin disappeared. I knew someday... someday you'd need to burn it all down.”

Silence.

Then Hansol said, voice tight: “When’s the journalist meeting us?”

Mingyu looked up at the clock. “Tonight. 2 a.m. On the bridge near Dongjak station. Quiet place. Just one hour.”

You nodded, eyes meeting Hansol’s.

“Then let’s make sure we survive until 2 a.m.”

*

The wind under Dongjak Bridge was sharp at this hour. It bit through your coat like truth cutting through the fog of lies you’d lived in. The journalist, Lee Haeun, sat across from you on the concrete step, recorder set between you both. Her eyes were steady. Angry. Hungry for justice.

You'd been speaking for thirty minutes—laying it all bare. The indoctrination. The surgeries. The names they made you forget and the pain they taught you to carry like a medal. Seokmin sat not far, eyes scanning the dark river. Hansol was on edge, pacing in small loops like a panther caged by memory. Mingyu leaned against the support beam, trying to look casual, but you could tell by the way he tapped his lighter that he was counting heartbeats.

Then Hansol stopped walking.

His gaze fixed on the road above.

The sound came next. Tires.

Five cars.

Black. Silent. Boxed in.

You saw it in Hansol’s face first. A twitch of the eye. A barely there nod to Seokmin, who immediately slid his hand under his coat. Mingyu tensed, already moving toward Haeun.

The journalist didn’t stop recording. Not yet.

Hansol spoke first. “We’re boxed.”

You grabbed the journalist’s wrist, fingers firm. “Stay close. Don’t run. Do you understand me?”

She looked like she might argue, but something in your eyes stopped her.

Seokmin murmured, “Two exits. Gone. We fight or disappear.”

“No disappearing,” Hansol said, his tone edged in finality. “We end this tonight.”

From the nearest car, the back door opened.

Boots hit pavement. And then you saw him. Kim Jong-il. The head of the division. He wasn’t wearing a suit anymore. He didn’t need to. Power wrapped itself around him like smoke. But something in his face was... worn. Maybe it was age. Maybe it was guilt. Or maybe it was just arrogance finally curdling into fear.

“You’ve caused quite the storm,” he said casually as he stepped into the circle of weak orange light. “I figured you’d go underground. Instead, you go viral. Cute.”

You pushed the journalist behind you, slowly drawing your gun and letting the barrel rest against your thigh, low and ready.

Hansol spoke without emotion. “We told the truth. That’s all.”

Kim smiled. “Truth, huh? You think people care about truth? They want stories. Villains. Redemption arcs. You gave them a fairy tale. But fairy tales end.”

You took a step forward. “So do tyrannies.”

He tilted his head, mocking. “Still the mouth on you, Agent Jung.”

The air thickened.

Behind Kim, a small unit of armed men formed a half-circle. Not uniforms. But you recognized the way they stood. The way they breathed.

They were raised like you.

The next thing, the gunshot cracked through the plaza—sharp, violent, and unmistakable.

Seokmin jerked violently, his body folding mid-step as the bullet struck him high in the chest. He hit the pavement with a dull, sickening thud, limbs tangled beneath him.

“Seokmin!” you shouted, instinct kicking in as your hand reached for your weapon— But too late.

The second shot found you.

It slammed into your torso like a battering ram, sending you sprawling backward. The world tilted, your lungs seized, and for a split second, all you could hear was the roar of your own heartbeat. It wasn’t pain—it was pressure. Blunt force trauma. You crashed to your knees, hands scrambling for balance as air fled your lungs.

Hansol was there before your body hit the concrete. He caught you, arms strong around your waist, dragging you behind the low wall that lined the plaza��s garden. His heart thundered against your shoulder. He pressed his hand to your side, fingers checking for wetness, for blood.

Nothing.

His chest rose sharply. “The vest,” he muttered, voice strained with disbelief.

You barely managed a nod, coughing as you tried to find your breath. “Vest,” you rasped.

Hansol gave a tight, humorless chuckle, more relief than mirth. “Yeah. No kidding.”

Across the lot, Seokmin groaned and rolled onto his side, spitting blood but still alive. The bullet had knocked him down—but hadn’t punched through. The Kevlar held. He lifted one arm with effort, giving a thumbs-up like a man half-drunk on adrenaline.

The plaza had erupted in chaos. Civilians scattered—some screaming, others frozen in shock. But one person didn’t move.

Kim Jong-il.

He stood where he had fired the shots, pistol still smoking in his hand, unmoved by the wreckage he caused. His face was blank—eerily calm, like pulling the trigger had been as routine as breathing.

The journalist was frozen behind her camera, lips trembling but hands steady. Mingyu yanked her behind a pillar, hissing, “Keep filming. Don’t stop. You stop, we die.”

Your pulse thundered. Your limbs trembled as you pushed yourself up from the ground, Hansol’s hand still steadying you. You emerged from cover, chest heaving, eyes locked on the man who had spent years turning children into weapons—then discarding them like broken tools.

Hansol stood at your side, weapon still drawn but held low. His eyes never left Kim.

Kim raised his voice, calm and calculated. “Turn off the camera,” he ordered, gesturing toward the journalist.

Mingyu stepped out from behind the pillar, defiant. “No.”

Kim’s expression flickered—only slightly. His voice dropped low, meant only for you. “You’re making a mistake.”

Your reply was ice. “We made that mistake when we didn’t put a bullet in you sooner.”

And then the sirens came.

Fast. Loud. Unmistakable.

Unmarked black sedans skidded to a halt on either side of the plaza. Riot vans flanked the street entrance. Doors flew open and uniformed officers, one of them was Choi Seungcheol, spilled out like water from a burst dam—tactical gear on, rifles raised, shouts tearing through the tension.

“DROP YOUR WEAPONS!”

You didn’t move.

Hansol turned to you, silently asking. You nodded once, steady despite the pounding in your ears. His gun hit the pavement with a sharp clatter.

Kim didn’t resist. He turned, slowly, his fingers lifting in surrender. But Hansol saw it—the micro-expression. The twitch in his mouth. The smallest crack in the mask.

He knew.

It was over.

Hands raised, Kim opened his mouth—but no words came.

There was nothing left to say.

Hansol felt the tension drain from his muscles like a fever breaking. Cold sweat coated his back. His knees ached from crouching. His arms ached from holding you, like if he let go, the truth might disappear.

From the ground, Seokmin lifted a shaky arm and waved. “Just so we’re clear…” he coughed, “we’re the good guys.”

Laughter nearly broke from your throat—frayed, raw, and unhinged.

Hansol turned to you, his hand brushing your back without thinking.

You leaned into him—burned out, sore, aching in places you hadn’t even noticed were wounded. But alive.

Above you, the camera was still rolling. The world watching. And for the first time in years… you were no longer running.

You were fighting back.

*

The hall buzzed with the low hum of conversation, camera shutters, and rustling pages. Banners flanked the stage, displaying the matte-black cover of “GwFH: No Escape”—Seokmin’s book that had taken the country by storm.

The subtitle was small but powerful: A Survivor’s Chronicle of the NIS Strategic Human Assets Project.

Now reformed and forced under constant government supervision, the NIS had become a symbol of accountability. And much of that began with the three of you.

Seokmin sat behind the table, signature pen clicking between his fingers, face lit with a smile that never once dimmed. His hand moved fast—signing book after book, sometimes with short notes, sometimes with a high five, a nod, or a joke.

He had become that guy. The one people wanted to talk to. Not just because he’d survived something unthinkable—but because he’d turned that survival into purpose.

Seokmin now wrote full-time. His books were hybrids of memory and method—insights into criminal profiling, the dark logic of systemized violence, and how institutions manipulate trauma for control. Part memoir, part analytical guide, his writing didn’t just educate—it warned.

And today, he was beaming.

Then his gaze caught a small figure in line—a little girl bouncing on her mother’s hip, waving her book up and down with uncontainable glee.

“June!” Seokmin called out, straightening in his chair. “You came to see me?”

June, now three, squealed. “UNCLE SEOKKIE!” Her voice was loud enough to make the woman behind you laugh as you stepped forward.

“You came alone?” Seokmin asked with a knowing smile. “Hansol still lecturing today?”

You nodded, hitching June up higher on your hip. “He got cadets running obstacle courses until sunset. He’ll join later.”

Seokmin reached out, and June practically dove into his arms.

“She missed her favorite uncle,” you said with a smirk, watching your daughter snuggle into his chest.

“Really? I missed you too, baby June.” He kissed her temple. “Let’s get dinner tonight. My treat. Ice cream after. Don’t tell your dad.”

“She’s already spoiled,” you laughed.

And you meant it. June was raised not in fear, but in healing. By people who had once seen the worst the world had to offer—and chose to fight for better.

Hansol—Vernon, as he finally went by publicly—had built a small academy on the outskirts of Seoul. Mostly, it was training for students preparing to enter the police or military academies, a program that emphasized not just physical defense, but critical thinking, trauma management, and ethics.

He never talked about the past unless asked. But every lesson he taught carried the weight of what he’d lived through.

You had returned to your roots—quietly consulting, occasionally teaching, and now… raising a child in peace.

A year after the fall of Kim Jong-il, after the footage, the trials, and the national apology—you and Hansol stood in a tiny mountaintop registry office, exchanging rings with only Seokmin and Mingyu as witnesses.

There were no fireworks. Just promises.

And now, here you were—watching Seokmin hold your daughter, a copy of his story in one hand, a hopeful glint in his eye.

You’d run far. Fought hard.

The world had stopped spinning.

Or maybe… it just slowed down long enough for you to catch your breath.

It was a small night, months after the trials, after the streaming, after the names and faces were exposed to the public and the machine that nearly swallowed you all was forced into the light.

You and Hansol were sitting on the rooftop of your temporary safe house in Busan. A blanket draped over both your shoulders, the sea wind brushing your skin, the stars above you hazy from city lights but still visible if you looked hard enough.

He was beside you, legs stretched out, hands warm around a chipped mug of tea. Quiet. A rare kind of quiet that didn’t feel like tension—it felt like peace finally had a seat at the table.

You glanced at him. His profile soft in the moonlight, lashes low, jaw relaxed. And still, you could feel it.

Something held in. Something waiting.

“What?” you asked gently, nudging him with your knee.

He didn’t answer right away. Just set the mug down, the ceramic clinking against concrete.

Then he looked at you.

Really looked.

He drew in a breath, like he needed to summon it from somewhere deeper than lungs.

“I’m Hansol,” he said. “Choi Hansol.”

Your eyes didn’t widen—but your chest tightened in the way it does when you’ve been waiting for something you didn’t realize mattered this much.

“I figured,” you murmured. “Somehow.”

His lips quirked—barely a smile, more like the release of a held breath. “I wanted you to know before anyone else did. Before the world labels me again.”

“Why now?” you asked, searching his expression.

Hansol leaned closer, resting his arm behind you, thumb brushing the edge of the blanket.

“Because the only name that ever felt like mine… was the one I didn’t have to hide when I was with you.”

Your fingers found his, slow and certain. “Choi Hansol,” you repeated softly.

He nodded.

And then you kissed him—not like a first kiss, not like a goodbye kiss—but the kind that seals something. Like truth. Like beginnings.

That night, you fell asleep on that rooftop, cheek against his chest, name whispered between heartbeats.

Choi Hansol.

No more running. No more hiding. Just him. Finally, a safe place.

Your safe place.

The End.

[thedensworld]

Time Is Brewed | L. Sm

Genre: angst, time travel, fantasy, exes au!

Summary: After discovering that the old brewing machine he had just purchased allowed him to travel back in time, he tried to fix his relationship with you.

Seokmin had already visited the past three times this week. If he told his best friends, Mingyu and Myungho, they wouldn’t believe him. As always, they would tell him to stop being delusional. But hey, being delusional had led him to run a successful café in a prime location in Hongdae!

This time, Seokmin found himself back on the same day—the day he decided to quit his managerial job. That familiar knot of anxiety settled in his stomach as he stepped into the office. But something was different. Something stronger. He wasn’t the same nervous wreck he had been years ago. No. He was ready for this.

He handed in his resignation letter the same way he had back then—hand outstretched, a nervous smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. His boss took it, eyes scanning the paper. And then the magic moment arrived.

Seokmin cleared his throat. "You gave me plenty of chances to grow, and I’m grateful for that," he said, voice smooth, not a quiver in sight. Who was this confident guy? Oh right, it was him. "But you're wrong. You are wrong to say I won’t succeed without this company."

Those words—he had swallowed them down so many times, had watched them burn in his throat, unsaid. But now? Now they slid out like butter. The tension he didn’t even know he was carrying was gone, evaporating into thin air, leaving only the crisp taste of freedom.

His boss blinked, clearly startled. Good.

The silence between them stretched on, but Seokmin didn’t even flinch. He was done. He had finally spoken up.

And then, just like that, the weight he didn’t know he’d been carrying started to lift. He walked out of the building with his box, each step feeling lighter than the last. The door closed behind him with a soft whoosh, as though it were sealing away everything he no longer needed.

Outside, the air tasted different—fresher, like the world was offering him a second chance. He walked toward his car, a grin tugging at his lips. He wasn’t leaving something behind; he was heading somewhere, toward something.

He sat in the driver’s seat and gripped the steering wheel. The world seemed to pause around him. The weight of his past—all of it—felt distant now. Almost like someone else’s.

For the first time in forever, Seokmin wasn’t weighed down by the fear of what was to come. He wasn’t haunted by the what-ifs. No, now all he could feel was that little spark of satisfaction deep in his chest. He had finally done it. He had stepped away from a life that had never felt quite right.

His chest felt lighter. His head felt clearer. And hey, wasn’t that the definition of freedom?

Seokmin let out a long breath, not realizing how much he had been holding in. "Finally," he murmured, glancing at his reflection in the rearview mirror.

For the first time in ages, he wasn’t looking back. He wasn’t looking at anything. He was just moving forward.

And that felt, well... pretty darn good.

"Now, I should go back to the present," he murmured to himself.

But—

Oh?

"Why am I still here?" he muttered in confusion.

Usually, he could return to the present whenever he wanted. But now? Something was stopping him. His fingers tightened around the wheel. Was it because he was in the car?

He quickly stepped out and stood under the warm afternoon sun.

Still here.

A wave of panic surged through him. What if he couldn’t return this time? He had worked so hard to build and manage his café for the past seven years. He couldn’t just be stuck in the past.

"Seokmin?"

The familiar voice made his heart skip a beat. He turned quickly, and there you were—walking with a group of colleagues before they left you to approach him.

"Are you leaving for somewhere?" you asked, tilting your head slightly.

Seokmin’s heart pounded in his chest at the sight of you. It had been so long since he last saw you with short hair. He had almost forgotten that you worked in the same building as him. He never expected to run into you while revisiting this moment in time.

"Y/n.. Hi…" he greeted, but his voice came out awkward.

You let out a soft chuckle. "Why are you acting so weird?"

Seokmin bit his lower lip. He just couldn’t tell you that in the future, you would date him, love him, and then break his heart after five years.

Shaking his head, he let out a small, nervous laugh. "It's just…" He hesitated, holding his breath. Could he say it? After a moment of deep thought, he exhaled and finally admitted, "I kinda miss you, I guess."

Your eyes widened slightly. "Sorry? You miss me?" you echoed, confused. "We literally saw each other this morning in the elevator."

You laughed, thinking he was joking. But Seokmin wasn’t. He might joke about a lot of things, but when it came to you? Never. You just didn’t know.

"Hey…" You stepped closer, your brows knitting together in concern. "Are you okay? You look a little red, Seokmin."

His breath hitched at your sudden closeness. Before he could react—

Darkness.

And then—

The familiar scent of coffee beans and the soft hum of a jazz tune playing in the background.

Seokmin found himself back in his dimly lit café, sitting at his usual spot. His chest rose and fell rapidly as he tried to process what had just happened.

He was back.

But for the first time since discovering his ability to travel through time, a strange, lingering feeling settled in his heart.

Seokmin took a deep breath before sighing heavily. Seeing you again—even if it was in the past—was harder than he had expected. He didn’t think his heart would race so much from reliving an old conversation.

He remembered that day vividly. The day he resigned. The day he first told you he was leaving the company. And, unknowingly, the day that sparked everything between you two. It had started as a simple chat, just two coworkers talking. But that conversation had brought you closer.

A series of rapid knocks pulled him back to reality. He blinked, turning toward the glass door, where Mingyu stood with a deep frown on his face.

"I was knocking like crazy while you just sat there daydreaming. Long day, man?" Mingyu asked, stepping inside as Seokmin unlocked the door for him.

Mingyu walked over to the table where Seokmin was sitting and set down a couple of plastic bags, the weight of them making a soft thud against the wood.

"Myungho's on his way with food," Mingyu added, already pulling out his phone and scrolling through it like the conversation was over.

Seokmin reached for the drinks Mingyu had brought. They were heavy, and judging by the labels, definitely on the expensive side. He raised an eyebrow.

"Are you planning to get wasted in my café tonight? In case you forgot, I have to open at seven in the morning," Seokmin said, eyeing his friend with mild exasperation.

Mingyu sighed dramatically, leaning back in his chair. "Relax, man. We'll take it slow. We won’t get wasted—you know me." He threw Seokmin a playful wink before turning his attention back to his phone.

As the three of them gathered, Mingyu immediately took charge, arranging the food and drinks with an excitement that had no real reason behind it. He always got overly invested in things like this. Meanwhile, Myungho—the calmest of the three—watched in silence as his two friends bickered over something as trivial as street food plating.

"Put the tteokbokki in a bowl, obviously," Seokmin argued, gesturing toward the steaming dish.

Mingyu scoffed. "No way, a plate makes it easier to pick up!"

"And the tangsuyuk sauce?" Myungho finally chimed in, sipping his drink. "Poured or dipped?"

Seokmin and Mingyu both turned to him at the same time.

"Dipped."

"Poured."

They glared at each other, neither willing to back down.

Classic.

But just as Seokmin prepared to defend his stance, Myungho’s voice cut through the playful atmosphere.

"Did you get the invitation?" he asked suddenly.

Seokmin turned to him, momentarily distracted. "What invitation?"

Mingyu let out a sigh, shaking his head as he watched Seokmin successfully pour all the sauce over the tangsuyuk. Defeated, he dropped his chopsticks and leaned back in his chair.

The three of them sat in a small circle, their laughter fading as the conversation shifted.

"So you really didn’t get it," Mingyu mumbled, nodding to himself.

Myungho pulled out his phone and turned the screen toward Seokmin, showing him a digital invitation.

You're getting married.

The words glowed against the screen, and as Seokmin scrolled through the details, the color drained from his face.

Mingyu and Myungho exchanged a quick glance, guilt settling over them. This gathering hadn’t just been a casual hangout. It had been arranged for one reason—to soften the blow, to distract Seokmin from the inevitable heartbreak.

Seokmin’s hands tightened around the phone before he slowly slid it back across the table. He looked at his friends, a chuckle escaping his lips, but there was no humor in it. Only disbelief.

"Woah…" His voice was quiet, but the betrayal in his eyes was evident. He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "Is it him? That guy?"

They knew exactly who he was talking about—the so-called "best friend" who had played a part in your breakup.

Mingyu shook his head. "Not that one."

Seokmin let out a bitter laugh, his grip on his drink tightening. "So it's another guy, huh? She's quick, though." His words were muttered, almost as if he was speaking more to himself than them.

A heavy silence fell over the table.

Myungho sighed before raising his glass. "Let’s not talk about other men," he said, his tone firm as he held his drink out for a toast.

Mingyu followed, clinking his glass against Myungho’s. They both waited for Seokmin.

For a long moment, Seokmin didn’t move. His heart pounded against his ribs, beating twice as fast, as if it was ready to burst.

Then, finally, he exhaled, forcing a small smirk onto his lips as he lifted his glass.

"Yeah," he murmured. "Screw that."

And with that, their drinks clinked together—a silent agreement that, for tonight, they would drink away the pain.

"I’M SERIOUS!!!"

"That machine has taken me back to the past four times already!" Seokmin slurred, his words tumbling over each other as he waved his hand toward the vintage brewing machine sitting proudly on the counter.

Mingyu let out a loud laugh, his own face slightly flushed from the alcohol. He might have been drunk, but not that drunk—not to the point where he’d start believing Seokmin’s wild claims. "Where the hell did you even get that?" he asked, barely able to stifle his laughter.

"From an old man across the road," Seokmin explained, his words slightly incoherent. "I was just trying to help him, but he insisted I buy it—for very cheap, I swear."

Myungho chuckled, clearly amused by the drunken storytelling. "Alright," he humored him, leaning back in his chair. "So where exactly did you travel to?"

Seokmin perked up, turning to Myungho with an appreciative look. At least one of his friends was paying attention.

"First," he began, raising a finger. "Remember our road trip to Busan after we graduated?"

Myungho nodded, recalling the memory.

"That was one. Then I visited the day I broke my mother’s vase when I was six." He sighed dramatically. "Got scolded all over again, by the way."

Mingyu scoffed, swirling the drink in his glass. "Wow, what a life-changing experience."

Seokmin ignored him. "And then, I went back to the time my sisters ganged up on me to tease me mercilessly." He shuddered at the memory, throwing a side glance at Mingyu, who was looking at him with pure judgment.

"And the last one," Seokmin continued, his voice growing softer, "was the day I resigned. Seven years ago."

Mingyu chuckled once Seokmin finished his tale. "I told you to stop daydreaming. You drank too much, now your brain’s broken." With that, he took another shot, shaking his head.

Seokmin was ready to throw a punch at Mingyu, but Myungho, ever the peacekeeper, reached out and held him back.

"Did you change anything?" Myungho asked instead.

Seokmin froze at the question, caught off guard. "I don’t know... I didn’t visit to change anything. So…"

"But is there something you want to change?" Myungho pressed, his voice quieter, more thoughtful. "I mean, isn't that the natural instinct? If you could go back, wouldn't you want to fix something?"

Seokmin fell silent.

Mingyu, ever the skeptic, mouthed to Myungho, You actually believe him?

Myungho simply giggled and shook his head. Mingyu covered his mouth, trying to suppress his laughter as Seokmin sat there, lost in deep thought.

Was there something he wanted to change? A regret so strong that he’d risk altering the past?

Then, after a long pause, Seokmin exhaled.

"There’s one thing," he admitted, his voice quieter now.

Both Mingyu and Myungho looked at him, their amusement fading slightly.

"There’s something I want to fix," Seokmin said, looking up at his friends with newfound determination.

And for the first time that night, neither of them laughed.

*

Seokmin was pacing around, his footsteps echoing in the quiet of his cafe. Today was one week before your wedding day. He could still see the date written on the elegant invitation in his mind. He sighed, a weight in his chest that he thought had long since lifted. But deep down, he knew he hadn’t moved on—not really. His heart still ached for you, even though you had broken it more times than he could count.

The cafe had just closed, a long day finally over. He had worked the after-lunch shift too, his staff shorthanded. After bidding them goodbye as they went home, Seokmin lingered by the counter, cleaning up the remnants of the day. His eyes, however, were drawn to the brewing machine sitting in the corner.

It had been a week since he last used it. The discovery that it could send him to the past had shaken him. After that morning, he’d told his staff to leave the machine alone, insisting it was just a decoration—something for the aesthetic. He couldn’t risk anyone else getting sucked into its mystery, let alone the confusion of being sent back to the past.

But tonight, it called to him.

With a resigned sigh, Seokmin walked over to the machine and began making his coffee. He didn’t know why—he wasn’t in the mood for it, not really. But it felt... right. He prepared the coffee the same way he always had, the routine grounding him. Once he was finished, he sat at a table, wrapping his hands around the warm mug.

Taking a deep breath, he let his mind wander, the way it often did when he needed an escape. Seokmin was always a dreamer, his thoughts effortlessly drifting toward places and moments he longed to revisit. His eyes fluttered closed as he imagined the soft, familiar surroundings of his old apartment. He could feel the weight lifting off his body as he let the image grow sharper, clearer.

Slowly, almost absentmindedly, he raised the mug to his lips and took a sip of the warm coffee. But when he opened his eyes, the world had shifted. The cafe was gone, and in its place was the worn wooden dining table of his old apartment. The warm glow of the lamplight bathed the room in a cozy, nostalgic hue. In his hands, the red mug had changed too, filled not with coffee but with hot chocolate—the one he always made for himself after a particularly long week at the cafe.

He remembered this moment, so clearly. It had been a quiet evening after an exhausting week, his body sore from hours spent on his feet. He had come home that night, craving comfort, craving something familiar. And here it was, as if the past had pulled him back in.

For a moment, Seokmin let himself just be there, soaking in the memory. But deep down, the question gnawed at him. Could he change anything if he stayed? Could he find a way to stop this—to stop you from marrying someone else?

"You're home."

He could hear your voice, and though he expected it, the familiar ache in his chest didn’t lessen. He had been here before, so he knew what was coming next.

A fight.

Arguments.

Yells.

Tears.

He remembered it all too well—the tension that always seemed to hang between them.

"You remember home today?" Your voice was laced with sarcasm as you leaned against the fridge, eyes locking with his.

In the past, he would’ve said, "Don't start it."

But now, when he thought about it, he realized it was always him who started it. All of your frustration, your anger—it had been triggered by his absence. He hadn’t been home for three days, choosing to stay at the cafe to pour himself into work for the five-year anniversary. His team was counting on him, but he had let that responsibility push you to the side.

"I'm sorry," Seokmin mumbled, his voice low, but sincere.

Your frown softened a little, though there was still a flicker of something in your eyes—a question, a need for something more than just the apology he had offered. You didn’t seem to fully believe it yet.

"Why are you home, then?" you asked, arms still crossed tightly over your chest, a guarded expression remaining on your face.

Seokmin paused, his old reflex kicking in. The Seokmin from before would have answered defensively, “Can’t I? It’s my house too. I pay the rent.”

But now, a more mature version of him stared back at you, a version that had grown, that had learned, that understood the weight of words and actions.

He gulped, swallowing the bitterness that tried to crawl up his throat, before answering, "Because... because I miss you." The words slipped out, almost painfully, and he could feel the lump in his throat. He fought the tears threatening to fall, but he could feel them—hot, sharp—and you seemed to notice.

Seokmin set the mug down on the table, his hands trembling slightly. He wiped his face quickly, trying to regain his composure, but it was no use. He had already cracked.

And before he knew it, you were there, pulling him into an embrace.

The warmth of your touch, your familiar scent—it hit him like a wave. He hadn’t expected to break down so quickly, but here he was, clinging to you as if he could somehow undo all the hurt he had caused, all the time lost between the two of you. He hadn’t come here for this, but it was happening anyway—this rush of emotions, this sudden rush of longing.

You pulled back just enough to brush a hand through his hair, your fingers gentle and soothing, sending a ripple of calm through him.

"You must have had a hard time preparing for the event," you murmured, your voice soft, understanding. Your touch was comforting, like a balm to the rawness he was feeling.

Seokmin pulled back slightly, his eyes locking onto yours with a desperate intensity. "I'm so sorry... Forgive me, please."

You looked at him with concern, cupping his cheeks with a tenderness that made his heart ache. "Hey, you don’t need to apologize this much. You know I'll forgive you..."

And then, you kissed him. Just a soft, fleeting kiss on his lips. The butterflies that erupted in his stomach were almost overwhelming. After a year without your touch, your kiss felt like a sweet, familiar melody, bringing him back to life in an instant.

"You know I’ll always forgive you," you whispered, and in that moment, Seokmin’s heart clenched painfully. He had forgotten what it felt like to hear those words from you. Had you always been this forgiving? He couldn’t remember, but right now, it felt like everything.

“Don’t cry, baby... I’m sorry too…”

Your words hit him like a wave. You were apologizing? He almost couldn’t believe it. You had always been the tough one, the one who hid your emotions beneath a hard exterior. You never apologized for the fights, not unless it was absolutely necessary, and even then, it was rare. But now, here you were, admitting you were sorry too. It was a side of you he hadn’t seen in so long.

"I'm sorry that I acted like that earlier," you added, your voice thick with emotion. "I was just... worried."

And just like that, the warmth of the moment began to slip away. Seokmin felt the coldness creep back into his bones, like a shadow settling over him. The sound of the jazz music he always played in the cafe swirled around him, pulling him back to reality.

He was back in the present.

This wasn’t the past.

And yet, somehow, this feeling—this hope—remained, flickering in his chest.

*

Seokmin was surprised when he saw your best friend walk into his cafe. He watched as your best friend placed his order while Seokmin was busy fulfilling other customers’ requests at the dessert counter. After a brief moment, your best friend found a table, sitting down with his phone in hand, seemingly lost in thought. Seokmin could feel a slight tension in the air, but he brushed it off as he prepared the order: an Americano and a slice of carrot cake.

He walked over to deliver the order, trying to maintain his usual calm demeanor. "Seungkwan, right?"

Seungkwan looked up in surprise, his gaze shifting around as he realized where he was. His eyes widened slightly at the realization that he was in Seokmin’s cafe—the cafe owned by his best friend’s ex.

"Oh, Seokmin. How are you?" Seungkwan asked, the air between them suddenly feeling awkward. Seokmin made an effort to ease the tension.

"I'm good. How about you? Still working in fashion editorial?" Seokmin asked, trying to be warmer to someone who, in the past, had felt like a potential threat to his relationship with you.

Seungkwan blinked, clearly taken aback by the question. "Actually, I haven’t worked in fashion for almost three years now. I’m in TV show production now," he said with a slight shrug.

Seokmin, embarrassed by not knowing, quickly took the business card Seungkwan offered. It had been a while since they had spoken, and Seokmin only remembered Seungkwan’s involvement with the fashion industry. He felt a little sheepish, but Seungkwan waved it off.

"It’s okay, no reason for you to know that. Anyway, your cafe is doing great," Seungkwan added, his eyes scanning the bustling space, clearly impressed.

The two of them sat at a table together, a rare moment where Seokmin found himself truly getting to know Seungkwan. He had always been your best friend since college, but the few interactions they had shared had never gone beyond awkward pleasantries. Seokmin now realized that he barely knew the person who had been by your side for so long.

In fact, he remembered the last time Seungkwan had been in his life. The memory stung, but he pushed it down as they continued their conversation, both men navigating the strange space between them.

“You ungrateful bastard.” Seungkwan’s words were sharp the last time they had ever saw each other.

Seokmin's eyes widened as he stepped into his apartment after a week of staying in the cafe. He had barely any clothes left there and needed to change. His mind was still trying to forget the argument that had taken place the last time he was home. It was like any other argument—filled with tension, unspoken words, and frustration.

There had been countless times Seungkwan was mentioned during arguments. Seokmin didn’t know him well—just that he was a friend of yours from university. Despite meeting him a few times, there had always been a lingering, uncomfortable atmosphere between Seokmin and Seungkwan, one that others could feel but no one would openly acknowledge.

But when he stepped into the bedroom, everything seemed to freeze. He blinked, rubbed his eyes, and then stared again, certain that what he saw couldn’t be real. There, in his bed, was Seungkwan, your best friend, lying on his side of the bed.

It didn’t take long for the familiar anger to rise in Seokmin’s chest. His thoughts raced back to every argument, every moment Seungkwan had been mentioned, and the air of discomfort between him and Seungkwan.

He tried to shake it off, but the image of Seungkwan in his bed was burning into his brain, and the frustration, the years of pent-up tension, exploded.

“What is this?” His voice was thick with disbelief, his hands gripping the doorframe.

Your gaze flicked nervously from Seokmin to Seungkwan, and before Seokmin could react, you were moving towards him, pulling him out of the bedroom. “It’s not what it looks like,” you said quickly, but your voice trembled with uncertainty.

Seokmin’s eyes were wide, his heart pounding. “What do you mean ‘it’s not what it looks like’? Why is he in my bed?” His words were clipped, his frustration quickly building. He couldn’t wrap his head around what was happening.

You kept your voice low, trying to stay calm. “Seokmin, listen to me. It's a misunderstanding.”

“Misunderstanding?” Seokmin’s voice rose, unable to contain the anger. “What part of my bed being taken by him is a misunderstanding?”

You sighed deeply, stepping back slightly to avoid his fiery gaze. “He’s my best friend, Seokmin. He needed somewhere to sleep. We weren’t—” You cut yourself off, realizing how it sounded.

Seokmin’s face darkened. He laughed bitterly, the sound bitter on his tongue. “You think I’m stupid? You want me to believe you’re ‘just sleeping’?” He stepped closer to you, his voice shaking with emotion. “Are you cheating on me with him? Is that it? This whole time, while I’ve been working my ass off, you’ve been with him?”

You took a step back, stunned by his words. “No! I’m not cheating on you!” you pleaded, the frustration in your own voice rising. “Seungkwan’s my friend, my best friend. Why does it always have to be this way?”

Seokmin was pacing now, rubbing his hand over his face, trying to hold it together. His emotions were getting the best of him. “Because I saw it with my own eyes, Y/n. I saw him in my bed, sleeping next to you—” He swallowed hard, trying to get the words out. “What if I had walked in and seen something else? What if I had found you in the middle of... whatever it is you’ve been doing?”

Your eyes widened, and you shook your head frantically. “Seokmin, that’s not what’s happening!” You reached for him, trying to calm him, but he stepped back, avoiding your touch.

Seokmin let out a strained laugh, one filled with pain and betrayal. “Just sleeping? That’s your excuse? What do you expect me to believe? You’ve been so cold lately. So distant. And now this? I don’t know what to think anymore.”

“I’ve been distant?” you shot back, the words sharp. “You’ve been gone for days, Seokmin. Days! And now you come back here accusing me of—of what? Cheating?”

Seokmin’s fists clenched at his sides. He was shaking, his breath coming faster now. “Don’t act like this is my fault. You can’t even look at me the same anymore. Every time I try to come home, it feels like I’m stepping into a house full of secrets and lies. I don’t know who you are anymore.”

“I’m not the one who’s changed, Seokmin!” Your voice cracked, the weight of your words taking their toll. “You’ve pulled away. You’ve been gone, busy with the cafe. You didn’t even have time for me, for us. And now, you show up and this is what you do—accuse me of things that aren’t true!”

The argument grew louder, more intense. Words flew like daggers, each of you trying to hurt the other before the pain could sink too deep. Seokmin was on the verge of breaking down, but his anger was keeping him from seeing clearly. You were both caught in a whirlpool of hurt, accusations, and unsaid words.

Then, as if on cue, Seungkwan appeared in the doorway. His eyes were bleary from sleep, his head clearly pounding from the night before. He stepped out into the living room, rubbing his face and looking between the two of you.

“What’s going on?” Seungkwan’s voice was groggy, his confusion evident. He hadn’t expected to find a warzone when he came out of the room.

Seokmin whirled on him, his anger still burning hot. He grabbed Seungkwan’s shirt with both hands, his voice low and threatening. “What the hell are you doing in my bed with my girlfriend?”

Seungkwan blinked, still half asleep. “Relax, man... We were just sleeping.”

The words barely registered before Seokmin’s fist flew through the air, landing a punch on Seungkwan’s jaw. Seungkwan stumbled back, the shock of the hit taking him by surprise.

“Seokmin, stop!” You screamed, rushing forward, but in his anger, Seokmin pushed you aside, not realizing what he was doing.

You gasped as you hit the floor, but before Seokmin could even react, Seungkwan lunged, his fist connecting with Seokmin’s face. The force sent Seokmin stumbling backwards, his lip splitting from the impact.

“Get the hell out of here, you bastard!” Seungkwan shouted, his chest heaving with adrenaline as he shoved Seokmin toward the door.

Seokmin, dazed and bleeding, stood frozen for a moment. His heart pounded in his ears, the adrenaline still surging through his body. But as Seungkwan pushed him out, his own words haunted him.

“You ungrateful bastard.” Seungkwan’s words were sharp, final, as he slammed the door in Seokmin’s face, leaving him outside in the cold, heartbroken, and alone.

*

Seokmin took a sip of his coffee, the warmth spreading through his body, but as he opened his eyes, something felt... off. The familiar scent of freshly brewed espresso and sugar filled his senses, yet the details around him seemed different.

He wasn’t in his apartment, where he had specifically visualized it. Instead, he was in his café—a year ago.

The table in front of him was the same, scuffed in places where he had absentmindedly tapped his fingers while brainstorming new recipes. The dessert counter was still small, a far cry from what it had become over time. The soft hum of the café's old refrigerator buzzed in the background, a sound he had long since tuned out.

Seokmin’s brows furrowed. Why am I here?

Just then, his phone vibrated. A message.

Y/n: Can you come home? I have a really bad stomachache.

Seokmin stared at the screen, a strange sensation creeping up his spine. He knew this message. He had received it before—exactly one year ago.

Now he remembered.

That night, you had asked him to come home, but he hadn’t. He had stayed at the café, drowning himself in dessert recipes, convincing himself that work was more important. He had ignored your message, promising himself he’d check on you in the morning.

But the morning had come, and by then, something had already started to break between you.

Seokmin clenched his jaw, his grip tightening around his phone.

This was the moment. The turning point.

If he went home tonight, would it change anything between you?

He exhaled, forcing himself to think. Why had he chosen to stay at the café back then? What had been so important that he ignored you?

He had spent months after your breakup searching for answers—wondering why you had grown distant after five years together, why your warmth had slowly faded, why you had let someone else—Seungkwan—fill the space he had left empty.

Was that why you pulled away? Because you had already found someone else?

Seokmin shook his head. He had spent so much time blaming you, convincing himself that you had betrayed him. But deep down, he knew the truth—he had left you alone long before you ever looked elsewhere for comfort.

He stood abruptly, pushing his chair back.

He wouldn’t make the same mistake again.

He wasn’t going to give another man the chance to take his place.

Wasn’t that why he had returned to the past in the first place? Because he didn’t want to lose you? Because he couldn’t bear to see you with someone else?

Without hesitation, Seokmin grabbed his keys and sprinted out of the café, the cold night air biting against his skin as he rushed toward your apartment.

"Y/n..." he called softly as he stepped inside, his heart hammering in his chest.

His breath caught when he saw you curled up on the couch, clutching your stomach. Your face was pale, and beads of cold sweat clung to your temple.

Seokmin crossed the room in long strides, kneeling in front of you.

“What’s wrong?” His voice was tight with worry as he reached out, scanning your expression. His fingers brushed against your forehead—it was damp, too cold.

You barely lifted your gaze to meet his. “I don’t know… It hurts so much…” Your voice was weak, barely a whisper.

Panic surged through him. He had no idea the pain had been this bad. Had you been suffering like this all night, alone?

Without another thought, Seokmin scooped you into his arms, holding you close.

“I’m taking you to the hospital,” he said firmly, his mind made up.

This time, he wouldn’t leave you waiting.

Seokmin sat in the cold, sterile hospital hallway, his elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped together so tightly his knuckles turned white. The scent of antiseptic burned his nose, the bright fluorescent lights overhead only worsening the pounding in his skull.

The image of you, unconscious on the hospital bed, your skin sickly pale, was burned into his mind. He hadn't realized it was this serious. Hadn't known you had been suffering like this while he was too caught up in his own world, his own ambitions.

He squeezed his eyes shut.

Please, just let her be okay.

The sound of footsteps made him lift his head, and he shot up when he saw the doctor approaching.

"How is she?" Seokmin asked immediately, his voice rough, desperate.

The doctor sighed, pulling down his mask before speaking. "She's stable now, but..."

Seokmin's heart pounded harder. The pause stretched too long. "But what?"

The doctor gave him a solemn look. "She was pregnant."

Seokmin felt the words hit him like a truck, his breath catching in his throat. Pregnant?

His vision blurred for a second, his mind racing back through time—had you known? Had you tried to tell him?

"But due to excessive stress and prolonged neglect of her symptoms," the doctor continued, "she suffered a miscarriage."

The word rang in his ears, shattering something deep inside him.

A miscarriage.

His legs felt weak, his hands trembled. His mouth opened, but no words came out.

There had been a baby. His baby. A life that had barely begun but was already gone.

Seokmin stumbled back onto the chair, his body cold, his mind reeling. He gripped his hair, exhaling shakily.

He had been so blind. So selfish.

All those times you had asked him to come home. All those moments when you had reached out, needing him. And he had ignored you, stayed at the café, convinced himself that his time, his dreams, his work mattered more.

And now, there was no going back.

His baby was gone.

And you—how were you supposed to handle this? How much pain had you endured alone while he had been too distracted, too distant to see it?

"Hey, do you know I'm never into women? I always have a boyfriend." Seungkwan’s words echoed in his mind, each syllable hitting him like a hammer to the chest.

Seokmin sat there, unmoving, the weight of those words settling deep in his bones. His breath hitched as the realization sank in—how wrong he had been.

All the accusations. The doubts. The fights.

All the times he had glared at Seungkwan, convinced that he was the reason for your distance, the reason you weren’t looking at him the way you used to. He had let his insecurities twist everything, had let jealousy consume him until all he saw was betrayal where there was none.

And while he had been drowning in his own delusions, you had been suffering in silence.

He pressed a hand over his face, his fingers trembling.

"I'm not cheating on you."

Your voice from that night played in his head, softer now, weaker. He could still see the way your face had crumpled at his accusations, the way you had begged him to believe you.

But he hadn’t.

He had let his pride win. He had let his anger control him.

And now, here he was—watching you lie in a hospital bed, pale and weak, after losing the baby he never even knew existed.

Guilt clawed at his throat, suffocating him.

"I should have been there."

But he wasn’t.

And now, it was too late.

*

Mingyu watched as Myungho sprinted down the hospital corridor, his breathing ragged, his face a mix of panic and frustration. Neither of them had expected to receive a message from one of Seokmin's staff, informing them that their friend had been found passed out in his café that morning—with ten empty espresso cups scattered around him.

Myungho raked a trembling hand through his hair, his voice sharp with disbelief. "Is it because of her wedding? Is that why he did something this stupid?" He turned to Mingyu, eyes desperate for an answer, but Mingyu looked just as lost, just as shaken.

Seokmin, their bright, ever-smiling friend, had nearly died of a heart attack.

Mingyu let out a heavy breath, rubbing his hands over his face as he sank onto one of the waiting chairs. His fingers fidgeted, betraying the unease thrumming through his body. "The wedding is tomorrow," he muttered, voice hollow.

Myungho stiffened at the words. He knew it. They both did. But hearing it out loud made it feel more real, made Seokmin’s pain more tangible.

Mingyu swallowed hard, his throat tight. "Doctor said if they hadn’t found him sooner, it could've been fatal."

Myungho clenched his fists. "That idiot," he cursed under his breath, his voice cracking. His eyes burned with unshed tears, the weight of almost losing Seokmin settling heavily on his chest.

Seokmin's eyelids fluttered open, the sterile white ceiling of the hospital room coming into focus. His body felt heavy, his head pounding as if a jackhammer was drilling into his skull. His mouth was dry, tasting faintly of bitter coffee and regret.

Before he could fully register his surroundings, a sharp gasp filled the room.

"Seokmin!"

Mingyu and Myungho rushed to his side, their expressions a mix of relief and frustration. Mingyu gripped his arm tightly, as if making sure he was real, while Myungho hovered nearby, his jaw clenched.

Seokmin blinked sluggishly, his throat constricting as he croaked out, "Where am I?"

Mingyu scoffed, shaking his head. "Where do you think? You're in the hospital, you dumbass." His voice wavered, trying to mask his emotions with irritation, but his grip on Seokmin’s arm gave him away. "You nearly died."

Seokmin groaned, attempting to sit up, but Myungho immediately pressed him back down with a firm hand on his chest. "Don’t even try. You drank ten cups of espresso in one go, Seokmin. Ten! Do you have a death wish?!"

Seokmin closed his eyes briefly, letting their words sink in. Then, in a hoarse whisper, he asked the only question that mattered to him.

"Did she get married?"

The room fell silent.

Mingyu and Myungho exchanged glances, their expressions darkening.

Seokmin's hands clenched the sheets, his breath growing unsteady. "Tell me," he pleaded, his voice cracking.

Myungho sighed, rubbing his temples. "Seokmin—"

"Did she or did she not get married?!" Seokmin's voice rose, desperate, raw.

Mingyu exhaled heavily, then finally muttered, "Not yet."

Seokmin's heart lurched. He wasn't too late. Not yet.

Ignoring the dizziness washing over him, he tried to push himself up again. "I need to see her."

"Are you insane?!" Myungho nearly shouted, pushing him back. "You almost died, and the first thing you want to do is chase after her?!"

Seokmin grabbed onto Myungho’s wrist, eyes wild with determination. "I have to stop it." His voice was barely above a whisper, but the conviction in it made both of his friends freeze.

Mingyu sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "You don’t even know if she wants you to stop it, Seokmin."

Seokmin swallowed hard, his chest aching. He knew that. He knew he had no right to do this. But he also knew one thing for certain—

"I need to see her."

Mingyu let out a long breath, gripping his knees as he tried to process Seokmin’s words. Myungho, on the other hand, looked like he was on the verge of throwing something.

"Are you even listening to yourself?" Myungho snapped, glaring at Seokmin. "You just woke up from almost dying, and your first thought is running after her wedding? What the hell do you think is going to happen?"

Mingyu leaned forward, rubbing his temples. "Even if you do see her, then what? Do you expect her to come back to you just because you showed up? Do you think this is some kind of drama where the moment you say ‘don’t marry him,’ she’ll run into your arms?"

Seokmin’s lips parted slightly, but no words came out. His mind was clouded, tangled between desperation and the overwhelming guilt crushing his chest.

"This isn’t about what you want anymore, Seokmin," Myungho continued, his voice quieter but firm. "She’s about to start a new life. Whether or not she’s happy with it, that’s not something you get to decide."

Seokmin’s breathing became uneven, his heart pounding against his ribs. "But what if she’s making a mistake?" he murmured.

"And what if she isn’t?" Mingyu shot back. "What if she’s already moved on and you’re the only one stuck in the past?"

Seokmin’s fingers curled into the hospital blanket. That thought—her moving on, being happy without him—made his stomach twist painfully.

"I need to know," he whispered, voice barely holding together.

Mingyu ran a frustrated hand through his hair. "You’re being selfish, man. You don’t need to know. You want to know. And there’s a big difference."

Myungho sighed, looking away for a moment before turning back to Seokmin. "You think this is love, but it’s guilt eating you alive. You regret everything, and you think if you see her, if you stop her, maybe it’ll fix something in you. But it won’t."

Seokmin clenched his jaw. "I just—"

"You just can’t accept that you lost her."

The words cut deeper than Seokmin expected. His vision blurred slightly, his throat tightening.

Seokmin’s breath hitched, his shoulders trembling as he gripped the blanket beneath him. His head hung low, strands of hair falling over his eyes, but it did nothing to hide the way his body shook. A choked sound escaped his lips, something between a breathless laugh and a sob, as if he himself wasn’t sure whether to scream or cry.

Mingyu and Myungho exchanged a glance, their own expressions heavy with helplessness. Neither of them had an answer—because if moving on was easy, Seokmin wouldn’t be here, collapsing under the weight of what-ifs and regrets.

"I ruined everything," Seokmin whispered, his fingers pressing into his temples. "I should’ve come home that night. I should’ve listened. I should’ve believed her." His voice cracked at the last part, and his body folded in on itself.

He sucked in a sharp breath, but it did nothing to steady him. The dam he had been holding back for so long finally burst. A sob tore from his throat, raw and painful, his hands clutching at his chest as if trying to hold himself together.

"I thought I was doing the right thing." Another sob. "I thought I was protecting us." His words were barely coherent between gasps. "But I— I pushed her away. Over and over. And then when I finally—when I finally wanted to fix things, it was too late."

He pressed his fists against his eyes, trying to stop the flood of tears, but they kept coming. "She waited for me," he rasped. "And I never came."

Myungho, usually the colder one, exhaled and sat on the edge of the hospital bed. He placed a hand on Seokmin’s back, firm but gentle. "You can’t change the past, Seokmin," he murmured. "No matter how much you regret it. You can't change anything."

Seokmin let out a bitter, broken laugh through his tears. "Then what the hell am I supposed to do?"

Mingyu kneeled beside the bed, gripping Seokmin’s wrist, grounding him. "You grieve, man," he said softly. "And then, one day, you start again."

Seokmin squeezed his eyes shut, his body wrecked with sobs. He had spent so long running—running from his emotions, from his mistakes, from the truth. And now, there was nowhere left to run.

All that was left was the ache in his chest and the cruel reality that no matter how much he cried, no matter how much he wished, he could never turn back time.

*

"No one can change things but themselves."

Seokmin let out a quiet chuckle as he read the faded tagline on the back of the vintage brewing machine. He ran a hand over its worn surface, the once-polished metal now dulled with age.

He pulled it from the counter, his fingers tightening around the handle as he lifted it. There was a strange sense of finality in the action, as if he were physically removing a part of himself from the past. He exhaled slowly. It was time to say goodbye.

It had taken him a month to come to terms with the truth. No matter how much he wished otherwise, he couldn’t change the past. Even after experiencing what felt like a second chance, he realized that some things were simply meant to happen. His mistakes, your choices—they were both pieces of a larger story that he had no control over.

He couldn’t be selfish anymore. You had your own life, your own decisions. And he had to respect that.

After being discharged from the hospital, Myungho had insisted he move in with him, at least for a while. “You need someone to keep an eye on your dumbass,” Myungho had said, dragging him into his apartment without giving him a chance to protest. Mingyu had taken over managing the café in his absence, making sure everything ran smoothly while Seokmin recovered.

Their support had been the reason he didn’t completely fall apart.

And now, standing in his café once again, he felt something he hadn’t in a long time—strength. Not just physical strength, but the kind that came from acceptance.

He was back.

And this time, he was ready to move forward.

Seokmin froze for a moment as he spotted the old man standing across the road, watching him with a knowing look. The same old man who had sold him the vintage brewing machine all those months ago—the one who seemed to have known more than he let on. Seokmin blinked, still trying to process the bizarre turn of events.

The old man raised his hand and waved, an almost mischievous grin on his weathered face. Seokmin's heart skipped a beat.

He made his way over, the sound of his footsteps echoing in the quiet room. “You finished using it?” The old man asked, his voice gravelly, as if he'd been waiting for this moment. “Can I get it back?”

Seokmin hesitated for a second, the weight of everything that had happened still lingering in his chest. He glanced down at the machine in his hands, the one that had been his link to the past. "You know it too?" Seokmin asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "This machine... it can send anyone back in time?"

The old man’s smile widened, and he nodded knowingly. "I always knew," he said with quiet certainty. There was something in his eyes—a kind of ancient wisdom—that made Seokmin feel like he was standing before someone who had seen far more than he let on.

Without waiting for any further conversation, the old man reached out and took the machine from Seokmin’s arms. Despite his age, the man was surprisingly strong, and Seokmin couldn’t help but watch in awe as the old man effortlessly carried the machine.

For a moment, Seokmin stood there, frozen, as he watched the old man walk away, the heavy sound of his steps receding in the distance. It felt surreal—like the end of a chapter, yet Seokmin couldn't shake the feeling that it was only the beginning of something far more complex.

As Seokmin stood there, watching the old man walk away, he couldn’t shake the nagging question in his mind—the tagline he had read on the back of the brewing machine. It had been on his mind ever since he first set eyes on it, and now, with the machine being taken away, it felt like there was a final piece to the puzzle that was still missing.

"Hey," Seokmin called out, his voice catching the old man’s attention before he disappeared completely. The old man turned around, a knowing smile playing on his lips as if he had been expecting this.

“What’s the tagline about?” Seokmin asked, his voice tinged with curiosity. "The one that says, 'No one can change things but themselves.' What does that really mean?"

The old man chuckled softly, the sound a raspy yet warm laugh that seemed to carry the weight of countless untold stories. He looked at Seokmin with a glimmer of understanding in his eyes.

"It takes two for everything," the old man replied, his voice low and deliberate. "You couldn’t be the only one who wants it."

Seokmin stood in silence, the brewing machine now a distant memory in his hands, and the words of the old man echoed in his head. “It takes two for everything.” Was he truly ready to let go? To stop trying to control the outcome?

As the seconds ticked by, he realized that maybe, just maybe, the key wasn’t about turning back time, but about moving forward.

Seokmin’s phone buzzed with a new message. It was from Myungho.

Myungho: You're home already?

Seokmin frowned at the screen, his frustration rising. He quickly typed back:

Seokmin: Stop texting me like a creepy boyfriend!

Not even a minute later, his phone rang. It was Myungho calling this time. Seokmin groaned, rolling his eyes before answering.

“Why do you keep bothering me? What do you want, Myungho?” Seokmin grumbled as he headed back to the cafe, trying to shake off the exhaustion that clung to him.

“Mingyu texted me, saying he saw your cafe lights still on!” Myungho said with a teasing tone, clearly amused.

Seokmin, now annoyed, rubbed his temples. “I’m just done recycling, okay? What the heck, how does Mingyu know my lights are still on?”

There was a brief pause on the other end, and then Myungho’s voice came through, dripping with sarcasm. “CCTV?”

Seokmin froze mid-step, eyes widening in disbelief. “Ya! How dare you guys monitor me with my own CCTV?! We should’ve had a talk about this! You’re creepy, you know that?”

Myungho let out a laugh, clearly unfazed by Seokmin’s outburst. “Just get home already. I’ll text you in an hour!”

Seokmin scoffed, shaking his head in amusement as he made his way toward the cafe. “You guys are ridiculous.”

Before Seokmin could respond further, Myungho ended the call with a cheeky, “Don’t make me come over there and check on you myself!”

Seokmin chuckled in disbelief, muttering to himself. “As if I needed another reason to feel like I’m being watched…”

Seokmin woke up slowly, feeling the weight of Myungho's arm draped over his chest. His mind was still foggy as he tried to process the situation. Had Myungho come over last night? He had no memory of it, but the warm pressure on his chest was undeniable.

“Go away, Myungho,” he mumbled, trying to shift the arm off him and pull the blanket back over himself, desperate for more sleep.

But just as he was about to drift off again, a sharp slap landed on his cheek. His eyes snapped open in shock, his heart racing. He turned to see you standing by the bed, a frown plastered on your face, looking down at him with a mix of confusion and frustration.

“Myungho? You dream about your friend?” you asked, your tone biting.

Seokmin’s heart skipped a beat, his breath catching in his throat. His mind couldn’t keep up with what was happening. Y/n? His eyes blinked rapidly, still disoriented from sleep.

He quickly turned his head toward Myungho, expecting to see his friend there, only to find the bed next to him empty. His eyes darted back to you, wide with surprise.

“Y/n?” Seokmin whispered, his voice cracking with disbelief. “What are you doing here?”

You raised an eyebrow, still standing in the doorway. The shock on his face must’ve been evident because your expression softened slightly, your concern starting to show. “I should be asking you that,” you retorted, your arms crossed over your chest. “Why the heck were you thinking i'm Myungho? Were you two—”

“No!” Seokmin interrupted quickly, his face flushing red. He sat up straight, heart pounding. “No, it’s not like that. I… I thought it was Myungho… but it was you…” He trailed off, still struggling to make sense of the situation. “What are you doing here, Y/n?”

You stared at him for a moment, your gaze shifting from confusion to something softer, but still tinged with frustration. A small sigh escaped your lips before you spoke again.

“Why am I here?” you asked incredulously, a bemused look crossing your face. “What are you talking about? I'm your wife, Seokmin. This is my house!”

Seokmin’s breath hitched in his chest. His mind was reeling, unable to catch up with the rush of confusion, panic, and overwhelming guilt. He ran a hand through his hair, still stunned by the situation. His thoughts felt like they were slipping away from him, like he was in a dream, but everything was too real.

“Y/n…” Seokmin’s voice trailed off, still searching your face for some kind of explanation. “How did we— why did I—” He couldn’t find the right words. The mixture of emotions was overwhelming. Was this real? Had everything really led to this?

You shook your head slightly, your expression softening as you walked closer, sitting on the edge of the bed beside him. "Seokmin, what’s going on? Why are you acting like this?"

Seokmin stared at you, the words stuck in his throat. He could feel the weight of everything crashing down on him—everything he had been running from, everything he had tried to avoid. But in that moment, with you sitting so close to him, so real, it all felt too much. Too real to escape.

Seokmin blinked, his mind racing as he looked down at his own finger. He felt the weight of a wedding band there, the same one he saw on yours. His eyes widened, his heart pounding in his chest.

"We're married?" He asked, his voice barely above a whisper, as if the words couldn't quite sink in. "How?"

You rolled your eyes, clearly frustrated by his confusion. "A month ago, Seokmin! Stop being ridiculous or you’re going to be late."

Seokmin could hardly process what you said. "Late for what?" His mind was still trying to catch up, the fog from his sleep mixing with a heavy sense of disbelief.

You stood up from the bed and walked toward the door, tossing over your shoulder, "Your branch cafe opening, of course. We’ve been planning it for weeks now."

His eyes followed you as you left the room, still reeling from the whirlwind of information that felt too surreal. A month ago? He ran a hand through his hair again, trying to piece together the puzzle. He couldn’t remember any of it—the wedding, the plans, none of it. Everything felt like it was slipping through his fingers, like he had missed an entire chapter of his own life.

Seokmin hurriedly followed you, still trying to wrap his mind around what had just happened. "But I didn’t… I didn’t drink any coffee, and I’m sure I didn’t return to the past," he muttered to himself, almost as if convincing himself.

You stopped in your tracks and glanced back at him, a small smile tugging at your lips. "Seokmin, you’ve been acting strange all morning. Maybe you should just focus on today, alright? You’ve got a cafe to open."

"But I—" He was cut off by the sound of his own phone buzzing in his pocket. The reality of the situation hit him like a ton of bricks. His mind had been clouded with confusion, but now it was clear—there was no going back.

"I know you're a newlywed, but please don't be late for today!" Mingyu's voice came through the phone, laced with frustration.

Seokmin froze, staring at his phone in disbelief. What was happening?

His thoughts were still spinning, trying to make sense of everything. Newlywed? A month ago? The cafe opening? The weight of it all was sinking in slowly, but it felt like his mind couldn’t keep up. His fingers tightened around the phone, and he felt a rush of panic creeping in.

"Mingyu… what’s going on?" Seokmin asked, his voice shaky as he stood in the hallway, still unsure of the reality he was facing.

On the other end, Mingyu sighed heavily. "Are you serious right now, Seokmin? You’re supposed to be here in an hour. Get it together."

Seokmin’s heart pounded in his chest as his mind raced. What did he mean, 'get it together'? Everything felt like a blur—like he had woken up in someone else’s life. The wedding ring, the cafe opening, your presence beside him—it was all too much to process.

Seokmin glanced over at you, still standing in the doorway, your arms crossed with a gentle but knowing expression on your face. You had your life figured out, but he… he was stuck in a whirlwind of confusion.

"Seokmin," Mingyu’s voice cut through his thoughts. "You need to snap out of it. You're really scaring me now."

Seokmin closed his eyes, trying to focus, but the weight of everything pressing on him was overwhelming. How could he have missed all of this? How could he have forgotten?

"Okay," Seokmin finally said, taking a deep breath and trying to steady his racing thoughts. "I’ll be there."

He hung up the phone and looked at you, the one person who seemed to know what was going on. "I—I don’t know what’s happening," he admitted, his voice softer now. "But I need to figure this out, Y/n."

You smiled slightly, the corner of your mouth lifting as you walked toward him. "One step at a time, Seokmin. Let’s get through today, and then we’ll talk."

Seokmin nodded, still in a daze, but he felt a strange sense of reassurance in your words. Maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t as lost as he thought.

*

Seungkwan stepped into your place, drinks in hand, and immediately noticed something on the kitchen counter. "That's cool," he remarked, eyeing the vintage brewing machine with curiosity.

"I didn’t know you were into vintage stuff," he added, raising an eyebrow as he set the drinks down.

You rolled your eyes playfully, brushing him off as you arranged the coffee table in front of the couch, placing the food you had ordered earlier. "It's just for display," you said, trying to downplay it.

Seungkwan chuckled and sat down on the floor, pulling bottles out of the bag with a grin. "Is it really okay to drink here? Your boyfriend won’t be home, will he?"

You sighed, glancing at him as you adjusted the arrangement on the table. "I told you, he hasn’t been home for days. I don’t know what to do anymore," you admitted, the frustration in your voice barely concealed.

Seungkwan looked at you, concern flickering in his eyes. He set the bottle down and leaned forward, his tone softening. "Let’s forget about him for now, okay? Tonight’s about you. Let’s drink, relax, and leave all the stress behind."

His words, filled with sincerity, brought a small but genuine smile to your face. "Yeah," you said, finally letting yourself breathe a little easier. "Tonight, we forget about everything else."

"So, I went back to the past, where he came home, and I didn’t act like a crazy bitch asking where he was or what he was doing. I saw how hard he was working for our future," you said, your words slurring slightly, but there was an undeniable sincerity in your voice.

Seungkwan watched you closely, his gaze thoughtful. "Do you always know why he worked so hard on the cafe?" he asked, his tone soft but probing.

You nodded, a wistful smile tugging at the corners of your lips. "Yeah, it’s his romantic dream. I knew that all along, but I still acted like an asshole." Your voice faltered slightly, regret creeping in as you admitted your mistakes. "I let my insecurities get the best of me."

Seungkwan fell silent for a moment, processing your words. Then, almost as if he was speaking to himself, he muttered, "Maybe I’m just jealous... that I couldn’t make my dreams come true the way he did. He has something to fight for, something to believe in."

There was a quiet vulnerability in his voice, one that made you pause. You glanced at him, recognizing that his words weren’t just about your boyfriend. He, too, was struggling with his own battles, hidden beneath layers of laughter and bravado.

The day you found out you were pregnant, only to lose it in a heartbreaking miscarriage, felt like a cruel twist of fate. It was the morning where the two of you finally sat together, yet Seokmin was still letting you go, giving you space to breathe but also unintentionally distancing himself further. Maybe that’s how it was meant to be. Even after you returned to the past, even after you tried to fix things, it felt as if nothing would change. The bond you once had was slipping away, like sand through your fingers.

As you stood by the trash, about to dispose of the old brewing machine—the same one that had brought you back to the past—your thoughts were tangled with regret and confusion. That’s when you heard the soft shuffle of footsteps, and you looked up to find the old man, the one who had given you the machine, standing there near your place.

"Oh, you're here..." you murmured, surprised yet not entirely shocked.

The old man smiled faintly, as if he’d been expecting this moment. "Can I get it back?" he asked gently, his voice carrying a quiet understanding.

You nodded, the weight of his words from before still lingering in your mind as you handed the machine back to him. It felt as if he had been a silent witness to everything that had transpired.

Before he walked away, he turned to face you one last time, his gaze penetrating yet wise. "Do you know," he began, his voice a low murmur, "you can’t change someone unless they themselves want to change?"

His words hit you like a heavy realization. He was right. It shouldn’t just be you who wanted change; it had to be him too. It had to come from both sides. The problem had never been about fixing things alone—it was about the both of you, working through it together.

With that, the old man walked away, leaving you standing there, holding onto the truth he'd just given you. A truth you didn’t know you needed to hear.

The end:)

[thedensworld]

A Tempting Damage | K.Sy

Pairing: Nepo Baby Soonyoung x reader

Genre: office au!, enemy to lover au!

Type: romance, fluff, smut (mdni!)

Word Count: 15k

Preview: You should’ve known the moment he walked into the boardroom with a grin too expensive for someone so inexperienced, This was temptation—tailored in Armani and absolutely lethal.

How did the two of you end up here—his office, lights off, half-breathing on his desk at nine o’clock at night?

You should’ve known the moment this would spiral. The signs were all there.

Soonyoung Kwon was the grandson of your boss’ boss’ boss’ boss. Which, by hierarchy, technically made him your boss too—though the title felt more ornamental than functional. You still remember the day he stepped out of the elevator a month ago, flashing a dazzling smile, shaking hands with the interns like he was on a political campaign.

He had announced himself as the new Director of KF Label, like he was gifting you all with his presence. And then your former director, who clearly saw the chaos ahead and ran, called you in for a “quick chat” and gracefully asked you—read: begged—to guide Soonyoung during his adaptation period.

A polite corporate term, you’ve since realized, for “He has no idea what the hell he’s doing, so make sure he doesn’t crash and burn the company before Q4.”

And yes—he truly has no idea what he’s doing. He is rich in confidence, poor in skill. A golden retriever with a black card and a C-suite title. Infuriatingly cheerful, tragically unqualified.

Which is how you, the marketing manager who actually built her way up from zero, spent the past month babysitting someone who thought "brand synergy" was a soft drink.

Thirty days of training him, fixing his mistakes, dragging him out of meetings he wasn’t prepared for, and still—still—somehow he manages to get under your skin.

“Now, tell me…”

“What should I say… during the meeting… with the supermarket owners tomorrow?”

Your fingers dug into the edge of his desk as he slammed into you, hips snapping forward with a pace you didn’t know he was capable of. God. Why were you into this? And why were you suddenly sounding like a desperate young woman getting her brain fucked stupid?

Kwon Soonyoung was an idiot. A cocky, clueless pain in your ass.

Yet tonight—he was making you worse than everything he is. Your moan broke the silence of the office in a high, breathless pitch no one in this building had ever heard from you. You—who kept your heels sharp, your lipstick in place, and your tone professional no matter the pressure. But now? Now you could barely get out a single word. Barely answer his simplest questions.

Yet he kept asking them. “We have a slogan?” — his first dumb question, asked a month ago when you handed him a company profile and procedural system you had rewritten in the simplest terms possible. You’d practically turned it into a corporate comic book, hoping to minimize the damage.

And now?

“Should I wear a Rolex or a Cartier for tomorrow’s meeting?”

He whispered it against your ear like it was dirty talk, the smirk in his voice cutting sharper than his thrusts. He probably thought he won something. Okay—fine. He won a little. Ever since he had you bent over his desk, squirming, gasping, ruined.

But still—stupid. Always with the stupid questions. “You’re… stupid!” you managed, voice strangled between a moan and a cry, half an insult and half a plea. You barely made sense, and you hated that he knew it.

He laughed, low and wicked, before slowing his hips, dragging out the motion just enough to make you whimper at the loss. His hand ran along your front, slipping under your blouse and palming your breast like he knew you needed that grounding, that release.

“Please… Kwon Soonyoung…” you gasped, back arching when his fingers grazed your nipple.

But instead of mercy, he pulled you upright, chest to chest, keeping you firmly locked against him. His hand gripped your waist as his lips brushed the shell of your ear.

“Answer me first, Ms. Ji. And remember…” His voice dropped a note deeper, quieter, deadlier.

“I’m your boss. So it’s Director Kwon.”

The next morning felt criminal.

Not just because you only managed two hours of sleep, or because your thighs still ached from being bent over a mahogany desk like some overworked intern in a very inappropriate drama. No. It was criminal because you still showed up on time, coffee in hand, hair done, heels on, and speech script perfectly printed.

Even after Kwon Soonyoung had given you three orgasms in one hour. In the office. On his desk. Under the goddamn company logo.

You were trying your best to pretend it never happened. Really, you tried. The speech script was crisp, stapled, and revised at 3 a.m. in between waves of humiliation, aftershocks of pleasure, and the memory of him whispering “Answer me, Ms. Ji…” like he wasn’t buried so deep inside you— you forgot your own name.

You had cross-checked every paragraph, every bullet point, just to make sure you hadn’t unconsciously written “Your cock has a better function than your brain.”

Honestly? If that line made it in, it wouldn’t be inaccurate. Was there a company that specialized in evaluating performance like that? Maybe it was time to write to the Kwon family directly. You could pitch it as a side venture—something like Kwon Enterprise: More Brains Below the Belt.

Hell, they might even give you equity for surviving their grandson.

“Thank you, Ms. Ji,” Soonyoung said quietly, his voice low, velvet-wrapped. He took the papers from your hand, but didn’t let go. His fingers lingered. So did his eyes.

And you swore—you swore—you saw the same madness in them that you saw last night. The hunger. The chaos. The wicked tilt of his mouth that said he remembered everything.

You cleared your throat, yanking your hand away as if his touch burned. It did, in a way. You forced your face back into your best professional mask.

“Try not to freestyle this time, Director,” you said coolly, taking the seat beside him. “And no dumb questions about ‘what synergy means.’ It’s in bold on page two.”

He smirked without turning, flipping the paper open. But you caught the way his leg brushed yours under the table. Intentional. Definitely intentional.

Last night was incredible. You couldn't lie. But if this man thought he could rattle you in daylight the same way he did in the dark. Well. He really was stupid.

*

A gentle touch on your shoulder startled you out of your screen-staring trance—you didn’t even know how long you’d been zoning out. Your eyes blinked back into focus, and you looked up to see Kim Mingyu, your colleague and the ever-reliable Finance and Accounting Manager of the label.

His brows were furrowed, concern written across his face. “You okay, Y/n? Director Kwon’s called for you three times,” he said softly.

You sighed, pushing yourself up from the chair with a tired stretch. “I’m fine. Just... running on fumes,” you said, flashing him a half-smile that tried to pass for reassurance.

But Mingyu didn’t look convinced. He tilted his head, gaze narrowing just a little. “Is he still bothering you?”

You blinked. “Who?”

“That bastard,” he replied, voice lower now—him, meaning Jeon Wonwoo, your ex. The IT guy who cheated on you two months ago with an intern. The same incident that created a domino effect of side-eyes and rumors throughout the building. It wasn’t a secret that Wonwoo’s spiral post-breakup had revealed just how deeply insecure he truly was. And not just about you—about everything.

You rubbed the back of your neck, feeling a sudden weight in the room. “No,” you said, clearing your throat. “He’s not worth mentioning anymore.”

Mingyu nodded slowly, reading between the lines but not pushing. “Okay. But you know I’ll throw hands if I have to.”

You couldn’t help but smile at that. “Appreciated. But no violence in the office—unless it’s against that printer in the copy room.”

That earned a soft chuckle from him. “Did Director Kwon actually say anything, or does he just need me to be present and breathing?” you asked, your eyes scanning your desk for the folder Soonyoung needed to sign. You knew how he was—selectively urgent.

Mingyu reached over and pulled a document map from the far corner of your workspace. “This. He needs this.”

You took it with a grateful sigh. “I’m seriously glad I have you, Mingyu. Otherwise I’d probably die in here for the stupidest reason—death by incompetent boss.”

Mingyu laughed, that boyish grin spreading across his face, fangs peeking out. “You’re dramatic.”

“You know I’m not.”

“True,” he replied, still grinning. “But at least the chaos keeps things interesting.”

You rolled your eyes with a quiet chuckle, fingers tightening on the file as you braced yourself to face Soonyoung again. That man could burn your patience to the ground in five minutes—and somehow still leave you… you didn't want to think about it!

You entered his office with quiet steps, the thick folder in your hand still warm from Mingyu’s grasp. Director Kwon Soonyoung sat behind his desk, sleeves rolled to his forearms, hair pushed back in a way that looked almost too polished for someone who once asked if a “slogan” was a new type of dip.

Without looking up, he extended his hand. “The file?” You placed it gently in his palm, expecting some sort of snide comment or dumb question about where to sign. But instead, he opened it, flipped straight to the right page, and signed with swift, confident strokes. No questions. No confusion. Just… efficiency.

Your brows lifted slightly. Who was this? Then, without looking up, “what’s the projected ROI on the third campaign under the Miju rebranding?”

You froze. Not from fear—but from pure shock.

He finally glanced up, and your eyes locked. There was no usual smirk, no cocky glint in his gaze. Just focus. Calculation.

You cleared your throat. “Projected ROI is 127%, assuming we maintain target engagement through the influencer channels and retail activations we discussed last week.”

A beat passed. He nodded once. “Good. Shift the TikTok rollout to next Monday. Make the data look prettier before we send it to the board. I want them convinced before they even read it.”

Another pause. You blinked. You were still blinking. He signed the final page, closed the folder, and handed it back with a smooth slide across the desk.

Then, with the slightest tug of amusement curling at the corners of his mouth, he said—

“You may go on the clock for today, Ms. Ji.”

You narrowed your eyes just slightly. “Excuse me?”

He leaned back in his chair, lazy again. Back to his usual smug, languid rhythm. “I said you may go. Early dismissal. I hear sleep deprivation reduces productivity—and I’d hate to see the company suffer just because you forgot how to say no to your boss.”

Your jaw tensed. He was back. The devil in Dior. But you refused to let him have the last word. So you smiled sweetly, flipping your hair off your shoulder. “Then I’ll use the time wisely and remind myself what good leadership looks like.”

His laughter followed you out the door. But so did his eyes.

*

You woke up to the sound of your phone ringing, the sharp buzz pulling you out of a sleep so deep, you almost forgot where you were. The living room was dim, the drama still playing quietly on TV—the last thing you remembered before dozing off. You hadn’t napped like that in years. Not since you started working your ass off at the label.

You squinted at your phone screen. 9:02 PM. The name flashing across it: “Boo Dam.”

“Mmm… Seungkwan…” you mumbled as you slid to answer.

“Honey!” his voice practically sang through the speaker. “You just woke up? Heol! That’s a record. Anyway—I’m going to this new bar with Vernon and Chan. Come join us!”

Seungkwan and Chan were your friends from college—your soulmates in chaos. Meanwhile Vernon… well, Vernon was the guy Seungkwan successfully seduced at a club a year ago with nothing but eye contact and a whiskey sour. They've been disgustingly cute ever since.

You stretched, letting your limbs slowly remember how to function. “Is it like a bar,” you asked, voice dry, “or a bar?” You didn’t need to explain the tone difference—Seungkwan knew.

Without missing a beat, he replied, “A bar. Capital B. Good lighting, better drinks, people who bathe.”

You smiled, already getting up. “Pick me up in thirty. Should I wear the red dress I sent you last week?”

The one you bought after seeing the intern Wonwoo cheated with had liked it on Instagram. It was an impulsive purchase—unlike you. But still… it looked fire on the model, and tonight, you wouldn’t mind setting something on fire.

Seungkwan gasped like he’d been waiting for this moment his whole life. “YES. Yes please! I want that intern to cry just by breathing the same air as you!”

You grinned. Tonight might not fix your mess of a professional life. But maybe, just maybe, it would remind you what it felt like to be you again.

*

Seungkwan rushed up to you like a windstorm in designer sneakers and pulled you into a quick hug that reeked of cologne and overpriced candles. “You look unreal. That intern is somewhere crying right now, I know it.” He held your arms and took a step back like he was inspecting artwork. “Ten out of ten. No—eleven. You’re welcome, world.”

Vernon chuckled beside him. “Glad you made it.”

“Thanks,” you laughed. “Though now I’m wondering if I overdressed.”

“You definitely didn’t,” Chan said without missing a beat, raising his hand to you. “You’re just raising the bar.”

The bar Seungkwan had chosen was all velvet mood and amber light—dim enough to hide your regrets but not dark enough to trip on your heels. Hushed conversations buzzed low under a jazzy remix of something that used to be a love song, and the scent of expensive gin and citrus filled the air.

You made your way toward the bar counter, scanning the place. But before the group could fully settle, Seungkwan clapped his hands once. “Okay, baby,” he turned to Vernon, “we need to find the bathroom. And by bathroom I mean selfie lighting. Emergency.”

Vernon just smiled, like this wasn’t the fifth time tonight. “Lead the way.” And just like that, the couple vanished into the crowd like glitter in a wind tunnel.

You slid onto the barstool, crossing your legs as you adjusted the hem of your red dress, feeling the fabric hug your skin in all the right ways. You stared after them, then turned back to Chan, brows raised. “Did they even sit down?”

Chan shrugged, raising his hand toward the bartender for an order, strong whiskey. “I give them ten minutes. Tops. Then they’ll either come back drunk or deeply emotional.”

You laughed again, warmer this time. “Or both.”

“Always both.”

“So,” Chan said, turning slightly to face you, “what do you want out of tonight?”

You blinked, caught off guard by the question. “Out of tonight?”

He nodded, serious now—his eyes clearer despite the liquor. “I mean… what would make this night feel like it was worth leaving your bed and dreams behind?”

You looked at him for a second. Your red dress clung to your skin in all the ways that made you feel powerful. But somehow, that question made you feel a little bare.

“I don’t know,” you admitted. “Maybe just a moment where I don’t feel like I’m holding the weight of everything. A night where I’m not someone’s manager, not the woman who got cheated on by an IT guy with bad eyesight.”

Chan chuckled, amused. He knocked back a shot of whiskey, exhaling sharply as it hit. Then, as if it were the most natural shift in conversation, he muttered, “So. Still dealing with your incompetent boss?”

You tilted your head with a sigh, leaning your elbow on the bar. “Worse. I think he’s trying to be competent now, which is terrifying in itself.”

“Hmm.” Chan nodded solemnly. “Mine forgot to approve the budget this week and then blamed it on Mercury retrograde.”

You blinked. “Isn’t he the one who doesn’t believe in astrology?”

“Exactly.”

A beat passed, then both of you laughed quietly into your drinks, bitter and understanding.

“People like us deserve a position,” Chan muttered, more to himself than to you. Then he downed his next shot like he was trying to silence something. Maybe his ambition. Maybe the reality.

Your eyes followed his line of sight, catching a man on the other side of the bar—tall, broad-shouldered, eyeing Chan like he was something worth unwrapping.

Chan caught it too. He turned to you with a mischievous smirk, the kind you knew too well. “Excuse me,” he said smoothly, setting down his glass. “Duty calls.”

You laughed as he sauntered off, watching the silent exchange between him and the stranger—how easily Chan slipped into chemistry, how effortlessly people gravitated toward him.

It made you smile. And ache, just a little. Your friends really were better at finding men than you. You swirled your drink in its glass, watching the liquid catch the light like molten gold. Fuck.

A subtle shift in air made you glance to your side. Someone had taken the stool Chan had vacated minutes ago—unannounced, but not unwelcome.

He looked crisp. A semi-formal suit in charcoal gray, black shirt unbuttoned just enough to suggest ease without arrogance. His hair was freshly cut, styled like he walked out of a luxury magazine spread, but the smile he wore? Surprisingly… cute.

“Hey,” he said, voice smooth but warm. “Are you alone?”

You blinked once, thrown for the smallest second before recovering with a polite smile. “Nah, I’m with friends.”

He nodded, gaze never drifting, posture casual but confident. “I’m Choi Seungcheol.”

Your eyebrows lifted slightly. Choi Seungcheol? You’d heard the name before. Everyone in the building had. Director of Grand Paradise Hotel, under the Choi Group. One of your company’s most important VVIP clients—usually talked about in numbers, not in the context of flashing a boyish smile at you in a bar.

“Ji Y/n,” you replied, offering your name with an ounce of surprise still clinging to your voice.

“I like your dress, by the way,” he said sincerely, his tone the kind of soft that didn’t ask for attention, but gave it fully. “You look amazing in it.”

You opened your mouth, but nothing clever came. His compliment didn’t feel like a line. It felt like the truth wrapped in manners. He flagged down the bartender, ordering something light—no shots, no bravado. Just a mild liquor with a twist of lime, like he was trying to prove he was here to talk, not to get drunk.

Cute. And unexpectedly polite—for someone carrying that much power behind his last name. Unlike someone you were really, really trying not to think about.

“So,” he said, turning slightly toward you, “my friends are at a table across the room. Do you mind joining us?” He paused, then added with a soft chuckle, “I promise they’re decent guys. No finance bros in sight.”

You considered it. Not too quickly, not too slowly—just enough to give the impression that you weren’t that easy, but you also weren’t cold.

You smiled, head tilting. “Sure.”

His eyes sparkled briefly at that, and in one smooth motion, he stood. Then, reaching for your hand, he helped you up from the high stool—like a man raised right. His grip was firm, confident, warm. And it was probably nothing. Probably just good manners.

Seungcheol’s hand remained gently on yours as he guided you across the bar, weaving through polished shoes, crystal glasses, and laughter that cost too much.

The place changed as you moved deeper—less noise, more privacy, the lighting softer, shadows richer. The kind of spot reserved for people who didn’t have to wait in line. And you were being led there. You.

When he stopped at the table, three men looked up mid-conversation, drinks in hand, posture relaxed in the way only old money could be.

“Everyone,” Seungcheol said casually, “this is Ji Y/n. She’s joining us tonight.”

You smiled, polite but composed, heart thumping a little harder than you liked. You recognized the faces before Seungcheol even opened his mouth. You’d seen them in magazine articles, shareholder meetings, boardroom slides—not up close, not like this.

Jeonghan sat at the far end, one arm draped lazily over the back of the velvet booth, legs crossed, a glass of scotch in hand. Hair tucked just right behind his ear, a soft silk shirt half-buttoned like he was born too elegant to care about dress codes. He was the kind of man who turned being looked at into an art form. You’d seen him before—once at a fashion gala you were nowhere near important enough to attend, and many times in the margins of headlines about high-end runway investments, creative directorships, and quiet takeovers. The heir of a fashion empire, and from the look in his eyes, fully aware of it.

Next to him was Joshua, spine straight, shirt pristine, smile the kind that had likely been melting boardroom resistance since he was a teenager. He exuded charm without arrogance—a quieter sort of influence that didn’t need to announce itself. You remembered him from a different kind of context: a company email signature at the bottom of a rejection letter when you’d applied to Hong Finance 8 years ago. Back then, you imagined men like him sitting behind high-rise windows, too far out of reach to even notice people like you.

“Nice to meet you,” you said calmly, shaking his hand with a professional grace. No bitterness. Just quiet history you kept to yourself.

And then—then your gaze moved to the last man at the table. Your breath stalled for half a second.

Kwon Soonyoung. He was mid-sip, glass frozen near his lips, eyes wide with what could only be described as… surprised indignation. He looked clean and collected in a black button-up with his sleeves rolled up, top two buttons undone like the night didn’t deserve his full formality. But his stare? It was searing.

You’d never seen him in this kind of setting. Not as your annoyingly attractive director. But as one of them. Powerful. Prestigious. Connected.

You tilted your chin slightly, letting a small smile rise to your lips as if to say, Fancy seeing you here.

He blinked, then lowered his glass slowly. “Ji Y/n.” Your name sounded strange coming from his mouth in front of this table. Too familiar. Too… intimate.

Joshua and Jeonghan looked between the two of you with mild interest, picking up on the tension like it was perfume. Seungcheol remained seated, watching the exchange without interference. Then he leaned over, voice smooth as his smile.

“Looks like you two know each other?”

You chuckled softly and sat down beside him. Soonyoung’s eyes narrowed. His fingers tapped against the side of his glass, lips parted like he wanted to say something—but didn’t.

*

Your eyes met across the polished length of the boardroom table. Again. This has become a weekly ritual now—joining board meetings not just as the Marketing Manager, but as Kwon Soonyoung’s unofficial shadow. Secretary. Handler. Babysitter. Pick a label, they all applied.

Still, a small part of you secretly flattered at the elevation. The prestige. You were seen, involved, and whether they liked it or not, your presence had weight in that room.

Every time a meeting wrapped, you’d nudge Mingyu and mutter, “I’m going to be the one talking in there someday. Note that.” To which he always replied with a half-laugh, half-sigh, “Sure you are.”

He never debated you. He knew better. You didn’t bluff when it came to ambition. But right now, ambition wasn’t the problem. It was Soonyoung.

He’d been staring since you walked in. Sat down. Dragged him out of his office five minutes before the meeting began, muttering something about punctuality and image and for once just pretend you’re not a walking HR hazard.

Staring wasn’t new with him. He often looked at things the way a curious toddler would—eyes wide, mouth slightly parted, like the world was one big mysterious object. But this time? This time his stare wasn’t childish curiosity. It was more like you grew a second head and he couldn’t decide if he liked it or wanted to poke it with a stick.

You shot him a sharp look, mouthing the word “Focus” and subtly motioning toward the executives who were mid-discussion about budget forecasting.

Soonyoung blinked, then smiled—too innocently—and turned his gaze toward the speaker, nodding along like he hadn’t just spent the last three minutes trying to telepathically undress your thoughts.

You furrowed your brow in suspicion before glancing down at your watch. Almost noon. And you were starving. Your fingers tapped the table quietly as the meeting stretched on, words starting to blur together. You tried to stay alert, but every time you felt yourself zoning out, Soonyoung shifted slightly in your peripheral vision. Not because he was fidgeting.

But because he was still watching you. And now you were convinced of one thing: He wasn’t staring like you grew a horn.

“You went home with Seungcheol-hyung last night.” His voice broke the silence as the two of you had just settled in after the board meeting—him tossing off his blazer like he ran the world, you gathering your files with the intention of escaping before your stomach officially started devouring itself.

Your steps halted mid-stride. “Yes, Mr. Kwon,” you replied, turning slightly over your shoulder. Tone neutral. Civil. Professional.

Soonyoung nodded slowly, a little too calmly. “I bet you went home… very safely.”

You blinked. Was that supposed to mean something? “I did, actually,” you said, brows lifting in subtle confusion. “Thank you for your concern.”

He slid into his chair, tilting it back with that look on his face. A smile curled at the corner of his lips—not his usual, goofy, harmless grin. This one was... sharp. Teasing. With just enough glint of mad to make you want to throw a stapler across the room.

“I’m expecting the summary from the meeting,” he said, lacing his fingers behind his head, “after lunch.”

You blinked again. “I was planning to finish it after I eat.”

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. “Mmm, but you always say I should send the report right after the meeting ends, remember? ‘Strike while the numbers are hot,’ wasn’t that your words, Ms. Ji?”

Shit. That was your line. You cleared your throat. “With all due respect, I’m afraid I can’t hand it in that fast. I’ll need some time to—”

“Really?” he cut in, voice dipped with mock surprise. “Because I need it quickly. You made that very clear. Efficiency is everything, right?”

You stared at him, mouth parting in silent disbelief. This was personal. You knew it. That little smile on his face was soaked in petty vengeance. You bowed stiffly, jaw clenched. “Understood, Mr. Kwon.”

As you turned to leave, fuming and still hungry, you could practically feel his smugness trailing behind you like expensive cologne. And everyone who saw you stomping back into your department after that? Knew exactly who you were cursing under your breath.

Kwon Soonyoung, the golden heir of the Kwon Group. A menace in designer shoes. And currently, the reason you’d be skipping lunch and possibly losing your sanity.

*

No one stayed in the office during lunch. It was the only sacred hour when even the most cutthroat employees stepped out to breathe something that didn’t reek of toner, stress, or twenty kinds of corporate ambition. Even Mingyu had left—after tipping you off about a new KF Label instant spaghetti that only needed five minutes in the microwave. “Garlic cream or tomato,” he’d whispered like he was offering black market gold.

But not you. You sat at your desk, typing the meeting summary like your job—or pride—depended on it. Which, let’s be honest, it did. You weren’t about to give Kwon Soonyoung the satisfaction of thinking he’d thrown you off just because he got a little petty over last night’s company. Your stomach growled in rebellion, but your ego growled louder.

When the last word clicked into place and the printer began humming behind you, you pushed away from your chair with a smug stretch and headed to the pantry. You’d earned that microwaved meal, sad as it was.

Except when you stepped inside, the scent of cheap instant coffee hit you first—followed by the last person you expected to see.

Kwon Soonyoung. Blazer gone, sleeves rolled up, stirring his coffee like this wasn’t the same man who’d made your blood pressure spike all morning. His tie hung slightly loose, hair messier than it had been during the meeting. He looked... calm. Almost casual. Like he belonged here. He didn’t.

“Ms. Ji,” he greeted smoothly, his voice low, almost too composed.

You bowed without thinking, still halfway in surprise. “I didn’t know you were staying in.”

He shrugged, not quite smiling. “Neither did I.”

Your gaze narrowed slightly. “Didn’t grab lunch, Mr. Kwon?”

He swirled the plastic stirrer in his cup, then leaned against the counter with the kind of confidence that didn’t belong in a pantry. “Didn’t have time,” he said, eyes cutting toward you. “You said I needed that report fast, remember?”

You ignored him and turned to the microwave, peeling back the film cover. “I came here for spaghetti.”

The microwave beeped. You retrieved the steaming bowl, grabbed a fork, and gave it a quick stir. The scent of tomato and roasted garlic filled the small space—a reminder that, yes, your company did do something right.

“So that’s it,” he said behind you. “The new KF Label product.”

You nodded without turning. “Premium instant line. Heat-and-Meet.”

There was a pause. Then, Soonyoung stood.

He moved to stand beside you, too close for the pantry’s size, or for what little sanity you had left. “You’re eating company product,” he said, voice lower now. “That’s very… loyal of you.”

“I’m starving. Loyalty’s a coincidence.”

He glanced at your fork, then back at your face. “Still looks good on you.”

You blinked. That line shouldn’t have worked. But it stirred something anyway. You cleared your throat. “Do you want a bite?”

He raised a brow. “You’re offering to share?”

“Don’t make it weird. It’s R&D. You’re the director. You should know what it tastes like before you embarrass yourself at investor tastings.”

Without hesitation, he leaned forward and took the bite directly from your fork. It was too smooth. Too deliberate. The slide of his lips against the plastic, the way he held your gaze as he chewed.

You stared at him, half wondering when the room got warmer. He swallowed, thoughtfully. “Tangy. Surprisingly rich.” He looked at you, a beat too long. “Kind of like the woman who made me eat it.”

You stared at him. Not just because of what he said, but how he said it—like it wasn’t a line, like it was a fact. His gaze didn’t move. Didn’t even flinch. And then it did—just slightly—drifting down. You felt it like a touch: the way his eyes paused at your lips. Not in a rush. Not in hunger. Just there.

Studying. Contemplating. Wanting. Your breath hitched, just enough that you swore he noticed it. He tilted his head slightly, as if waiting to see what you’d do. And suddenly, the air between you didn’t feel casual anymore. It felt hot. It felt loud.

You didn’t move. He didn’t either.

But the tension between you was already leaning forward, even if your bodies hadn’t yet.

And then, slowly—so slowly—it happened.

Your eyes fluttered down. His breath brushed your cheek. Neither of you said a word as you both leaned in at the same time, like it wasn’t a choice but a conclusion. Like something you’d been avoiding had finally cornered the two of you in the smallest room in the building.

Your lips met—soft, hesitant at first.

A question. An answer. And then it deepened.

Not rushed, not frantic, but sure. Deliberate. Like every back-and-forth bicker, every power play, every petty jab in the boardroom had been leading to this.

His hand touched the edge of the counter beside you, grounding himself. Yours hovered somewhere near his chest before settling on the curve of his arm—tense beneath your fingers.

It wasn’t a kiss that screamed recklessness. It was a kiss that whispered, we knew this was coming. And maybe… maybe that was worse.

Because when you finally pulled away, just barely, lips still brushing, you didn’t dare look at him. Not yet. You just whispered, voice low and cracked at the edge, “That was very… unprofessional, Mr. Kwon.”

Soonyoung’s lips curved near yours. “Good,” he murmured, “because I’m not done being unprofessional.”

You barely had time to process his words—“I’m not done being unprofessional”—before his lips captured yours again, firmer this time. Less tentative. Less testing.

Your back bumped against the edge of the counter as he stepped closer, his hand skimming your waist like he was trying to memorize the shape of you through the thin fabric of your blouse. The scent of his coffee still lingered on his breath, mixing with something uniquely his—clean, warm, infuriatingly intoxicating.

You let out a quiet sound, something between a sigh and a gasp, as your fingers slipped into his hair—soft and slightly messy from the day. You gripped it lightly, tugging just enough to make him groan against your mouth. God. That sound.

His hand settled firmly on your hip, pulling you into him like gravity had a personal agenda. The kiss turned deeper, messier, your bodies syncing in a rhythm that felt far too natural for two people who spent most of their time trading sarcasm and sideways glances in glass-walled meetings.

It was heat. Friction. Unspoken things finally spoken with mouths instead of words. Soonyoung broke the kiss only to trail his lips to the corner of your jaw, his voice warm and ragged against your skin. “You always talk so much in meetings,” he murmured, his fingers brushing the exposed skin beneath your tucked blouse. “But now you’re so quiet.”

You swallowed, breath shaky, heart hammering against your ribs. “Maybe I’m waiting for a good question for once.”

He chuckled against your neck, low and sinful, before lifting his head—eyes dark, lips kissed pink, voice like velvet. “Okay then…”

His thumb grazed the hem of your skirt. “…Ms. Ji, what do I have to do to make you say my name again?”

You should’ve walked away. You should’ve reminded him this was a pantry, in a corporate building, at lunchtime. But instead?

You pulled him back into you like your body had already made the decision your brain refused to acknowledge. Fingers tight in his hair. Mouth crashing into his like you were both starving. And maybe you were.

You didn’t remember taking another breath—only the weight of his body caging you against the counter, the soft clang of your forgotten fork hitting the floor, and the rush of his hands finally going where your thoughts had wandered for too long.

Soonyoung hovered close, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, his breath warm and deliberate. “You’re shaking,” he whispered, voice almost reverent.

“Am not,” you breathed, your fingers still tangled in his hair, holding him there like you weren’t entirely sure you could stay upright without him.

His hand slipped beneath the hem of your skirt, slow, assured, until his knuckles grazed the band of your underwear. He paused, as if testing the waters. As if daring you to stop him.

But you didn’t. You let your head fall back slightly, eyes fluttering shut as he tugged at the fabric—just enough to slip his fingers under, to brush against heat and softness and the part of you that ached with how long you'd resisted this exact moment.

A quiet gasp escaped you, and that seemed to break whatever restraint he still had. “God…” he exhaled like a confession, “you really drive me insane, you know that?”

He kissed you again, slower this time—almost sweet if not for the way his hand moved with purpose, with intention, like he wanted to memorize every reaction you gave him. Your hand gripped the back of his neck, grounding yourself in him, in this, in the ridiculous insanity of making out in the pantry like it was your last chance on earth.

“You’re always so in control,” he murmured, teasing the edge of your jaw as his other hand anchored your hip, “but I think you like it when I push.”

You opened your eyes just enough to meet his, and there it was again—that flicker of madness, mischief, and something dangerously close to need.

“Careful, Mr. Kwon,” you whispered, mouth brushing his, “push too far, and I might pull you under.” He smirked like he hoped you would. And then he kissed you again—deeper, slower, pulling you closer like the world outside that pantry didn’t matter.

*

You were flabbergasted. A month ago, you were heating instant spaghetti in the pantry, trying to pretend that fucking your boss didn’t feel like the worst idea you’d ever fallen into.

Now? You were sitting stiffly in a room with three people from HR, a folder in front of you, your hands cold despite how warm the room felt.

Yes, you had slept with Kwon Soonyoung. A few times. Consensually. Not impulsively, not irresponsibly—not from your perspective. And as ridiculous as it was to admit even to yourself, he hadn’t been bad at all in those areas. Too good, in fact. Dangerously good, both with his hands and the way he listened—actually listened—to your ideas during board meetings. He even stopped wearing Cartier and started taking actual notes.

So the fact that you were here, now, caught off guard and very much alone, felt like a slap out of nowhere.

The woman in the middle of the HR panel cleared her throat, hands folded neatly. “Ms. Ji. We wanted to discuss something concerning that’s come to our attention.”

You blinked, still unsure where this was going. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t aware I did anything against the—”

“Your last relationship,” the woman interrupted gently, “was already a topic of concern when it involved someone significant to the company.”

Wonwoo.

You stiffened, jaw tightening. You hadn’t heard his name in weeks, and you preferred it that way. But yes, the intern he cheated with turned out to be someone's niece from the Kwon family. Of course that hadn’t died quietly.

You opened your mouth to respond, but the man sitting beside her cut in first. “We didn’t expect this one.”

You blinked again. “Excuse me?” They didn’t repeat it. They didn’t need to.

The third HR rep leaned forward, sliding a paper your way—an incident report, stamped and dated. “We’re going to have to take action regarding your affair with Director Kwon.”

Everything in you froze. For a moment, all you could hear was the soft buzz of the overhead light. You didn’t move, didn’t speak, as the words circled your head like a siren you couldn’t shut off. Your affair. Director Kwon. It felt like your lungs deflated.

“I… don’t understand,” you finally said, slow and careful. “On what grounds?”

The woman in the center flipped open a file. “There was a complaint submitted anonymously, referencing inappropriate conduct in the office. Specifically in shared spaces. A pantry, for instance.”

Your stomach dropped. So fast, it made your fingers go numb. “And—if I may,” the younger HR rep added, “there’s also concern regarding power dynamics, given your reporting line.”

You wanted to laugh. But it wasn’t funny. Because you’d worked so damn hard. You trained Soonyoung. You cleaned up his messes and wrote half the proposals with his name on them, and still walked into every meeting like your career had been built on steel, not glass.

And now, after everything, it came down to this? A moment. And an anonymous report.

You clenched your jaw, sat straighter, and folded your hands in your lap. “So what kind of action are we talking about?”

The room went quiet. The silence that followed your question felt like it lasted forever. And then the answer came, quietly, like they already knew how you’d react—and were bracing for it.

“We’ve decided,” the woman said carefully, “that you will be reassigned to a different department effective immediately.”

Your breath caught in your throat. “Reassigned?”

“Demoted,” the man clarified with corporate softness, as if using the word wouldn’t hit like a fist. “You’ll be moved from Marketing Management to Administrative Strategy under Corporate Communications.”

You stared at them. Not because you didn’t understand. But because you did. They weren’t firing you. That would’ve made noise. No—they were burying you quietly, slipping you into a department where your work wouldn’t shine, where your name wouldn’t show up on campaign reports, board meeting minutes, or executive proposals. They were pushing you out of the light.

You let out a slow, controlled exhale, refusing to let the tremble in your chest reach your face. “Is Director Kwon receiving the same treatment?”

Another pause. “No,” the lead HR officer said. “After discussion with the executive board, it was determined that Director Kwon will be formally warned, and the matter will be noted in his file.”

A warning. You blinked. A warning for him. A demotion for you. You pressed your lips together, not trusting your voice to stay steady. “And that’s fair, in your opinion?”

“Ms. Ji,” the younger officer interjected gently, “you’ve had a prior history of internal relationship issues that—”

“He’s my superior.” You snapped before you could stop yourself. “If anything, he should’ve been held to a higher standard.”

They didn’t answer. No one ever did, when the unspoken truth hung heavy in the air. He had power. You didn’t. And even if you were the one who helped him become competent, presentable, capable—even if you were the one cleaning up his early failures and doing your work and his—they didn’t care. Because it was easier to punish the one they knew would quietly take it.

Your jaw clenched as you stood, straightening your blazer. “I understand.”

The head officer gave a polite nod. “Your reassignment email will be sent by the end of day. Your new manager will expect you tomorrow morning.”

You turned to leave, your heels echoing sharper than usual against the tiled floor. Your desk had never felt this bare before. You moved like your body had detached from the rest of you—silent, efficient, folding your things with the kind of care you’d normally reserve for the start of something, not the end. Each click of a pen, each rustle of a folder being stacked, was sharp in the quiet.

You didn’t speak. You didn’t cry. You just packed. A shadow passed in your peripheral vision.

“Y/n?” You turned slightly to find Mingyu standing there, a confused frown drawing across his face. His eyes darted to the box on your desk, to your emptied shelves, then back to you.

“What’s going on?”

You kept your head down, pretending to double-check a folder as you tucked it into the box.

“I just got an email from HR,” he continued, voice tightening. “They’re asking me to step in as acting Marketing Manager… temporarily.”

He said the last word like it tasted wrong in his mouth.

You didn’t answer. Your fingers paused at the edge of a stapler, then moved past it.

“Y/n.” Mingyu stepped closer. “What the hell is happening?”

You closed the box slowly, pressing your palm flat against the top as if to anchor yourself. Your chest felt too full—tight with shame, anger, disbelief—and none of it had a name you were ready to say out loud.

You looked up, just enough to meet his eyes. His worry was sincere. Of course it was. He didn’t know. He wouldn’t have accepted the offer if he did.

“I’m being moved,” you said quietly. “Another department.”

“Wait—what?” Mingyu blinked, stunned. “Why? You didn’t do anything wrong.”

You looked away. “I don’t want to talk about it,” you said, voice low and flat. “Not right now.”

He fell silent. You could hear the protest building in his throat, the way he shifted his weight like his body didn’t know whether to stay or follow. But he didn’t press. He just nodded once—slow, reluctant.

You gave him a tight smile, the kind that didn't touch your eyes. Then you picked up your box and walked out of your office—your former office—without looking back.

*

Soonyoung walked into the office with his blazer half off and irritation simmering behind his eyes. The lunch meeting had been a disaster—numbers thrown around without context, board members talking in circles, and nobody knowing what the hell they actually wanted from him. He needed grounding. He needed clarity. He needed you.

So when he stepped out of the elevator and saw Mingyu standing by his office door instead of you, he frowned. “Mingyu?” he asked, blinking like he’d walked into the wrong floor. “Where’s Ms. Ji?”

Mingyu straightened a little, caught off guard. “I… see HR hasn’t told you.”

Soonyoung’s brows pinched. “Told me what?”

“Ms. Ji has been reassigned to another department,” Mingyu said, careful with his words. “I’ve been assigned to assist you until your new executive assistant is recruited.”

For a beat, the air felt thicker. Soonyoung tilted his head, confused. “She was moved? When?”

“I’m not sure about the details, sir,” Mingyu replied, trying not to fidget under Soonyoung’s narrowing gaze. “I only got the notice after lunch.”

Soonyoung stared past him for a second, processing. You were just… gone? No meeting. No sarcastic remarks. No quiet nod as you handed him a stack of deadlines and subtle reminders to behave like a functioning adult. No draft on his desk of the proposal you were supposed to polish before 3 p.m. Gone. Without a word.

“Right,” Soonyoung finally said, brushing past Mingyu and into his office. “Thanks.”

At exactly 2 p.m., two sharp, precise knocks echoed against the glass door of Soonyoung’s office. He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. Only one person knocked like they were keeping time on a metronome. The door opened anyway.

Kwon Soonyoung looked up to see Lee Jihoon—his cousin, his childhood sparring partner, and unfortunately, also the manager of the Human Resources department. Jihoon was sharp as ever, dressed in a pale button-down and black slacks, sleeves rolled past his elbows like always, giving him the air of someone both overworked and unbothered by it.

He walked in with calm purpose, a single manila folder in his hand and a look on his face that said this wasn’t a social visit. Soonyoung sighed and leaned back in his chair. “What now?”

Jihoon said nothing. He reached the desk, dropped the folder down with a solid thump, and crossed his arms over his chest.

“Your notice,” he said, tone clipped. Soonyoung dragged his fingers through his hair and opened it with two fingers like it might bite. Inside was a printed letter bearing the company’s watermark and the clinical, unmistakable phrasing of HR. The header hit first:

Formal Reprimand — Director Kwon Soonyoung.

Beneath it:

Violation of company policies regarding professional conduct and inappropriate relations within workplace hours...

A wave of heat spread across the back of Soonyoung’s neck. He exhaled through his nose. “A love letter,” he muttered bitterly.

“I warned you,” Jihoon replied, not even flinching.

Of course he had. Jihoon had been warning him since the second week Soonyoung started at KF Label. First subtly. Then with passive-aggressive memos. And then with real conversations—cousin to cousin, HR to Director.

Soonyoung kept reading. Then he stopped. Your name was listed. His. Dated timestamps. A note about internal protocol breaches and the review that followed. “She was moved because of this?” Soonyoung’s voice was low. Tight.

Jihoon gave a slow, neutral shrug. “She’s been reassigned to Corporate Communications under Admin Strategy. Effective immediately.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Jihoon didn’t move from where he leaned against the desk, arms crossed again. “The complaint came in. Security reports matched the time. You want the details? You’ll get them in writing. Bottom line—HR took action.”

“She didn’t file anything,” Soonyoung said, more to himself than anyone.

“No,” Jihoon replied. “But someone else did. You’re in a glass building, Soonyoung. Don’t act like you’re invisible.”

Soonyoung looked away, jaw clenching. “She didn’t deserve that,” he muttered.

“No, she didn’t,” Jihoon agreed, voice flat. “But she’s not the one with Kwon as their last name. You are. And between the two of you, the board wasn’t about to sacrifice their own director—so they cut the easier string.” The words hit harder than they should have.

Soonyoung sank into his chair, fingers curling slightly around the edge of the folder. “She made this department function,” he said. “She made me functional.”

Jihoon tilted his head, stepping away from the desk. “And now she’s somewhere no one will bother her again.”

He reached for the door handle, pausing with one foot out. Then, without turning back, “She covered for you every single time you slipped. Maybe instead of being angry at HR, you should be asking yourself why she ever had to.”

The door clicked closed behind him.bAnd for the first time since Soonyoung sat behind that director’s desk, it didn’t feel like power anymore. It felt like consequence.

Days later, Soonyoung stared at his screen, the cursor blinking beneath the words he had retyped at least four times. He wasn’t good at this part. The… formal part. The “trying to keep things clean after it’s already messy” part.

But he had to try something. He’d already felt the hollow space you'd left behind the second he walked into the office and saw someone else standing where you should have been. The wrong energy. The wrong rhythm. Everything off balance. The chair behind your old desk was too still, like no one dared to fill the space you carved.

So he wrote the email like a coward—because walking to your new department unannounced felt too aggressive. And calling felt too personal.

Ms. Ji, I would appreciate the opportunity to meet briefly regarding recent events and your transition. Please let me know if you’re available this week, at your convenience.

Regards,

Kwon Soonyoung

Director, KF Label

He wrote it like a professional. And hated every line of it. But he sent it anyway. Then he sat there, one elbow on the desk, teeth pressing against his knuckle as if it might keep the anticipation at bay. It didn’t.

When your reply came in twenty-three minutes later, he opened it instantly. The corner of his lips lifted—small, involuntary.

I didn’t realize you had mastered the art of professional communication—should we alert HR?

Of course you’d say that. He let out a breath of something that was almost a laugh. It tugged at his chest in a way that was both cruel and comforting. You hadn’t blocked him out. Not entirely. You still knew how to twist the knife with charm. He leaned back in his chair and reread the last line.

Please book a meeting room that doesn’t echo.

So you were coming. Soonyoung swiveled in his chair, glancing toward the hallway, toward the part of the building where he used to see you moving between departments, coffee in one hand, files in the other, bossing people with that crisp, no-nonsense tone that made him fall for you in the first place.

It had been a month. A month of kissing you like he couldn’t help it. A month of crossing lines in ways that felt reckless but right. And then one day—just gone. No fight. No confrontation. Just a folder on his desk from Jihoon and a quiet, echoing absence.

He turned back to his screen and opened the calendar. Booked Meeting Room 5A—the only one with decent soundproofing—and sent the invite. As he pressed send, he sat back and rubbed a palm against his jaw, heart slower than usual but heavier.

You were coming. But this time, you were coming from a different department, a different floor, a different version of what the two of you had built—one meeting, one mistake at a time.

And he didn’t know if you were coming as a former colleague, a woman he’d ruined something with, or someone who still wanted answers.

Soonyoung wasn't the type to fall for the cold ones. Not at first glance, anyway. His usual preference tilted toward softer edges—women who laughed too easily, said yes too quickly, and let him coast through the surface of things. People who didn’t poke at his insecurities or point out the gaping holes in his competence like it was part of their daily job description.

Which is exactly why you were not his type. At least, you weren’t supposed to be.

You were the definition of precision—smart, fast, efficient, and terrifyingly prepared. You didn’t flirt. You didn’t dangle compliments or flash polite smiles unless they were strategic. You were the woman who made everyone in the room sit up straighter when you walked in.

And yet, from day three, he was already in trouble.

You’d walked into his office with your file folder tucked against your chest, wearing a blood-red pencil skirt and a black blouse so sharp it could’ve sliced someone’s quarterly budget in half. Stockings, heels, hair pulled back in that tight, quiet way that made him forget what you’d said right after you said it.

He hadn’t even known what department you were from before then. But he knew from the second he looked at you that you were dangerous.

You weren’t just attractive. You were intimidatingly put-together. The kind of woman whose brain was hotter than her body—and her body was already a goddamn threat.

Call him a pervert—but he’d nearly choked on his own thoughts that day. And his type? Changed. Overnight. It wasn’t just the clothes. Or the legs. It was how you looked at him when you spoke. Like you knew ten things he didn’t. Like he was your slowest subject in class.

And that mouth. You didn’t curse. You didn’t yell. You told him he was stupid with elegant, HR-friendly, vocabulary—inefficient, unprepared, unfamiliar with protocol. Words that stung more than insults because they were true.

Soonyoung wasn't a saint. He loved women. But your breed? Rare. Too rare to ignore. Too rare to resist. Maybe that’s why when you’d stayed late with him that first time—papers everywhere, the city lights bleeding in through the blinds, and you standing too close with your hair falling from that bun—you became inevitable.

Maybe that’s why his hand reached for you like instinct. Why you didn’t push him away. Why your kiss tasted like the end of something professional. And maybe that’s why he’d bent you over that desk that night—not just because he wanted to (God, he did)—but because some part of him had already fallen.

*

"Fuck..."

Your breath hitched as you settled onto him, your knees braced on either side of his thighs, the edge of the table digging lightly into your back. The polished surface was cold. His hands were anything but.

Soonyoung’s fingers gripped your hips with a firmness that said he’d been dreaming of this—of you—for longer than he wanted to admit. His thumbs pressed into the curve just above your waistband, guiding you, grounding you.

Each movement between you was desperate but controlled, like something learned through tension rather than timing.

Earlier, You arrived at Meeting Room 5A at 4:01 p.m. He was already inside. Blinds drawn. Door locked. Suit jacket hung neatly over the chair beside him. His shirt sleeves rolled up, wrists bare. A bottle of water sat untouched in front of him, condensation sliding down its sides like even it was nervous to be in this room.

You didn’t sit right away. Soonyoung looked up, eyes scanning you with something unreadable. He stood as you approached, as if unsure whether to greet you like a colleague… or something else.

“Ms. Ji,” he said quietly, too formal for the way he was looking at you.

“Director Kwon,” you returned with equal sharpness, sliding into the chair across from him. You placed your phone on the table, screen-down. Just in case.

Silence hovered like a third presence. He was the first to break it. “I didn’t know they were going to move you.”

You tilted your head. “That’s the thing about consequences. Sometimes they arrive quietly.”

“I didn’t file anything,” he said. “You know that, right?”

You gave a small, humorless smile. “I know. But your silence wasn’t exactly protective either.”

That landed. He didn’t argue. The seconds stretched again, thick with things neither of you wanted to say out loud.bThen, Soonyoung leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on the table. His voice dropped, no longer formal. “I miss working with you.”

You didn’t answer right away. Your fingers tapped against the wood, rhythm steady. “Is that what this meeting is about?” you asked eventually. “Missing your assistant?”

He smirked, but it was hollow. “You weren’t just my assistant, and you know that.”

You did. And that was the problem.

His hands slid up slowly, tracing the slope of your waist, steadying you as you moved against him. He tilted his head back just slightly, his jaw clenched, mouth parting with a quiet exhale that barely made it past his throat.

You didn’t need him to say anything. You felt it in the way he held you tighter with every shift. The way his fingers pressed into your skin like he couldn’t believe this was real again.

Your palm found his chest, steadying yourself. He was too warm, too solid beneath you.

Then he looked up at you. Eyes darker. Focused. Not on what you were doing, but on you—like watching you fall apart on him was more powerful than anything else he could feel.

His hand rose, brushing up the length of your spine, fingers threading into your hair before tugging just enough to steal your breath again.

You weren’t sure when your head tipped back, or when your hands gripped his shoulders like they were the only thing keeping you tethered to this moment. The edge between pleasure and collapse was thin now—barely holding.

His breath was ragged against your throat, each exhale growing more erratic, his hands no longer guiding but gripping—like he was trying to ground himself in you, like letting go too soon would ruin everything.

Soonyoung’s voice came low and strained against your skin, “Y/n—don’t stop.”

You didn’t plan to. Your rhythm faltered for half a second, hips stuttering from how tightly your body coiled around the sensation—but he was right there, his hand steady at the small of your back, keeping you close, keeping you moving.

Your foreheads touched. Sweat. Breath. Tension.

He looked at you—really looked. And for a beat, the air stopped. There was nothing but the heat of his palm at your waist, the tremble in your thighs, the way your name barely formed on his lips like a prayer or a warning.

And then it hit you—how close you were. How close he was. Every movement became desperate, sloppier. More like instinct than intent.

Your lips brushed his cheek, your body arching as your pulse surged, your voice catching in your throat. “Fuck—Soonyoung—”

That did it. His hands tightened, his body tensed, and in the space between control and surrender, you both tipped over the edge—together. Breathless. Silenced. Shaking.

For a few seconds, there was only the sound of your breathing. Tangled limbs. Quiet gasps. And the soft creak of the table beneath you. He didn’t speak. He just held you—one hand still at your back, the other cradling your waist like you might disappear if he let go too fast.

Your breath was still uneven, your limbs trembling slightly as the silence wrapped around you both like a warm, heavy fog. You rested against his chest, trying to steady your heartbeat, when his voice broke through.

Soft. Low. Like a secret he wasn’t ready to share but couldn’t hold back any longer.

“Resign.”

You blinked.

“Hand them your resignation.”

The words didn’t register at first—your mind too hazy, your body too loose. But when they did, your brows furrowed instinctively. You lifted your head just slightly, startled.

He was already watching you. Still inside this moment. Still bare and open and raw in a way he rarely allowed.

“I—what?” you whispered, breath catching again—but not from desire this time.

Soonyoung reached up, brushing a strand of damp hair from your cheek. His touch was slow, almost reverent. And then he tilted your chin until your eyes met. His gaze wasn’t playful now. No teasing. No smug curl to his lips. Just quiet sincerity.

“I couldn’t watch you being humiliated like this,” he said. “Not after everything you’ve done. Not after everything you’ve fixed… for me.”

You felt it then. The way your throat tightened. The sharp sting behind your eyes. You didn’t even realize a tear had fallen until his thumb was already brushing it away, tender against your cheek like you’d break if he pressed too hard.

His fingers traced the curve of your face, slow, careful. You hated how gentle he was being—it unraveled you faster than anything else. This wasn’t supposed to be gentle. This wasn’t supposed to feel like he cared.

But he did. And that made it worse.

You tried to swallow the lump in your throat. Tried to pull back the flood of emotion that had been simmering under your skin since the HR meeting—since the reassignment, the whispers, the humiliation you had to wear like perfume the minute you stepped into your new floor.

And now this. Soonyoung, who was never supposed to take anything seriously, was the one seeing you the clearest.

Your lip quivered. You bit down on it hard enough to taste metal, willing yourself to stay composed. But the second tear came. Then another. You looked away, ashamed of your silence, your vulnerability, your inability to respond.

“Y/n,” he said gently, pulling you closer, foreheads touching again. “If they don’t see your worth… leave. And I’ll help you find a better place.”

The weight of those words hit you harder than anything else. You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

But your hand slid to his chest, curled softly in his shirt like you needed something to hold onto.

And for once, he didn’t ask anything more from you. He just stayed with you in this quiet, undone moment.

*

You didn’t mean to call anyone. You had told yourself you'd just shower, maybe eat, maybe sleep—but instead you found yourself curled up on the edge of your bed, still in your clothes, your phone pressed to your ear as it rang.

It was late. The kind of late that made everything feel heavier. The dim light from the kitchen gave the room a soft glow, but your phone pressed to your ear felt heavier than usual.

“I’m just… tired,” was all you said when Seungkwan picked up, his voice chipper at first—then cautious. He didn’t push. He never did. He let the silence fall, filling it with his presence, not questions.

There was a pause, long enough that you almost said “never mind.” Then your voice slipped through again, barely above a whisper.

“What do you think if I’m resigning?”

A beat. Then Seungkwan answered, calm and sincere. “I don’t mind. I mean, yeah—it’ll be hard to find something with the same value, same reputation. But if that’s what you want, I’ll support it. Always.”

You sighed, pressing your thumb against your temple. Your head hurt in the kind of way that wasn’t about lack of sleep—but a lack of peace.

“I don’t know, Seungkwan... I really don’t know.”

“Of course you’re clueless. You’ve been shoved around and put in situations where you had to survive. I understand,” he said, his voice gentler now. “Do you have any career plan? Is someone offering you a job?”

No. No one. Well— Soonyoung had said he’d help. Said it with conviction in that private moment like it was gospel. Like he meant every word.

But he was Kwon Soonyoung. A man who once asked if “ROI” was the name of a new intern. Who didn’t know how to schedule his own meetings without color-coded prompts you made for him. Who showed up to investor brunches with lipstick on his collar—your lipstick—and still made a joke out of it.

You couldn’t even trust him to send an attachment properly in an email. And now he was asking you to trust him with your life after this?

Your silence must’ve stretched too long, because Seungkwan spoke again. “Is it him?” That stopped your breath. You didn’t say his name. You didn’t have to. He knew.

“I don’t know what he promised you,” Seungkwan continued gently, “but if you’re holding on to that as your only parachute, make sure it’s not just… words.”

You closed your eyes. You wanted to believe him.bWanted to believe that Soonyoung meant it—that he would fight for you, that he saw everything you sacrificed for that label, that he wouldn’t let this end with you packing your things and being erased.

But that was the problem, wasn’t it? You didn’t know if it was belief… Or wishful thinking. And you were tired of hoping. You didn’t answer. Just let the silence fall again.

*

When Soonyoung stepped into his apartment, the first thing that hit him wasn’t the silence—but the scent. Something warm. Garlicky. Familiar. He paused by the door, blinking like he had to recalibrate. There was someone in his kitchen. You.

Wearing one of his aprons—badly tied—and frowning softly at the pot in front of you. The sleeves of your blouse were rolled up, and your hair was clipped messily at the back. You didn’t hear him come in right away, too focused on adjusting the stove and tapping at the edge of the box labeled KF Meal Kit –Kimchi Jjigae.

He chuckled, loosening his tie. You and these damn company products. It was the fifth time he’d seen you cooking them in the last month. At work. At home. He shrugged off his blazer, folded it neatly, then quietly walked to the kitchen. You looked up as he reached the counter, eyebrows raised and a small smile tugging at your lips.

You leaned a little on the counter, watching the pot begin to simmer. He stepped closer without thinking, hands finding your waist like they belonged there. You didn’t move. You didn’t stop him. If anything, your body softened beneath his touch, like it remembered the rhythm of standing this close.

Soonyoung exhaled quietly, pressing his forehead near your ttemple I miss you,” he murmured.

There was no teasing in it. No smug grin. Just honesty, spoken low and barely audible over the bubbling of the meal.

You blinked, the words catching you off guard—but not in a bad way. They melted into the air, sinking into the skin between his palms and your ribs. You didn’t respond immediately. You just leaned the tiniest bit into him, a silent answer in itself.

His thumb brushed over your hip, and he pulled you just slightly closer—not possessive, not rushed. Just… here. Present.

You tilted your head toward him slightly. “Dinner’s not even done yet and you’re already getting sentimental?”

Soonyoung chuckled, resting his chin on your shoulder, “You in my kitchen is enough. Feels like I’ve already won.”

And for a moment, it was quiet. Dinner was long gone—plates in the sink, lights dimmed, and the two of you curled on the couch like gravity pulled your bodies together on instinct. The TV played something neither of you paid attention to. Just background noise to the slow rhythm of Soonyoung’s fingers trailing along your cheek, brushing the edge of your jaw, memorizing your face like it was the first time again.

You blinked, lazy from the warmth of his hold, when he spoke.

“I talked to Joshua hyung today.”

Your brow lifted. “Yeah?”

“He said there’s a manager position opening in his company. He’d like to see your resume.”

You turned toward him a little, eyes wide in disbelief. “Really?”

He smiled, nodding, looking far too proud for someone just casually bringing life-altering news. “Yeah… I told him about you. About how competent and sharp you are. He said he can’t wait to meet you.”

You stared at him. “That’s… unexpected.”

Soonyoung immediately pouted, his brows knitting together in that ridiculous way that never quite matched how tall and put-together he could look in a suit. “What’s that supposed to mean? You think I wouldn’t come through?”

You chuckled under your breath, “No, it’s not that. I just…” you exhaled, “I didn’t expect you’d actually do it. I know you can, with your last name and network. But I guess a part of me thought… I was just someone who helped you with work.”

Soonyoung stared at you like you’d just said something blasphemous. Then sighed heavily and pulled you closer, tucking your head beneath his chin.

“You should know by now that you’re more than that, Y/n. Everyone sees it. Even Seungcheol hyung said you were—what did he say—ah, charismatic.”

You groaned, pressing your face briefly into his shoulder. “Don’t bring that up…”

Soonyoung chuckled, a little too amused. “What? It’s true. Remember that night he drove you home from the bar? You told him what you did—accidentally, if I recall—and he just went, ‘So you’re the one supervising Soonyoung? Ah… the annoying marketing manager, huh?’”

You sighed dramatically. “Great. That’s my legacy.”

“Sexy annoying marketing manager,” he corrected with a grin, pulling you closer.

“Shut up.”

He laughed harder now, contentment laced into every curve of his smile.

Then, a pause. Softer.

“You’re not mad?” he asked.

You looked up at him. “Mad?”

“For… helping you like this. I mean, I know you’re strong. I didn’t want to bruise your pride or make it seem like I thought you couldn’t land something on your own.”

You stared at him, heart clenching in that way it sometimes did when people said something too kind. Something too thoughtful.

“You’re competent. Smart. Efficient,” he said, as if repeating it to himself. “And I was worried you’d turn it down because you thought I was underestimating you. But I wasn’t. Not even a little.”

You blinked, then smiled, unable to stop the warmth spreading through your chest.

“You’re cute, Soonyoung,” you murmured, fingers reaching up to pinch his cheek gently.

“Hey! I’m being serious!” he protested, squirming under your touch—but his grin betrayed him.

You leaned into him again, nestling under his chin as his arms instinctively wrapped tighter.

“I know you are,” you whispered. “And that’s why I might actually consider it.”

He didn’t answer. But the way his breath slowed, and the way his thumb gently brushed the back of your hand, said everything.

The TV murmured in the background—some drama neither of you were really watching—as the quiet between you stretched long and comfortably still. The couch dipped just slightly beneath your bodies, your fingers lazily tracing the hem of his sleeve. You were dangerously close to dozing off again in his warmth. Until—

“Soonyoung-ah?”

The sudden voice made you jolt so hard you lost balance. He turned his head sharply—just as you tried to sit up. Your knees caught the edge of the coffee table, he tried to grab your waist, you both fumbled—and then fell.

Hard.

The thud was loud, a tangle of limbs and fabric hitting the floor, followed by a stunned silence and a hissed curse from Soonyoung.

“Oh my—are you okay?!” came the voice again. It was closer now.

You froze, eyes wide. Soonyoung groaned beneath you. “Why didn’t you lock the damn door?” you whispered sharply as you sat up from his chest, trying to fix your shirt, your dignity already lost in the living room rug.

“I didn’t think I needed to!” he hissed back, rubbing the back of his head.

Then a pair of heels stepped into view.

“Oh,” said a woman with a well-maintained bob cut and too-perfect makeup. Her tone was pleasantly surprised, but her gaze was anything but subtle. “I… didn’t know you had company.”

You scrambled upright. “Hello—I'm sorry—I didn’t hear anyone come in—”

“Clearly,” she said with a polite smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

Soonyoung stood, brushing off his slacks and walking past you like nothing happened. “You visit,” he said flatly.

His mother blinked. “I brought food. And I wanted to check on you.”

He walked toward the kitchen without glancing back. “I’m not twelve.”

She gave you a knowing glance and followed. “Still, you always forget to eat when you're under pressure. And you’re hosting. I had to make sure she wasn’t starving.”

You stiffened slightly. Soonyoung looked back at you, unreadable. “She ate.”

“I can see,” she said, eyes flicking toward the leftover meal kit container on the counter. “Microwave dinners. Very romantic.”

His mouth twitched. “It’s from the label.”

His mom looked at him, then at you, and smiled again, this time softer. “You must be the reason he’s actually showing up to board meetings.”

You opened your mouth, unsure what to say.

“Mom,” Soonyoung interjected, tone clipped. “You’ve delivered the soup. You’ve confirmed I haven’t died. Are you staying?”

She tilted her head slightly. “I can go. Don’t let me interrupt.” Her gaze lingered on the couch—on the crumpled blanket, the two glasses, the clear closeness—before she turned to the door.

“I’ll call you later, Soonyoung,” she added as she slipped her heels back on. “Nice to meet you, Miss…”

“Ji,” you supplied quickly.

“Miss Ji,” she echoed with a small smile before she stepped out, closing the door with an audible click.

Silence.

You turned to him, breath still uneven from both the fall and the mortification. “So that was your mom.”

“Yep.”

“She didn’t seem… warm.”

“She’s not.”

A pause. “She said she brought food.”

He rolled his eyes. “She’ll Venmo the maid to drop it off later.”

“…You okay?”

Soonyoung scratched the back of his head, then looked at you with a crooked grin. “Honestly? I’d rather fall again.”

You laughed. Loudly this time. And maybe—just maybe—it made the awkwardness a little easier to carry.

*

Your first day at Hong Finance went better than expected. The morning had been a whirlwind of handshakes, onboarding documents, and a glossy welcome kit with your name printed in soft gold on the folder. The office was sleek, everything glass and grey and expensive-smelling, but the people? Surprisingly warm. Joshua, your new Director, had personally introduced you to each team member, casually mentioning that you came highly recommended—without saying by who.

Though you had a guess. A certain someone who used to forget what KF Label even stood for.

You worked through the day with quiet diligence, letting your brain adjust to the faster pace, the bigger picture, and the knowledge that you weren’t being micromanaged by HR this time around. You weren’t running damage control. You were actually doing your job—and being respected for it.

It was 6:10 when you stepped out of the building, your heels clicking gently on the pavement. The golden haze of sunset stretched across the city skyline.

And right there, leaning against a black car with sunglasses perched atop his head, was Kwon Soonyoung.

He looked like he belonged on the cover of a lifestyle magazine—tailored slacks, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, one hand in his pocket and the other lazily scrolling his phone. But the second he spotted you, he straightened up and pulled the door open.

“For the newly hired marketing manager of Hong Finance,” he grinned.

You raised an eyebrow as you walked up. “Look who’s playing chauffeur.”

“I prefer ‘supportive boyfriend who can finally say that title out loud.’” He gave you a dramatic bow before you slid into the passenger seat. “You worked hard. I’m proud of you.”

You chuckled as he got in, started the engine, and the two of you merged into the soft blur of city traffic. “So how was your day?”

He shrugged with a grin. “Better now. I was thinking of you the whole time. Could barely sit through my meeting without wondering if you were dying in there or thriving.”

“I’m thriving,” you smirked. “Try not to look so surprised.”

He glanced sideways at you, eyes softening, then turned back to the road. “You know, I meant it when I said I wanted to take you out tonight. Properly.”

You leaned your head against the seat, lips curving. “I know.”

He glanced at you again.

“And I meant it too,” you added, mischievous. “‘Finally growing up,’ huh?”

Soonyoung groaned playfully. “You’ll never let me live that down, will you?”

“Nope.”

It happened six months later. You weren’t expecting it. Not after all the teasing. Not after the jokes he made every time marriage came up, always with a sly grin and a "we’ll see" or a "why rush, we’re young, aren’t we?"

And certainly not on a regular Saturday afternoon, in the middle of folding laundry in his apartment, your hair tied up in a loose bun, wearing one of his old oversized shirts that still smelled like his cologne no matter how many times you washed it.

But maybe that was why it happened. Because you weren’t dressed up. There was no audience. No violin strings, no rooftop dinner. Just sunlight spilling through the windows, the quiet hum of domestic life, and the two of you surrounded by all the little pieces of your routine. Your world.

He stood behind you, not saying anything at first. Just watching. You felt his stare and turned around, sock in hand. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

Soonyoung tilted his head, lips quirking faintly. “I’m thinking.”

“Dangerous.”

He laughed softly, but didn’t look away. “I mean it.”

You waited.

“I was thinking,” he said again, this time quieter, “about how I used to think love was chaos. Fireworks. Like a storm you couldn’t control.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden sincerity in his voice.

“But you’re not chaos,” he went on, stepping closer. “You’re… steady. You’re grounding. You told me when I was being stupid. You stayed when it would’ve been easier to quit. You even learned to like our new meal kit.”

You rolled your eyes, but your chest tightened. “So now you’re confessing your undying love through carbs?”

“No,” he chuckled, then reached into his pocket. “I’m proposing through this.”

Your breath caught as you saw the small velvet box. He opened it slowly, revealing a ring so simple and beautiful it nearly took your breath away. No diamonds shouting for attention. Just a gold band with a small, elegant gem. The kind of thing someone would wear every day. Quiet. Constant.

Just like the love he’d built with you.

“I’m not good with a lot of things,” he admitted, voice trembling just slightly. “But I know I want to wake up next to you for the rest of my life. I want our dumb, quiet mornings. Our microwave dinners. You calling me an idiot when I deserve it. And maybe one day, you walking into my office again—but with my name.”

You stared at him, completely speechless. Then he laughed, nervously. “You don’t have to say yes now, by the way. I know your career’s still—”

“Yes.”

He paused. “Wait—what?”

You dropped the sock you were holding, stepping closer. “Yes, Kwon Soonyoung. You idiot.” His smile split wide as you tackled him in a hug, the ring box still clutched in his hand.

*

Meeting his parents was something you’d quietly prepared for, even if Soonyoung said you didn’t need to. “They’re not scary,” he promised with his usual shrug. “You met my mom. My dad’ll just talk about the stock market until someone stops him.”

Still, as you sat beside Soonyoung at the long dining table in their sleek Hannam-dong house—with its museum-level lighting and not a single speck of dust—you knew this wasn’t just any dinner.

His mother greeted you first, of course, in a flurry of perfume, pearls, and the kind of warmth that felt performative but not unkind.

“Oh, you’re getting prettier!!” she said, gripping your hands with both of hers. “Soonyoung was never this glowy, you know. He must be eating well.”

You smiled, bowed politely, and thanked her—twice. She seemed like someone who appreciated a bit of extra etiquette. She gave you a quick once-over—your outfit passed the silent inspection, thank God. then insisted you sit beside her son like you were already part of the family.

His father arrived late, after the wine was already poured and the soup already served.

He was tall, imposing, with the kind of sharp silence that made your posture straighten without thinking. His handshake was firm, his gaze sharper.

“You’re working in finance now, I heard?” he asked, cutting his steak slowly.

“Yes, sir. Hong Finance. I handle B2B marketing strategies under Director Hong Joshua.”

His father hummed, noncommittal. “I see. No family ties to the industry?”

You blinked, just once. “No, sir. I’m from Busan. My family runs a small printing business.”

Another hum.

Soonyoung glanced at you, eyes flicking in concern. You nudged his knee gently under the table—a silent it's fine. I got this.

The conversation moved, meandering through safe topics, until the elder Kwon brought up the label again.

“You know, the KF Label still has too many bleeding points. Sales growth is good, but not stable. I’m not convinced Soonyoung understands where it’s leaking,” he said bluntly. “You do understand what I mean by that, don’t you?”

Soonyoung opened his mouth, clearly trying to assemble something in his head. You could almost see him reaching for words, for numbers you knew he hadn’t looked at since last quarter.

But before the silence stretched too long, you calmly lifted your glass, smiled, and spoke.

“The margin inconsistencies in the semi-premium line have been narrowing, actually. Since February, we’ve scaled down redundant distribution channels and optimized the logistics route from our Cheonan facility. The recent push with ‘Heat-and-Meet’ expanded brand visibility with minimal promo spend.”

You placed your glass back down and added, with polite finality, “Soonyoung has been involved in all those strategy approvals. We’ve made it a point to streamline executive summaries so he can lead without getting buried in jargon.”

The table went quiet for a beat. His father looked at you properly now—eyes no longer cold, but assessing. Appraising. “Hm,” he said. “I wasn’t aware of the Cheonan streamlining.”

“I prepared the original logistics adjustment proposal,” you said with a slight smile. “But the final call was Soonyoung’s.”

A pause. Then, almost grudgingly, the elder Kwon nodded. “Impressive.”

Soonyoung gave you a look under the table—half grateful, half floored.

His mother clapped lightly. “You speak better about business than some of his uncles do, dear.”

You blushed politely and simply replied, “I just care about what I do, ma’am.”

His father said little else after that, but the look he gave Soonyoung as he excused himself from the table later carried something unfamiliar. Respect. Maybe for the first time.

And as you and Soonyoung helped clear the dishes together in the kitchen, his mother called from behind you with a small, satisfied smile:

“You’re already helping him become a better man, Y/n.”

Soonyoung grumbled, cheeks warm. “I told you. She’s the smart one.”

You just bumped your shoulder into his and whispered with a smirk, “Glad someone finally noticed.”

*

The revolving glass doors of KF Label glided open with a quiet sigh as you stepped inside, heels tapping steadily against the pristine marble floor. The lobby hadn’t changed—still sterile, still polished, still smelling faintly of lavender diffuser and corporate ambition.

But you had. Not Ji Y/n, the former marketing manager. You were now Kwon Y/n. The name settled differently on everyone’s tongue now. Especially here, where whispers spread faster than memos.

You nodded at familiar faces—staff from various departments, even the security guard who once complimented your meal-prep lunches. Some smiled with genuine warmth, others with thinly veiled curiosity. And a few didn’t bother to hide their surprise.

Your steps slowed only when you reached the seventh floor. There, near the meeting room, you saw him. Kim Mingyu. He looked up from a file he was reviewing, pausing mid-page when he saw you. His expression didn’t change much—no shock, no smile. Just a polite flicker of his brows. You offered a small, courteous smile and bowed slightly. He returned the gesture with the same practiced civility. That was all.

It was a month after your resignation when you’d found out through Dokyeom in a hesitant voice over a coffee meeting, that it was Mingyu who had filed the HR report. The report that cost you your role. Since then, there’d been no real confrontation. No apology. Just stiff smiles across event halls and neutral nods across meetings.

Jun, Soonyoung’s secretary, greeted you the moment he saw you approach. He looked much livelier than he did during your era of damage control.

“Y/n,” he beamed, standing quickly and smoothing his tie. “You look amazing, as always.”

You offered a gentle smile. “Is he available?”

Jun nodded, already walking to the heavy door. “Just finished a call. I’ll let him know.”

He knocked once and pushed the door open with a practiced hand.

“Sir,” he said with a knowing grin, “your wife is here.”

There was a pause, then a familiar voice from inside, low and warm with the tone he reserved only for you.

“Let her in.”

And just like that, you stepped through the door—leaving behind the past titles, the old pain, and the fractured stares.

You weren’t here to prove anything anymore.

You were here as Kwon Y/n—his partner, in more ways than one.

Soonyoung stood the moment you entered, his face lighting up with that boyish grin that never failed to soften you. His tie was loose, his sleeves rolled, and the stress lines on his forehead were deeper than usual.

Still, he reached you first—fingers brushing yours before he gently guided you toward the couch like you were something precious.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?” he asked, sitting close, knees turned fully toward you.

You tilted your head, teasing, “What would you have done if I told you?”

“Prepared something,” he said dramatically, eyes twinkling. “Like a red carpet. You’re a star here, baby.”

You let out a soft laugh, brushing your hand against his cheek. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Only for you.” He leaned his head against your shoulder then, a deep sigh escaping from him as his whole body relaxed. “Have you had lunch?” you asked quietly, resting your cheek on his head.

He shook his head. “No time. This anniversary event… the product launch, five proposals due by tomorrow—” he exhaled sharply, motioning vaguely to his chaotic desk. “I’m going crazy. If you hadn’t walked in, I might’ve actually curled under that table and disappeared.”

You ran your fingers gently through his hair. “I took a half-day off.”

His head lifted slightly. “Why? Still feeling fatigue?”

You nodded, pressing your lips together. “Yeah. And I went to the doctor earlier.”

That made him sit up straighter, concern painting his face. “You should’ve come home. Why didn’t you say anything? Why are you visiting me if you’re not feeling well?”

Instead of answering right away, you pulled a neatly folded document from your bag and handed it to him.

His brows furrowed as he took it. “Wait—this… is this what I think it is?”

“Open it.”

Soonyoung unfolded the paper slowly, eyes scanning over the lines until they landed on one sentence that made everything around him blur.

Pregnancy confirmation – estimated gestational age: 6 weeks.

He looked up at you, completely still.

You smiled, a nervous, tender curve. “Surprise.”

His mouth opened slightly, but no words came out at first. His hands trembled just enough for you to notice, the document still in his grip.

“I’m—” he blinked, voice rough with disbelief. “I’m going to be a dad?”

You nodded, your own breath catching. “Yeah. We’re… we’re going to be parents, Kwon Soonyoung.”

For a second, he just stared.

And then he laughed—a soft, breathless sound of pure joy—as he leaned in and wrapped his arms around you, pulling you against his chest with a mix of awe and something almost like reverence.

“You’re everything,” he whispered. “I swear, you are.”

“I’m telling Jun I’m going home. Everything can wait until tomorrow.” Soonyoung stood up with a spark in his eyes after pulling you into one last firm hug.

You opened your mouth to protest—“Soonyoung, your schedule—”

But he already had his phone to his ear, spinning half toward his desk while still watching you like he couldn’t stand looking away for too long.

“Jun. Yeah. Cancel everything for the rest of the day. Postpone the internal review, shift the client call. Send a memo that the director is off-duty. No, not sick—in love.” He grinned at you while Jun, somewhere across the floor, probably died a little. “You can blame the most beautiful woman in my life.”

You covered your mouth with your hand, trying not to burst out laughing. “You’re so dramatic.”

“I’m not dramatic,” he said, putting his phone down and coming back to you. “I’m in love. And apparently, I’m going to be a dad, which means I have very important priorities now.”

He helped you up gently, his hands warm on your arms. “Let’s go home, baby.”

You smiled, heart full. “Okay.”

As the two of you stepped out of the office hand in hand, the corridor lights overhead felt softer. Familiar faces turned, surprised, and smiled—some knowingly, some with wide eyes.

But you didn’t care.

Not as he walked beside you, fingers laced tightly in yours, saying things like “I’m buying dinner. No—wait, I’m cooking! No, I’m ordering and cooking!”

And you laughed. Because this was your life now.

Messy. Bright. Full of Soonyoung.

The end.

[thedensworld]

Densworld🌼🤍

Den | she/her | 24 | 🇮🇩 | Aries | INFP-A | Carat 💎 Ahgase 🐥

Tip Juseyo🥺🧎‍♀️

Seventeen's Right Here! → (💯fics and detail)

Choi Seungcheol | S.Coups

Yoon Jeonghan | Jeonghan

Hong Jisoo | Joshua

Wen Junhui | Jun

Kwon Soonyoung | Hoshi

Jeon Wonwoo | Wonwoo

Lee Jihoon | Woozi

Lee Seokmin | DK | Dokyeom

Kim Mingyu | Mingyu

Xu Minghao | The8 | Seo Myungho

Boo Seungkwan | Seungkwan

Choi Hansol | Vernon

Lee Chan | Dino

Seventeen's Dad Au!

Enjoy everybody! Like | Comment | Re-blog | Follow for more! 🤍

[thedensworld]

🥺

[thedensworld]

Cute Weight | K.Mg

Pairing: Mingyu x reader

Genre: Dad au!

Type: fluff

Word Count: 2k

Preview: What's the cutest thing about babies? Chubby cheeks, chubby legs, chubby arms, chubby tummy. And Mingyu has to lose them all!

“You’re being dramatic,” you muttered, arms crossed as you leaned against the doorframe.

Mingyu was sitting cross-legged on the living room floor, hugging Nara like a precious treasure someone had tried to steal. Your one-year-old looked utterly unbothered, nestled comfortably against her father’s chest with her plushie in one hand and a biscuit crumb stuck to her cheek.

He didn’t respond to you. His gaze was fixed ahead, intense, as if he were deep in negotiation with fate itself.

“Mingyu,” you sighed, “she’s not going off to war.”

“Feels like it,” he mumbled, tightening his hold around Nara. “They want to take everything away.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Who’s they?”

But Mingyu wasn’t listening. Not really. His eyes were locked on Nara’s plump cheeks, her roly-poly arms, her soft little belly that peeked out beneath her onesie. He loved every inch of her exactly as she was—every squish, every wobble, every baby roll that jiggled when she laughed. The idea of her losing even one fold of softness made something ache deep in his chest.

“Nara…” he murmured, voice low with emotion.

She looked up at him with wide, innocent eyes, one hand grabbing his nose while the other clutched her favorite plushie. Her cheeks shimmered with a natural dewy glow, her mouth puckered in that signature pout she made whenever he paused during peek-a-boo.

“You don’t listen to them, okay?” Mingyu said solemnly. “Appa’s not letting them take away your chubby arms. Or your tummy. Especially not your tummy.”

He bent forward and kissed her belly with exaggerated drama, making a loud smooch that made Nara squeal and kick her thick legs in delight.

From behind the counter, you stifled a laugh, even as you shook your head. “She’s one, Gyu. She’s not even going to remember this.”

“I will,” he said seriously, rocking her slightly. “I’ll remember everything. Every squish, every roll. This is her prime. We’re not dieting through it.”

You stepped closer, kneeling beside them, brushing Nara’s hair back with a sigh. “We’re not dieting her. Just… making healthier choices. Less cookies. More fruit. Maybe walk instead of carry.”

Mingyu visibly flinched. “I like carrying her.”

“I know,” you said, laughing softly. “But she’s heavy.”

Mingyu clutched Nara tighter, whispering dramatically, “Don’t worry, Nara. Appa will carry you till you’re twenty.”

It started when you noticed Nara had trouble sleeping at night. She would wake up crying in the middle of her sleep, sometimes gasping or whining without a clear reason. At first, you thought it was just another sleep regression, but after several restless nights in a row, both you and Mingyu decided it was time to visit the pediatrician—just to be sure.

At the clinic, they ran through the usual checks—measuring her height, weighing her, listening to her heartbeat. Everything seemed fine, until the doctor gently brought up a possible explanation for her disrupted sleep: early signs of sleep apnea.

You and Mingyu exchanged surprised glances as the doctor explained, with a kind smile, “There’s a possibility that the soft fat around her tummy and neck might be making it harder for her to breathe comfortably during sleep.”

The two of you couldn’t help but chuckle—more out of disbelief than amusement. Mingyu looked down at Nara, who was happily munching on a biscuit, completely unaware that her adorable chubbiness might be the culprit behind her midnight crying spells.

It sounded almost absurd. Chubby cheeks and neck rolls causing breathing issues? But the doctor reassured you it was more common than people thought, especially in babies who gain weight a bit faster than average.

“It’s nothing serious right now,” the doctor added quickly, “but it might be worth gently adjusting her routine—healthier snacks, more active playtime, and a little less carrying.”

That last part hit Mingyu the hardest. He looked like someone had just told him he wasn’t allowed to breathe the same air as his daughter anymore. You knew, right then, that the real challenge wasn’t changing Nara’s habits—it was convincing your overly attached husband to let go of her rolls.

The next day, you laid out a soft mat in the living room, scattering Nara’s toys across it—colorful stacking cups, plush animals, and that little xylophone she liked to bang rather than play. The sunlight filtered through the window, warm and golden, as you sat cross-legged and clapped your hands.

“Come here, baby. Let’s play,” you cooed, waving a soft ball to catch her attention. Nara was sitting a few steps away, her legs spread into a W, her cheeks puffed up with concentration as she tried to decide whether to crawl or simply roll over like a sleepy burrito.

She let out a squeal and made her way toward you—more of a bounce than a crawl, really, her belly jiggling adorably with each wobbly movement. You encouraged her, praising every little scoot she made.

Mingyu sat off to the side on the couch, his long legs stretched out, arms folded, eyes distant. He wasn’t on his phone. He wasn’t even watching the TV. No, he was just... staring.

You glanced at him. “What now?”

He exhaled deeply, like someone mourning a great loss. “She’s gonna lose the belly, isn’t she?”

You blinked, then rolled your eyes so hard it nearly hurt. “She’s a baby, Mingyu. Not a marshmallow.”

He ignored your sass and kept watching Nara, his brows slightly furrowed. “But her cheeks. And her wrist rolls. And her thigh dimples.” His voice cracked a little on the last one. “What if they’re gone in a month?”

“She’s not evaporating,” you replied dryly, shaking a rattle for Nara. “She’s just learning how to move more.”

Mingyu leaned his elbow on the armrest, hand to his mouth like he was holding back tears. “I just… I didn’t know I could get this attached to fat.”

You couldn’t help but laugh. Loudly.

“You’re grieving,” you teased. “This is grief.”

“It is,” he said dramatically. “No one warned me babyhood would end like this. I thought we had at least another year with the tummy.”

Just then, Nara flopped face-first onto the mat with a giggle and then rolled over, belly-first, like she was showing it off.

Mingyu immediately perked up. “Wait—she still has it, right? Look at that. That’s premium. Five-star fluff.”

You shook your head, fighting a smile. “You’re hopeless.”

“And yet still full of hope,” he whispered, eyes gleaming as he reached out and snapped a picture on his phone. “Just in case it’s gone next week. I need evidence.”

You snorted. Nara was now drooling on her plush elephant and reaching for your hand again.

“Come on, Appa,” you called teasingly. “You’re not gonna let me have all the fun while you sit there mourning chub rolls.”

Mingyu stood with a dramatic sigh, walked over, and sat beside you on the mat. He scooped Nara into his lap, hugging her tight as she squealed.

“I’m gonna cherish every ounce,” he declared. “Every single squish.”

And you let him. Because really, even if he was dramatic, the way he loved her—every soft, silly inch—was something worth holding onto.

*

Over the next few days, Nara began to make real progress.

She moved more—waddling her way across the living room with newfound purpose, falling and laughing, then getting right back up. Her once-reluctant crawling turned into proud little stomps as she cruised from sofa to table like she owned the place. You introduced more fruits and veggies into her meals, replaced cookies with banana slices, and cut down on sugary snacks. Even Nara, in all her chubby-cheeked glory, seemed to adjust—if a little begrudgingly.

But there was one problem.

She was clever. Too clever. When she craved sweets or snacks, she didn’t throw tantrums or scream—no, she cried strategically. A few well-placed tears, some hiccuped sobs, and one long, pitiful wail that made her look like the saddest baby in the universe. It was psychological warfare—and she knew her target.

You were immune. You had your system: ignore the cries, wait it out, then swoop in with a toy or a tickle, distracting her until the craving passed. It worked.

But Mingyu?

Mingyu was weak. He couldn’t stand to see her cry. One teardrop and his whole body tensed. Two sobs and he was already scanning the pantry for peace offerings.

So, naturally, when you left for your pilates class that afternoon, you looked at both of them with narrowed eyes.

“No snacks until I come home,” you said firmly, pointing a warning finger at your husband as well as your daughter.

Mingyu raised both hands in mock surrender. “I heard you, General.”

You looked at Nara, who was chewing on a teether. “And you, no tricks. You two play. No bribes.”

“Got it!” he said cheerfully. “Easy. We’re strong.”

You gave him one last suspicious glance before leaving.

Thirty minutes later, Nara was on the living room floor, sitting in a puddle of big, fake tears, crying like the world was ending.

Mingyu crouched in front of her, clearly panicking. “Okay, okay, baby, come on,” he whispered. “Don’t cry. Please don’t cry. Appa’s trying here.”

But Nara had entered full dramatics—arms outstretched, lips trembling, the works.

Mingyu wiped her cheek and sighed. “We were doing so good…”

She let out a long, despair-filled cry. He cracked. Instantly.

“Okay—okay! Here!” He pulled open the cabinet, grabbed the rice crackers you'd designated as the “least bad” option, and handed one to her like it was a golden ticket.

Nara stopped crying immediately, grabbed it with both hands, and started munching happily.

Mingyu exhaled like he’d just disarmed a bomb. “Yes… this is it,” he whispered, crouching down beside her and brushing her hair back. “You’re my girl. Smart, sneaky, and snacky.”

She looked up at him, crumbs around her mouth, her eyes twinkling with victory.

Later, when you returned, gym bag slung over your shoulder, you were greeted by an eerily quiet house. Too quiet. You walked into the living room, and there they were: Nara, snacking peacefully on her fifth rice cracker, and Mingyu, trying to hide the open packet behind a cushion.

You raised an eyebrow.

“Did she cry?” you asked flatly.

“No,” Mingyu lied, far too quickly.

“She’s chewing.”

“She found it. She’s very independent.”

You crossed your arms. “Mingyu.”

He wilted under your stare like a kid caught sneaking cookies himself. “She cried,” he confessed. “The long cry. The sad one. With the eyes. I panicked.”

You rolled your eyes, biting back a smile. “You’re hopeless.”

Mingyu scooped Nara into his arms, kissing her cheek. “Hopelessly in love.”

Later that night, the house had finally quieted. Nara was asleep in her crib—belly full, cheeks puffed out, one hand clutching her favorite stuffed elephant. The glow of the baby monitor flickered gently on the nightstand beside you.

You and Mingyu lay side by side in bed, the room dim and still, both of you staring at the ceiling in that familiar post-parenting exhaustion.

You shifted onto your side, facing him. “She had three rice crackers.”

He didn’t look at you. Five, actually.”

You blinked. “Seriously?”

“She cried so much,” he mumbled defensively. “You didn’t see the tears. They were heavy. Dramatic.”

You sighed, softer this time. “That’s the thing, Gyu. She knows how to work you.”

He finally turned toward you, brows drawn. “So what if she does? She’s one. It’s not like she’s out there manipulating world leaders. She’s a baby.”

You stayed quiet for a moment, watching the way his expression was still halfway amused, halfway guilty. Then, gently, you said, “I know it doesn’t seem like a big deal right now. But… it starts small. A snack to stop the crying. A pattern. A habit. And if we’re not careful, it becomes a part of how she copes.”

Mingyu didn’t respond right away. His fingers tapped lightly against the edge of the blanket.

You sat up slightly, resting your weight on one elbow. “I’m not saying we shouldn’t comfort her. But we can’t comfort her with food every time she cries. That’s not love, Gyu. That’s distraction. And she deserves better than that.”

He swallowed, eyes dropping to the sheet between you.

“She’s only one, I know,” you continued softly, “but she’s already being affected. The doctor wouldn’t have mentioned sleep apnea if it wasn’t serious. What if she keeps waking up gasping in the middle of the night? What if it gets worse?”

His jaw tightened at that. You saw it—the shift, the heaviness that settled in his eyes.

“I just…” he finally whispered, voice rough, “I don’t want her to grow up thinking something’s wrong with her. That she has to change herself to be ‘okay.’ I love everything about her.”

Your heart ached at his honesty. You reached out and touched his hand.

“She is perfect,” you said. “But part of loving her is helping her grow up healthy, not just happy in the moment. And you—we—have to be the ones to make those hard choices. Even when she cries. Even when it breaks your heart.”

Mingyu blinked slowly, then let out a long, unsteady breath. “I’m not good at saying no to her.”

“I know,” you whispered, smiling a little. “You don’t have to be perfect. Just… present. Aware.”

He turned to look at you fully then, eyes serious. “Okay,” he said. “No more silent snack deals. Even if she cries the sad cry.”

You leaned forward and kissed his forehead. “That’s my guy.”

Mingyu reached under the blanket and took your hand in his. “But I’m still keeping one cracker in my pocket. Just in case.”

You groaned. “Gyu.”

“Emergency cracker!” he defended, grinning now.

You shook your head, laughing quietly as you turned off the lamp and settled down beside him. Beneath the teasing and dramatics, you knew he meant it.

And that was enough—for tonight.

*

A few weeks passed, and the changes started to show.

Nara was sleeping better—fewer wakeups, no more gasping cries in the middle of the night. Her cheeks were still adorably round, but her breathing had eased. She started toddling faster, with more balance, and her energy seemed endless. She laughed louder, moved quicker, and, most importantly, cried a little less during snack time.

You were proud. So proud.

But even more surprising than Nara’s progress… was Mingyu’s.

You watched it happen slowly—how he stopped reaching for snacks the second she whimpered. How he learned to kneel beside her, distract her with silly faces, or offer her a water bottle instead of a biscuit. He started carrying her a little less, letting her waddle her way through the house, cheering every step like it was the Olympics.

And then, one afternoon, the true shift came.

You were home, but preoccupied—kneeling at the coffee table, replying to emails while Nara sat on the mat behind you. She’d just finished her lunch (fruit slices and warm oatmeal), but when she saw her toy box out of reach, she let out a practiced whine.

Then another.

And another.

You barely glanced up. “Gyu, she’s about to start,” you warned absently.

But Mingyu, who was crouched by the shelves, simply looked over his shoulder and said, “I know. I got it.”

You peeked back to see Nara now doing the dramatic slow cry, lip trembling like a performance piece.

“Appa…” she whimpered.

“Don’t fall for it,” you whispered under your breath. “Don’t you dare—”

Mingyu raised a brow at you and then turned back to Nara with a grin. “What’s this? Are we crying already? Did you forget what we said, baby?”

He walked over, sat beside her, and tapped her belly gently. “We’re strong now, remember? Big girls walk and play, not cry for crackers.”

Nara blinked at him, her fake sob catching in her throat.

“You want the penguin toy?” he offered gently, holding it out. “Let’s go get it together. No tears needed.”

She stared at him. Silent. Judging.

You held your breath.

And then—miraculously—she sniffled, nodded, and crawled into his lap without another sound.

Your jaw dropped. “Did you just win?”

Mingyu looked over his shoulder and smirked, smug. “I think I did.”

“No snack?”

“No snack.”

You stood, arms crossed, both impressed and slightly robbed of the chance to say I told you so. “Wow. Look at you. The Snack King has reformed.”

He scooped Nara into his arms and stood proudly. “We’ve entered our clean era.”

You chuckled, walking over to plant a kiss on his cheek. “I’m proud of you.”

He looked down at his daughter, who was now giggling in his arms. “She’s doing all the work. I’m just learning how to keep up.”

You kissed Nara’s head too. “Well… next time I get tempted to give her a cookie after dinner, remind me of this moment, okay?”

Mingyu grinned. “Oh, I will. In fact, I might frame this moment.”

You laughed. “Don’t push it.”

He leaned in, bumping your forehead with his. “Teamwork?”

You smiled. “Always.”

And just like that, in the quiet joy of a small victory, you realized—you were getting the hang of this parenting thing. Together.

The end.

[thedensworld]

Baby Number 2 Mission | X.Mh

Pairing: Minghao x reader

Genre: dad au!

Type: fluff

Word Count: 3k

Preview: The mission is simple— convince your first child.

Myungho was nestled into the couch, cradling a warm cup of tea between his palms, enjoying the rare stillness of the house. Usually, the walls echoed with the powerful, off-key voice of his superstar daughter, Hua, belting out her favorite movie soundtracks at full volume. But today, the quiet felt almost foreign—Hua had an extra school activity, leaving the weekend unusually peaceful.

He took a slow sip, letting the warmth coat his throat, when a sudden noise broke through the silence. A sharp clatter. Muffled movement. It came from the bedroom. His brows furrowed. He tilted his head, listening closely, already rising to his feet before placing the cup on the coffee table.

The sounds led him to the bathroom, where the door was half-closed. He pushed it open just as a wave of nausea hit you. You were hunched over the toilet, trembling, trying to steady yourself as your body refused to cooperate.

“Hey, hey—I'm here,” Myungho said gently, rushing to your side.

He dropped to his knees without hesitation, one hand gathering your hair out of your face while the other rubbed soothing circles on your back. His voice was calm, but the crease in his forehead showed his worry. He whispered soft encouragements, letting you lean on him as your body slowly relaxed.

When you finally finished, he pulled you close, letting you rest against his chest as you caught your breath.

“Is it the morning sickness?” he asked softly, brushing a strand of hair from your damp forehead.

You nodded weakly, too tired to speak, and he wrapped an arm around your shoulders to guide you back to the bed.

“Come on, love. Let’s get you lying down,” he murmured.

Once you were settled under the covers, he tucked them around you with care and kissed your temple.

“Rest. I’ll go make your tea,” he said, standing up and casting one last glance at you before heading back to the kitchen, already thinking of which herbs would soothe your stomach best.

A few minutes later, Myungho returned from the kitchen, careful not to spill the tea as he walked with a gentle urgency in his steps. The comforting scent of chamomile and ginger drifted through the air. He set the cup down on the bedside table, then leaned in to help you sit up, one arm behind your back, the other steadying your legs.

“Slowly,” he murmured, guiding you into a comfortable position against the pillows. Once you were upright, he handed you the warm cup, wrapping your fingers around it with his own for a brief second, letting the warmth seep into your skin.

You took a small sip, the herbal blend easing the lingering queasiness in your stomach. Myungho sat at the edge of the bed, watching your expression soften as the warmth did its work.

“Thank you,” you whispered, glancing at him with a grateful smile.

He brushed your hair back behind your ear, his thumb grazing your cheek. “Always.”

Your eyes drifted toward the window, where the sun had begun to tilt westward. A small frown tugged at your lips. “Hua’s school will finish soon…”

Before the concern could fully settle in your voice, Myungho was already shaking his head. “I’ll pick her up,” he said quickly, standing up and grabbing his keys from the nightstand. He leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. “You rest, love. I’ve got it.”

You watched him for a moment, your chest blooming with affection. Even with his calm demeanor, you could see how much he cared—how every small gesture, every soft word, was filled with love.

“Tell her I missed her,” you murmured as you settled back into the pillows.

Myungho turned at the door, smiling. “She’ll tell you all about her day the moment she walks in, don’t worry.”

And just like that, he was gone—off to pick up your little star while you let your body rest, comforted by the taste of warm tea and the echo of his gentle presence.

You were deep in sleep, cocooned in warmth, when the sound of hurried footsteps echoed down the hallway—small, fast, and full of urgency. Before your mind could piece together what was happening, the bedroom door flew open.

“Eomma!”

Hua’s voice rang out, sharp with worry, and your eyes fluttered open just in time to see her burst into the room, her school bag bouncing behind her and her brows furrowed in concern.

“Hey, eomma is resting,” came Myungho’s gentle warning from behind her, but Hua was already halfway across the room.

With determined little legs, she climbed onto the bed, shoes still on, and reached for you with all the panic of a six-year-old who hadn’t seen her mother in a few hours.

You smiled sleepily, stretching your hand toward her. “Hi baby, you’re home.”

“I was worried because eomma didn’t come to pick me! And appa said you’re sick. Eomma sick?” Her voice trembled slightly, the corners of her mouth turning down as she looked at you with wide, teary eyes.

Before you could answer, Myungho appeared in the doorway, arms crossed and eyebrows raised. “No outside clothes on my bed, Hua.”

She turned to him with a dramatic pout. “But I’m worried for eomma,” she protested, clinging to you for emphasis.

Myungho chuckled, already walking over. “I know, baby, I know. Let’s go get changed first, okay?” He scooped her up effortlessly, her arms wrapping around his neck as he carried her out of the room toward hers, mumbling something about “quick change” and “five-minute rule for hugs.”

You shook your head fondly, chuckling softly to yourself as you pushed the covers back. The house now buzzed with life again. You padded out to the kitchen, determined to prepare a little snack for your girl, already knowing she’d come trailing behind soon.

By the time you opened the biscuit tin and laid out slices of cheese, Hua had already climbed onto the stool beside the counter, her feet swinging as she began her animated recap of the school day.

“And then, during art class,” she said, grabbing a biscuit, “my friend dropped her glue stick into the paint bucket! It turned all purple and sticky. Everyone laughed except Teacher Kim.”

You nodded, half-listening as you arranged the snack on a small plate. Myungho joined you, settling beside her and gently holding the stool steady with one hand. His other rested lightly on Hua’s back, an instinctive gesture to keep her safe as she leaned and shifted with the excitement of her storytelling.

She didn’t seem to notice—too immersed in her own tale.

“And…” she paused dramatically, eyes wide, “her tomato sauce exploded! Phew! I was relieved mine was fine.”

You laughed, covering your mouth. “That sounds like a close call.”

With a triumphant little huff, she wrapped her arms around her appa’s neck and giggled. “It went everywhere! On her bag, her skirt… even her hair!”

Myungho shook his head, smiling, as he lifted her from the stool and carried her to the couch. You followed, holding the plate of biscuits and cheese, and sat beside them just as Hua plopped herself right between the two of you, like she always did.

She leaned into you, biscuit in hand, crumbs already decorating her lap. “But now I’m home. And eomma is okay,” she whispered like it was a secret meant only for the three of you.

Myungho draped his arm behind the couch, fingers brushing your shoulder. “Eomma’s more than okay,” he said, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Especially with you around.”

You looked down at Hua, her cheeks full, eyes still shining with leftover worry and storytelling spark, and smiled.

As the warm afternoon light filtered through the curtains, you sat on the couch with Hua nestled between you and Myungho, her small hands sticky with biscuit crumbs and her face glowing with energy. You glanced at her, then at Myungho, and felt the subtle tension rise in your chest again—one you'd both been carrying quietly these past few weeks.

You leaned in slightly, mimicking her curious expression. “Do you remember what we talked about a few days ago?” you asked softly, tilting your head playfully.

She looked up from her snack, eyes narrowing as she tried to recall. “About what?”

“About when you were still in eomma’s belly,” you replied, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.

Recognition sparked in her eyes and she nodded enthusiastically. “You said I’m an angel, right?”

Before you could respond, Myungho chuckled beside her and pinched her cheek gently. “You are!” he said with a grin, voice warm and full of affection.

“You were an angel in my belly,” you added, voice tender, “and you are now too.”

Hua giggled, her tiny shoulders rising with the sound, clearly pleased with the idea. “Angel~” she echoed, like she was tasting the word.

You and Myungho exchanged a brief look over her head—fond, nervous, understanding. The conversation you'd had just the other night played quietly in both your minds.

“I don’t think she’ll immediately like the idea of having a sibling,” you had said while curled under the covers, hand resting on your belly, where the new life had just begun to take root.

Myungho reached over, fingers lacing with yours. “We’ll talk it out with her, slowly... little by little. She’ll understand.”

“She’s been so firm about it, though,” you murmured. “Every time your friends bring up siblings, she says, ‘No! I like being the only child!’ Like it’s her royal title.”

He had laughed softly, though his gaze remained thoughtful. “She’s just used to us being hers. All of us. She doesn’t know what it means to share that yet.”

You nodded. “It’s new for all of us.”

He gently kissed your knuckles. “We won’t rush her. And we won’t ruin this. It’s our first time again... just in a different way.”

Now, back on the couch, watching Hua lick cheese off her fingertips, the thought returned—how fragile this moment felt. How precious.

Maybe you didn’t need to tell her everything yet. Maybe it started with small seeds. Like stories. Like the memory of her in your belly. Like the soft word “angel.”

You reached over and smoothed her hair gently. “Do you think, maybe, angels can come more than once?” you asked her carefully.

Hua looked up at you, eyes wide with curiosity. “Like... more angels in your belly?”

You smiled. “Maybe. Wouldn’t that be beautiful?”

She was quiet for a moment, chewing over the idea—not rejecting it, not accepting it either. Just holding it.

“Like… a sister?” Hua asked, tilting her head, her voice laced with both wonder and suspicion.

Myungho leaned back, his hand gently rubbing her back. “Yes, like a sister,” he said softly, his tone careful, patient.

Almost immediately, her face shifted. Her brows dipped, lips puckered into a pout, and her eyes dropped to her lap. “But… I like being your only child…”

There it was—that truth she never hesitated to share whenever the topic came up. You felt a soft ache in your chest as you watched her struggle with the idea, her little fingers picking at the hem of her dress while her thoughts swirled in silence.

You reached out and cupped her cheek gently, coaxing her to look at you. “And you always will be. Our first. Our angel,” you said, your voice low, reassuring. “No one can ever take that place.”

“But… if I have to share…” she mumbled, looking back and forth between you and Myungho, “will you love me less?”

The question nearly unraveled you.

Myungho immediately shifted closer and wrapped his arms around her, holding her tightly against his chest. “Hey, no,” he said, almost firmly. “Never, Hua. Appa’s heart isn’t a slice of cake you have to divide. It grows. More love fits in it, not less.”

You leaned in too, resting your forehead against hers. “There’s no one like you. You made us a family, baby. Nothing will ever change that.”

She stayed quiet for a moment, nestled between the two of you, absorbing your warmth and words. Then, with a tiny sigh, she whispered, “But what if the baby cries a lot?”

Myungho laughed, relief slipping into his tone. “That’s what babies do. But that’s why we’ll need your help. You’ll be the big sister—strong, smart, and already the best part of this family.”

She pulled back a little, considering the title. “Big sister…”

You could almost see the thought blooming in her mind—equal parts curiosity and caution.

“I don’t know if I’ll like it yet,” she admitted quietly.

“And that’s okay,” you said, brushing your thumb over her cheek. “You can take your time.”

She nodded slowly, then leaned into you again. “Can I still sleep between you and appa sometimes?”

“Always,” Myungho and you answered in perfect unison.

That night, the soft glow of the nightlight cast a gentle warmth over Hua’s room as Myungho sat beside her, the children’s storybook still open in his hand. After two bedtime stories and a long yawn from her, she was beginning to drift, her lashes growing heavier with every breath.

Just as he began to rise, her small voice broke through the quiet.

“Appa,” she murmured, half-lidded eyes still fixed on the ceiling, “I don’t want a little sister or brother.”

Myungho paused and looked down at her, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “I know.”

“I don’t want to share you.”

A soft sigh escaped him. “You have a lot of worries, Hua,” he teased gently, smoothing the blanket over her chest. She huffed, turning her face slightly to the side in protest.

He sat back down, his fingers brushing through her silky hair as she curled beneath the covers.

“You know,” he began quietly, “it was just me and your mom before you were here.”

Her eyes fluttered open slightly, glancing up at him. He continued, his voice low and steady.

“We had a lot of love to share. A lot… And that’s why we had you. Because we wanted to give that love to someone—someone who would make us even happier.”

He looked into her eyes, waiting.

“Are you happy, Hua?”

She nodded slowly, her little face softening.

Myungho smiled and leaned down to kiss her temple. “That’s because you have a lot of love too. And when you give some of that love to your little sister or brother, you’ll feel even happier. Just like eomma and appa.”

There was a stretch of silence. The kind that feels like thought blooming in the dark.

Then she whispered, “I’ll think about it.”

A quiet smile rose on Myungho’s lips as she turned onto her side, finally saying, “Good night, appa.”

“Good night, my angel,” he said, standing and tucking the blanket around her one last time before tiptoeing out.

As he stepped into the hallway and gently closed her door, his eyes lifted—and found you in the TV room, folding freshly washed clothes on the couch. The soft flicker of the muted television danced across your face, but the way you looked at him said you’d been listening.

He walked over, sat beside you, and leaned his head on your shoulder with a long, quiet exhale. “She said she’ll think about it.”

You smiled softly, your fingers still folding a tiny pink shirt. “That’s more than I hoped for.”

He nodded. “She’ll come around… just like we are. One step at a time.”

And as you leaned into him, folding together not just clothes but the shifting shape of your family, the night around you felt full—not with noise, but with love unfolding slowly in the quiet.

*

“I have a condition.”

The words came out of nowhere, slicing through the calm of the morning as you, Myungho, and Hua sat around the breakfast table. You were just about to take a sip of your tea when you paused, eyes narrowing playfully at your daughter’s serious tone.

Myungho raised a brow, exchanging a glance with you across the table, trying to decipher what kind of dramatic clause a six-year-old could possibly have now.

“A condition for what?” he asked carefully.

Hua paused mid-chew, then placed her spoon down with the kind of gravity only a child trying to negotiate something big would have. “If I have to have a brother or sister…”

You and Myungho leaned in slightly, curiosity piqued.

“I want a treehouse.”

There it was. A solid, absolutely adorable demand—complete with a little pout and furrowed brow for emphasis.

You couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled out of you. Myungho chuckled too, shaking his head as he leaned on the table.

“That’s pretty fancy, Hua. We live in an apartment building,” you reminded gently, your voice warm.

“But I need a treehouse to play with them!” she insisted, eyes wide, as if it were the most logical arrangement in the world. “We can’t just play on the floor. It has to be a treehouse. A secret one.”

Your heart softened immediately—not just at her determination, but at the intention behind it. The way she said them, like she was already preparing to make space for someone else in her world.

Myungho, clearly moved by it too, looked at her with a proud smile. “A treehouse means we’d need to move to a house, right?”

Hua nodded frantically, her whole body bobbing with it.

You turned to him, eyes slightly wide. “That’d be too much,” you mumbled, your hand instinctively reaching for his under the table.

He took it, laced his fingers through yours, and gave you that signature reassuring look of his—though to you, it felt more like trouble is coming than actual comfort.

“Then we move,” he said simply.

Your eyes widened. “What?”

Hua gasped, bouncing in her seat. “Really?! I’ll have a sibling and a treehouse?!”

You turned to him again, mouthing, Really?

Myungho smiled, completely unbothered by the mild chaos he just ignited. “Yes.”

He leaned in and kissed your temple gently, still holding your hand, while Hua was already listing what she'd need in her future treehouse: “A window, and pillows, and snacks… and a telescope!”

You sighed, not sure if you were more overwhelmed by the idea of moving or the fact that your little girl just accepted the arrival of a sibling in exchange for a make-believe wooden tower.

But as you watched her chatter with newfound excitement—planning a space not just for herself, but for someone else—you couldn’t help but smile too.

Maybe her heart was already growing, just like yours had.

The End

[thedensworld]

Mom, i want him:(

Lost Star | l.jh

Pairing: Producer Woozi x ex-trainee reader

Genre: First Love, Reunion, Second Change

Type: Slow Burn, Angst, Fluff

Word Count: 14k

Summary: Jihoon had lost the star of his heart a long time ago. However, 11 years later, his lost star appears, and his heart never feels more conflicted.

Jihoon counted his steps from his new apartment unit to the convenience store with a slow, measured pace. The clock pointed to four in the afternoon, and all he needed was a single pack of ramen—something simple to soothe his mind. Soonyoung had visited the day before and deliberately left it off Jihoon's grocery list, citing health reasons with a smug grin.

"We're in our thirties now. Let’s eat healthier, Jihoon."

Did Jihoon care? Not really. He’d been going to the gym religiously for years. Ate vegetables and fruits after every meal like some disciplined monk. But sometimes—like today, when his brain felt sluggish and creativity hit a wall—he just wanted to boil a portion of ramen. Let the MSG fill his kitchen, fog up his windows, and trick his dopamine into working again. Sometimes, that salty warmth was all it took to unlock a melody worth recording on his phone.

So now he had to get it himself. Again.

Exposing himself to the daylight wasn’t the worst thing, he figured. One of the reasons he moved to this new neighborhood was because it was closer to the company building. Seungcheol had said the area was peaceful, and Jihoon agreed—at first.

That was before he saw you again.

Before the surreal gut punch of recognizing you behind the counter at the convenience store.

Before the awkward silence that stretched too long between two people who used to dream under the same roof.

He could walk to that store. The one where you worked. Pretend to be just another customer craving the nation’s favorite instant noodles. But his heart wouldn’t let him. Not after that accidental reunion. Not after your eyes widened just a little, then dropped just as quickly. Not after both of you pretended it didn’t happen.

For the past two days, Jihoon had been walking around with this subtle ache in his chest—a kind of guilt he couldn’t explain. Maybe it wasn’t his fault you disappeared, but somehow, the silence that followed still made him feel like an asshole.

Meeting you again was never on his to-do list for the year.

Not after eleven years.

Not after your sudden disappearance during the trainee days—when everything had felt like it was about to begin, and then you were just… gone.

But who would’ve expected you to work there too?

The further convenience store. The one Jihoon deliberately chose to walk to—solely to avoid seeing you again.

“Is it possible to work in two different convenience stores?"

He found himself asking that question to his manager, offhandedly, while they were on the way to a schedule a day after he saw you for the second time that week.

It haunted him.

Not in a horror-movie way, but in that quiet, persistent kind of way that made his chest heavy and his mind foggy. So much so, he’d forgotten how to make music.

He couldn’t even count the hours he’d spent staring blankly at his studio screen, letting beats loop endlessly without direction. Every time he sat down, memories of the trainee days swelled like echoes in the room. His keyboard—usually his safe place—suddenly looked like the old one from the practice room.

And just like that, he’d be back in time. Sitting beside you, both of your fingers grazing the keys, your heads low in shared concentration while chaos unfolded around you—Soonyoung falling over, Seungcheol screaming his puberty out, the usual mess.

“I think it’s possible,” his manager said. “With different shifts, I mean.”

“Why? You thinking of working at a convenience store now?” his manager joked, glancing over while keeping one hand on the wheel.

Jihoon let out a small chuckle.

He had too many zeros in his bank account for that kind of lifestyle—and far too little energy to immerse himself in a brand-new job culture. Honestly, just the idea of small talk with strangers all day made him tired.

“If you were talking to Dino, he might say yes to your suggestion, hyung,” Jihoon replied, resting his head back against the seat.

His manager laughed. “I know, right? But still, it’s the first time I’ve heard you bring up something so... not you. Lee Jihoon, behind a convenience store counter?”

Jihoon grinned, a little more amused than he expected. “Hey, I might be great at it. I was a hard worker during trainee days, remember? You forgot already?”

His manager—one of the oldest on the team, someone who’d seen Jihoon through his fiery teenage years and his stubborn perfectionist era—just let out a warm, knowing laugh.

“Trainee days must’ve been tough, huh?” he said after a beat. “You did well, Jihoon. Seriously. Good job.”

And for a moment, Jihoon didn’t say anything. The corner of his lips twitching up. Compliments always made him awkward—but coming from someone who saw the whole messy journey? It settled differently. Deeper.

“Hyung… do you remember a female trainee named Ji Y/n?”

His manager glanced at him, then nodded. “Of course. She was an ace. Everyone thought she’d debut for sure. But she just... disappeared. I always wondered what happened. Did the company drop her? Did you ever hear anything?”

Jihoon slowly shook his head, eyes shifting toward the road outside. A convenience store passed by in a blur, and for a second, his heart clenched.

“I don’t know,” he murmured. “Everyone asked around back then. It was just the four of us at first—me, Soonyoung, Coups hyung, and her.”

His voice softened at the memory, almost reverent.

Jihoon hadn’t realized it until recently, but somewhere along the way—after he debuted, after the whirlwind of success—he had stopped questioning your disappearance. The noise of the industry had drowned out the ache. He buried it under practice schedules, tour dates, and deadlines.

But the truth was...

Somewhere deep inside his heart, there was still a space carved out for the quiet longing.

A small, unspoken ache that whispered, Where did she go? Is she okay?

And now, after seeing you again—after all these years—he wondered if that ache had never really left.

Maybe you were the ghost that had always haunted him.

*

Back then, small Jihoon didn’t know what to do with himself during his early trainee days. Everything felt overwhelming—the routines, the expectations, the constant pressure to improve. But he was quietly relieved to find comfort in two people: an older boy named Seungcheol, and a same-age friend, Soonyoung. The three of them stuck together, quietly enduring every class, never once daring to complain out loud.

Then one day, a new face entered the frame.

The vocal instructor introduced her as a transfer trainee—someone with experience from a major entertainment company. They were told to learn from her. Study her discipline, her skill, her presence.

And that’s when you, Ji Y/n, walked into the green practice room with an assertive smile painted confidently on your face. Like you had no doubts. Like you already knew your path. Like the stage was already yours.

You glowed.

It wasn’t just your visuals—though Jihoon would admit, even then, you were an eye candy in the middle of their hard, exhausting days. But it was more than that. You had aura. The kind that lit up the room. The kind that made people look up when you passed by.

You shared generously with them—tips, stories, encouragement. You could sing. You could dance. You even rapped with surprising ease. Every evaluation, you impressed the supervisors without fail. And of course, everyone expected no less from someone who had come from a bigger company.

Jihoon remembered watching you from the back of the room, sweaty from practice, trying to hide the envy in his eyes behind admiration.

You were everything he wasn’t yet.

And everything he quietly wished to become.

Jihoon clearly remembered the day you casually mentioned that you were learning how to produce music. You said you’d picked it up from an older trainee at your previous company, brushing it off with a humble smile. “I’m not that good,” you claimed.

But to young Jihoon, Seungcheol, and Soonyoung, you might as well have been a genius. The three of them watched you with stars in their eyes, completely captivated. It was their first time witnessing someone actually create a song—piecing together melodies, layering harmonies, experimenting with beats—and it lit a spark in them. In Jihoon especially, something shifted.

“Did you learn it from G-Dragon of Bigbang?” Soonyoung had asked with innocent curiosity, eyes wide.

Everyone laughed, but Jihoon didn’t forget that moment.

Looking back, he realized—

That was the exact point when he started seeing you as a star.

Jihoon leaned back in his studio chair, eyes fixed on the ceiling as an old song played softly in the background. It was one he had produced years ago—rough around the edges, unfinished, but alive with memories.

He had sent nearly ten messages to Seungcheol earlier, pestering him about whether he still had the old folder filled with their trainee-day demos. And now, with the files finally playing through the speakers, Jihoon felt himself slipping into the past.

None of the tracks were perfect. Far from it. But each one carried a piece of who they were back then—ambitious, reckless, hopeful.

Seungcheol’s voice came in first, mid-puberty and full of effort. His rap stumbled a little, but the fire was there. Jihoon chuckled when he heard the word “Elevation” in one of the lines. How did teenage Seungcheol even know that word? Had he been reading dictionaries between dance classes?

Then came your voice.

Soft. Grounded. Not the kind of high-pitched perfection producers chased today, but something more—something real. There was honesty in your tone, a raw emotion that pulled him in even after all these years.

Jihoon closed his eyes.

Do you still sing like that?

*

Jihoon didn’t see you when he first stepped into the convenience store tonight. The last time he came, it was during the night shift—maybe this time, it wasn’t your turn. A small part of him felt relieved.

He walked through the automatic doors with the simple intention of grabbing another pack of ramen. A soft hum echoed faintly through the aisle, and as he turned the corner, he found the source.

There you were—crouched down, restocking shelves.

You flinched at the sudden awareness of his presence, nearly losing your balance.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you coming,” you said quickly, bowing your head politely before walking away with a full restock basket in hand.

Jihoon parted his lips, wanting to say something—to stop you—but the moment passed too quickly. You were already gone.

He turned his eyes toward the rows of ramen, but his mind had long wandered. The image of you behind the convenience store counter was a stark contrast to the version of you etched into his memories.

You—once the ace trainee, confident and radiant, someone the instructors praised, someone the rest of them watched in awe—now stood beneath flickering fluorescent lights, wearing a clerk’s uniform and scanning barcodes. It was jarring. And it hurt in ways Jihoon couldn’t name.

“What is this?” Soonyoung pointed at the suspiciously large stack of ramen stuffed into one of Jihoon’s kitchen cabinets while he rummaged around for coffee.

With arms crossed and a judgmental stare, he turned toward the living room where Jihoon was sprawled on the couch, eyes glued to his phone as he mindlessly scrolled through the webcomic he’d been hooked on lately.

“What?” Jihoon lifted his head lazily, following Soonyoung’s gaze toward the open cabinet.

“There’s like… fifteen packs of ramen in here. Do you even eat these?” Soonyoung asked, brows furrowed in disbelief.

Jihoon nodded, eyes flicking back to his phone. “I do. Sometimes,” he replied nonchalantly, as if it were the most reasonable thing in the world.

Soonyoung tilted his head with a mix of annoyance and concern. “Didn’t I tell you to stop eating junk? What happened to eating healthy?”

Jihoon let out a soft chuckle, amused. “You sound like a wife.”

Soonyoung scoffed dramatically as he finally located the coffee powder and slammed the cabinet shut. “I’d make a great wife, thank you very much.”

He shot Jihoon a look as if daring him to disagree, but Jihoon just smirked, raising an eyebrow like he agreed—at least a little.

Soonyoung didn’t say anything after that. The kitchen fell into a soft quiet, broken only by the clinking of a spoon stirring coffee. Jihoon stayed on the couch, but his thoughts wandered.

He thought about his new, strange habit—buying a pack of ramen almost every night. Always just one. Never to eat. He let them pile up in the cabinet like forgotten mementos. He never said why. Because he knew the reason. And saying it out loud would make it too real.

“By the way…” Soonyoung broke the silence as he walked over to the couch, settling beside Jihoon with a glass of iced coffee in hand.

“The convenience store a block from here—”

Jihoon’s body tensed. His eyes shot up, and he sat up straighter, alarmed. “Why?” he asked, a little too quickly.

Soonyoung blinked, startled by the sudden reaction. “What’s with you?” he asked, puzzled.

Jihoon quickly shook his head, brushing it off. “Nothing. Just—keep going. What about the store?”

“I was just gonna say…” Soonyoung sipped his coffee, still eyeing Jihoon. “They started selling Kkokkalcorn and Matdongsan again—the ones we used to destroy during trainee days.”

Jihoon let out a soft sigh. The tension left his shoulders as quickly as it had appeared. He leaned back against the couch cushions again, suddenly feeling silly. For a second, he thought Soonyoung had seen you.

“Oh,” he mumbled. “Cool.”

But the tightness in his chest didn’t fully fade. Because while Soonyoung was thinking about snacks, Jihoon was still thinking about you.

*

Jihoon raised his brows in confusion, standing still in front of the cashier counter. You had just slid a small bottle of vitamin drink across to him after he’d paid for what must’ve been his twentieth pack of ramen this month.

“You should start taking care of your health,” you murmured, not quite meeting his eyes.

He blinked. Did you really think he was eating all those ramens? Of course you did. Anyone would.

He took a quiet breath, a little too sharp, and grabbed the vitamin drink. “Thanks,” he mumbled, voice slightly rough as if it had caught on something in his chest.

With that, he turned and walked toward the door. His steps felt heavier than they should, dragging under the fluorescent lights and quiet pop music in the background. The clock behind the register read 2:04 a.m.—his work could wait. That wasn’t why he came tonight anyway.

He stopped just before pushing the door open, something tugging at him.

“You still sing?” he asked, without turning around at first.

When he finally looked back, his eyes met yours.

The question lingered in the air between you—simple, but heavy. Like it had taken him years to ask, and now that he had, everything might shift.

You looked taken aback by his question. “Me?”

Jihoon nodded slowly. “Yeah… do you still sing, Ji Y/n?”

Silence settled between you. Not awkward—just heavy, like the universe paused for a moment to let Jihoon hear himself say it. After nearly a month of seeing you again—glimpses, passing words, late-night convenience store visits—he had finally asked the question that had haunted him more times than he could count.

But you tilted your head slightly, your voice light, accompanied by a soft, teasing smile. “No ‘how are you?’ first?”

Jihoon huffed out a breath, half-laughing at himself, shaking off the embarrassment. Of course, that’s what you’d say. You were always that girl—calm, confident, casually radiant in your own way. You knew how to disarm people without even trying.

Taking a few steps closer, he gave in. “Okay, fine. How are you?”

This time, your smile softened into something real. “I’m great… How about you, Woozi?”

Jihoon’s heart clenched at the nickname. Not in a way that hurt—but in a way that burst something open inside him. Warm. Familiar. Breath-stealing.

Woozi. You were the one who gave him that name.

There was a phase when you grew close to some of the senior artists in the company. They adored Jihoon, calling him in a playful, affectionate tone that never failed to make you laugh during practice.

“Our Jihoon… Our Jihoon…”

“Our Jihoon got the step wrong?”

You’d mimic them with a teasing grin, and the other trainees would burst into laughter. Jihoon, on the other hand, could only lower his head, trying to hide the pink dusting his cheeks. No one needed to know just how much that nickname affected him.

“Uji?” Soonyoung, who had just proudly settled on his stage name ‘Hoshi,’ chirped excitedly, offering the shortened form of Uri Jihoon—Our Jihoon.

Jihoon groaned in frustration, clearly unimpressed. “Please, no.”

The room echoed with laughter, everyone amused by the suggestion—everyone except Jihoon.

But then your voice cut through the noise, calm and certain. “Woozi… sounds more sophisticated, right?”

Jihoon turned his head, catching the gleam in your eyes. You were seated cross-legged on the studio floor, marker cap between your fingers, looking at him like he was something more than just another trainee. Like you saw something already formed within him.

Without waiting for approval, you stood up, walked to the whiteboard, and uncapped the marker. With neat, confident strokes, you wrote the name.

Woozi.

Jihoon took a deep breath, his gaze dropping to the slippers on his feet before slowly lifting back to where you stood behind the counter.

"I'm..." he started, arms falling open at his sides as if gesturing to his entire self—his tired eyes, messy hair, and the bag of ramen crinkling in his hand.

You let out a soft laugh at his little gesture.

"I'm still the same," he said with a shrug and a small, helpless smile.

He saw you glance down, a chuckle slipping from your lips as you bit back a smile, covering it with your hand. "That’s great," you said, voice warm, eyes flickering up to meet his.

Then you tilted your head, teasing lightly, "So... does ramen help with your music now or something?"

Jihoon exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head. "It’s not the ramen," he murmured, and something in his tone hinted that there was more to the story.

A gentle silence settled between the two of you, stretching just long enough for both your hearts to beat twice. Then Jihoon spoke again, voice quieter this time.

"I'm glad you're okay."

You nodded slowly, a small but genuine smile tugging at your lips. "Me too."

The soft chime of the door interrupted the moment as a new customer entered. You turned immediately to greet them, your professional smile slipping into place as you lifted your restocking basket again and headed toward the drink section.

Jihoon lingered for a second longer, watching your back before finally stepping out into the night—with a heart that, for the first time in a long while, felt a little lighter.

*

How could someone be this chronically offline?

Okay, Jihoon was, too—kind of. But not like this. He had social media, even if he barely posted, and his company profile existed with at least a few photos and a bio. But you? You were a complete digital ghost.

No record. No trace. No tagged photos, no mutuals, nothing.

Were you using a different name now? A secret username?

He rubbed his temples in frustration, eyes scanning the last of the open tabs before giving up.

Jihoon sighed heavily and dropped his head beside the keyboard, forehead grazing the cool surface of his desk.

He'd started to question if you were even real—or some elaborate figment from his overworked, nostalgic brain.

"Is she a ghost?" he muttered, his voice half annoyed, half amused, as he sat back up and began closing one social media tab after another.

Click. Click. Click.

With five tabs gone and zero results to show for it, Jihoon finally leaned back in his chair and returned to his work—though your absence lingered louder than any background noise.

The next day, Jihoon invited Hansol to his studio, letting him be the first to hear the song he had worked on the night before.

“It’s not perfect—it’s still raw,” Jihoon said, his voice quiet but edged with anticipation as he clicked the play button.

The room filled with the soft rise of synths, layered with ambient textures that pulsed gently through the speakers. Hansol raised his brows in surprise, the corners of his mouth twitching into an impressed smile. He began nodding along, fingers tapping rhythmically on the armrest of the chair.

“This is... very different from your usual stuff,” Hansol said, glancing over with interest.

Jihoon nodded slowly, already aware. He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, eyes focused on the screen even though he wasn’t really looking at anything.

“Yeah,” he murmured, “I know.”

Hansol chuckled once the song faded out. “Last month you said you lost your sense. What’s this then?” he asked, amusement flickering in his tone.

Jihoon let out a laugh, leaning back in his chair. “Maybe moving out sparked something. Change of scenery might’ve rebooted my creativity.”

Hansol pointed a finger at him knowingly. “Exactly! So, how’s the new house?”

“It’s great. Bigger space, definitely more comfortable for me. The cats are still going crazy trying to adapt, though.” Jihoon smiled faintly, eyes softening at the thought. “But I feel at ease. Finally.”

Hansol nodded, genuinely listening. “I figured as much. I was worried about you, hyung. Even Coups-hyung mentioned you asked the staff for old pre-debut folders. I thought, ‘Oh no, Jihoon’s really at his breaking point.’”

Jihoon chuckled, clearly entertained by Hansol’s concern. “Nah, not yet. I’m grateful it hasn’t hit the limit.”

“Good,” Hansol said, leaning back in relief. “Because if you go down, we all go down.”

Jihoon smirked. “Then I better stay afloat, huh?”

A heavy silence settled between them, stretching long enough to feel intentional. Jihoon tapped his fingers lightly against his knee before finally speaking, his voice low.

“Do you remember that one female trainee who just disappeared one day?”

Hansol’s expression shifted instantly. “Of course,” he said without hesitation. “She was in the debut line. Y/n, right?”

Jihoon nodded slowly, eyes drifting toward the studio wall. “Yeah… I ran into her recently.”

Hansol straightened a little. “Seriously? Where?”

“At a convenience store,” Jihoon replied, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “She works there now.”

Hansol looked genuinely surprised, his brows lifted. “Wow. That’s... unexpected.”

Jihoon didn’t answer right away. His gaze dropped to the floor, lips pressed together. “She looks the same,” he said softly. “But there’s something different too. I don’t know... It messed with my head a bit.”

Hansol tilted his head. “You talked to her?”

“A little. Nothing deep.” Jihoon rubbed the back of his neck. “But just seeing her again... it brought back more than I thought it would.”

Hansol leaned back in the chair, a nostalgic smile spreading across his face. “She was pretty much a celebrity back then.”

Jihoon gave a small scoff, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Yeah… everyone knew her name. Even the vocal trainers talked about how fast she picked things up.”

“She had that vibe, you know? Confident. Chill. Like she didn’t need to try too hard,” Hansol added, his voice tinged with fondness.

Jihoon hummed in agreement, eyes lost in some far-off thought. “Yeah... she always felt like she was meant for something big.”

Hansol glanced at him. “So what happened? Did she say why she left?”

Jihoon hesitated, then shook his head. “No. I didn’t ask.” A beat passed. “And I don’t think she’d tell me, even if I did.”

Hansol didn’t push further. Jihoon’s voice had softened into something almost unreadable.

There were things Jihoon wasn’t saying. And maybe he wasn’t ready to.

Not yet.

*

Jihoon sat at the small table in front of the convenience store, phone in hand, aimlessly scrolling as he waited for your shift to end. Earlier, he had walked into the store with all the courage he'd gathered since stepping out of his apartment. He needed you to hear the song. The thought had been haunting him for days, and tonight, he was being braver than he’d ever been.

“When does your shift end?” Jihoon asked, setting a bottle of Zero Coke on the counter.

“In twenty,” you replied, a little caught off guard by his sudden visit.

Jihoon simply nodded, paid with his phone, and grabbed the drink. “Okay. I’ll wait for you,” he said casually before turning on his heel and walking out, not giving you time to respond. He didn’t dare look back. He was too nervous to care how confused you looked.

Now, he watched from the table as you reappeared, changed out of your uniform and ready to go. You walked over holding another vitamin drink, setting it in front of him as you sat across the table.

Jihoon chuckled at the sight. “I don’t have those unhealthy habits anymore, Y/n.”

“So you eat your vegetables now?” you teased.

Jihoon laughed, the sound light and genuine. “I’m not that hopeless.”

You leaned back slightly, eyeing him curiously. “So what is this, Jihoon? What do you want from me?”

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he pulled out his earphones and plugged them into his phone. “You know I don’t do small talk,” he muttered, handing you one of the earbuds. “I want you to hear something. It’s rough, the lyrics are still nonsense, but… I want your opinion.”

You raised an eyebrow. “My opinion? You’re the one making a living writing songs, Jihoon.”

He scoffed, shaking his head. “Just listen first.”

“This isn’t your style,” you said once the song ended. Your voice was calm, almost casual, but there was a trace of something else—familiarity. Like you knew his sound, like you’d been paying attention all along. And something inside Jihoon stirred with quiet hope.

He nodded slowly. “It’s not. It’s yours.”

You let out a soft chuckle, shaking your head. “I don’t have a style, Jihoon.”

Without saying anything, Jihoon opened his phone and pulled up a SoundCloud profile. He turned the screen toward you. “This is you, right?”

There it was—your old stage name as the username, your song watermark sitting in the bio like a timestamp from a past life.

Your eyes widened. “You looked for that?” you asked, half laughing in disbelief. “You’re crazy.”

Jihoon shrugged, a small smirk playing on his lips. “Maybe. But it was the only place I could still hear your voice.”

You stared at the screen for a second longer before looking up at him. “So… what’s your intention with all this, Jihoon?”

He didn’t answer right away. His eyes dropped to the bottle of zero coke in his hand, thumb running absentmindedly along the rim. Then he looked at you, fully, like he was trying to read something in your face before saying it.

“I want you to sing it,” he said quietly. “For the demo.”

You blinked. “What?”

Jihoon took a deep breath. “I wrote it with your voice in my head. I don’t know why, but I kept hearing you. Not just any vocal—it had to be you.”

You looked away, biting the inside of your cheek. “Jihoon… it’s been years.”

“I know.”

“I haven’t even sung properly in—”

“I know,” he interrupted gently. “I just… I couldn’t let this one go. I need your voice to bring it to life. Even if it's just a demo.”

His voice was calm, but you could tell it was costing him everything to stay that way.

You looked at him again, brows slightly furrowed. “And after that?”

Jihoon hesitated. “I haven’t thought that far ahead.”

A quiet laugh escaped you, more out of nerves than amusement. “That’s very unlike you.”

“I know,” he repeated, softer this time. “But this… this just felt right.”

You looked at him for a long moment, the weight of shared history hanging between you.

Then your gaze dropped to your hands, fingers brushing against the condensation on your drink bottle. “I don’t know if I can, Jihoon.”

He tilted his head, watching you quietly. “Why not?”

You took a breath, but the words felt heavier than you expected. “Because music… it used to mean something different to me. It was everything, and then it wasn’t. And now, I don’t know what it is. I don’t know what I am with it.”

Jihoon didn’t interrupt. He waited, the silence around you stretching like a safety net rather than pressure.

You forced a laugh, more bitter than you intended. “You said you heard my voice, but I haven’t even let myself sing in years. I don’t know if I even like how I sound anymore. What if I’ve forgotten how to feel it?”

Jihoon leaned back, resting his arms on the table. “Then let’s just try. Not as a job. Not for the industry. Just you and me, like we used to.” His eyes softened. “You don’t have to be who you were. You just have to be honest.”

You let out a shaky breath, your fingers now picking at the edge of the label on your drink. “It’s complicated. You don’t understand, Jihoon.”

*

You stared at the old blue mp3 player Jihoon had left for you. Not a file sent through a messaging app, not an email attachment—just this little, scratched device loaded with his new demo. A relic of the past, almost stubborn in its simplicity. Holding it felt like touching a memory, one that pulled you back to a time when everything was filled with laughter and reckless dreams. No tears of regret, just passion.

With a quiet sigh, you set the mp3 player on the chipped table in your cramped studio apartment and shuffled toward the tiny kitchenette. The kettle’s hum filled the silence as you reached for another cup of instant noodles. You had lost count of how many you’d eaten this week. But counting anything had become pointless long ago—especially the years since your parents died.

You were eighteen. It was just another exhausting training day when the manager called you out of the practice room, his expression uncharacteristically somber. He told you, in a voice that tried to sound steady, that your parents had been in a car accident. Out of town. Fatal.

Shock was too small a word. You didn’t know what to feel, didn’t know how to react. You hadn’t been close with them—not in the way families in dramas were. No warm hugs, no heartfelt talks. Just the distant, dutiful exchanges of a family that functioned but never flourished.

Your uncle and aunt arrived in Seoul a day later, somber and silent. They promised to take you home to South Jeolla—promised you would return soon, that you could continue chasing your dream. But those promises were lies, whispered only to keep you from protesting.

Seoul faded into the rearview mirror, and so did your dream. What was once a life bursting with dance practices, vocal lessons, and late-night laughter with your trainee friends turned into the quiet humdrum of rural life. The city lights you once knew blurred into distant memories, and the path you’d so fiercely pursued buried itself with your parents.

You sought help from the company, but by then, everyone already knew. Knew your parents were gone, knew your uncle had taken over their business, and knew he’d cut off the funds your father used to send every month. Sympathy turned into avoidance. Promises of support dissolved into awkward silences. No one listened. No one reached out.

And so you were alone—alone with a dream that withered before it could bloom.

You didn’t finish school. Never went to college. No work experience worth mentioning. Your uncle’s family kept the business for themselves, never offering you a share, never once asking what you planned to do with your life.

"Life is so full," you muttered as you settled back at the table, snapping your chopsticks apart before stirring the steaming noodles. The warmth touched your lips, a poor but familiar comfort—the only warmth you’d felt in a long time.

"Full of shit." Your gaze drifted back to the mp3 player.

There was no way Jihoon was serious about wanting to hear you sing again. Not after everything. Not when you’d buried that part of yourself so deeply, you almost forgot it was ever real.

*

You went to Seoul without anyone knowing a year after Seventeen debuted. Covered from head to toe, you slipped into a crowded broadcasting show, watching them perform with the same intensity as always—driven, passionate, like nothing had changed. But for you, everything had.

As if fate couldn’t resist irony, you bumped into an old manager. His eyes widened, recognition breaking through his initial shock.

"Y/n?" he whispered, his voice tight, as though saying your name might summon a ghost.

You stood still, hands shoved deep in your pockets, your expression unreadable. "I heard the girls are debuting," you said simply, ignoring his question.

He glanced around nervously before grabbing your arm, pulling you aside. "You shouldn’t be here. The vice president is here."

"Can I talk to him?"

"What are you thinking? You can’t just disappear and then show up expecting to talk to him."

"Disappear? I didn’t disappear. Everyone knows what happened to me. They knew, and no one looked for me."

You found yourself humming to the demo Jihoon handed you. Your hand paused mid-motion, a soda can hovering just above the fridge shelf. You had listened to it, finally—maybe not much, or so you told yourself. But you listened until you fell asleep. And now, without even realizing it, you’d been humming it all day. The melody lingered, familiar and strange, wrapped in the warmth of guitar riffs and a band sound Jihoon rarely touched before.

Later, you caught yourself typing sentences into your phone’s notes. Drafting lyrics, deleting one word only to replace it with another, trying to fit them against a melody that seemed to cling to your thoughts. You were even considering a theme—the song didn’t even have one yet. What were you doing?

Jihoon stepped into the convenience store, the familiar chime signaling his entrance. He glanced toward the counter, but you weren’t there. Instead, faintly, from the back room, he heard it—a soft, almost tentative melody.

His brows knit together as he moved closer, ears straining to catch the sound. It was his song. And it wasn’t just playing—it was being sung.

He paused by the door to the storage room, not daring to move any closer. Your voice, clear and a little rough around the edges, wove through the notes with an effortless familiarity. You were humming the melody, occasionally mumbling words that you hadn’t quite settled on yet, but the sound was unmistakably yours.

Jihoon didn’t breathe for a moment, his chest tight. You didn’t even notice him, too caught up in the rhythm, stocking shelves while lost in the music.

A smile broke out on his face, small but undeniable. He hadn’t heard you sing in years, not since back when everything was simpler, when music didn’t feel like a burden.

Suddenly, you spun around, a soda can still in your hand, and froze. Your eyes widened, caught mid-hum, and Jihoon had to bite back a laugh at how startled you looked.

“Oh,” you managed, your voice betraying both surprise and a hint of embarrassment. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

Jihoon leaned against the doorframe, his smile soft but genuine. “I didn’t mean to interrupt,” he said, his tone low and careful. “You sounded... really good.”

You looked down, feeling heat rise to your cheeks. “It’s just—just stuck in my head,” you muttered, trying to sound nonchalant as you resumed stacking the cans.

Jihoon hesitated, unsure if he should push or let it go. But the chance felt too precious to pass up. “That’s a good sign, right?” he asked, stepping further into the room. “Means it’s catchy.”

You shrugged, still not meeting his gaze. “Maybe.”

Jihoon shifted his weight, trying to keep his voice casual. “Were you… coming up with lyrics earlier?”

You froze for a fraction of a second, fingers hovering over the last soda can. “Maybe.”

“Do I get to hear them?” he asked, his tone light but his eyes a little too hopeful.

You straightened, closing the fridge door with a soft thud. “No.”

He blinked, surprised by your bluntness, but there was no sting—just a quiet laugh. “Why not?”

“Because they’re not ready. They’re just… thoughts,” you muttered, crossing your arms, feeling defensive even though he hadn’t done anything. “They might not even make sense.”

Jihoon nodded slowly, stepping back slightly to give you space. “Okay. No pressure.”

But that only made you feel worse. You leaned against the wall, letting out a heavy sigh. “It’s just… I don’t even know what I’m doing, Jihoon.”

“Writing lyrics, apparently,” he teased, but his voice was gentle.

You glanced at him, and the earnest look on his face melted away some of your frustration. “The theme… it’s about being there for someone. Like… promising to be there, even when they think they’re alone.”

Jihoon’s smile faded, replaced by a quiet understanding. He stepped closer, close enough that you could feel the warmth of his presence. “That’s… powerful,” he murmured. “It’s honest.”

You bit your lip, hesitating again. “I don’t know if it’s any good.”

“I want to hear it,” he said, voice unwavering. “Even if it’s just a draft.”

You stared at him, searching for any sign of pity or insincerity. But Jihoon was just there, waiting—patient, unwavering.

Finally, with a sigh, you pulled out your phone, scrolling to the notes app. “Fine, but if you laugh—”

“I won’t,” he promised.

You stepped closer, handing him the phone. Jihoon’s eyes scanned the words, his expression shifting subtly as he read. His fingers lightly brushed the edge of your phone, his lips moving soundlessly along with the lyrics.

Seconds stretched into a minute. Then another.

When he finally looked up, his eyes were a little brighter, his voice softer. “Y/n… this is beautiful.”

You swallowed, feeling your chest tighten. “You really think so?”

“I know so,” Jihoon whispered. “It’s… it’s everything I wanted the song to say but didn’t know how.”

You looked away, a shy smile tugging at your lips. “Well… now you do.”

He chuckled, the sound light and almost relieved. “Now I do.”

And for a moment, standing there in the quiet hum of the storage room, it felt like you were back in a place where music was more than just sound—where it was a language, something only you and Jihoon could speak.

*

You sat on the leather couch in a studio, fingers twisted together, watching Jihoon work in his element. He hadn’t said much since you both arrived—just a few clicks of his mouse, a quiet hum under his breath, and the soft glow of the monitor lighting his focused face.

Your gaze wandered, from the cables snaking across the floor to the soft, ambient lights lining the room. You tried to keep your breathing steady, but you could feel the nerves crawling up your spine, your thumb unconsciously tracing the edge of your phone.

Jihoon hadn’t turned around, but you knew he sensed it. Maybe it was the way you shifted on the couch, or how your voice had gone quieter since you both stepped inside.

He paused, fingers hovering over the keyboard. “Do you want some water?” he asked, not even turning, voice calm but carrying a gentleness that tugged at you.

You almost laughed. “Am I that obvious?”

A small smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “A little.”

Silence settled again, but it was softer this time. He adjusted the volume of a track, listened, then leaned back in his chair.

“Y/n,” he said suddenly, and you straightened slightly. “Just sit there. You don’t have to do anything else.”

“I know,” you whispered, but the words felt thin against the weight in your chest.

He leaned his head back, finally meeting your eyes. “I brought you here because I want you to feel it again. Not because I expect you to perform.”

You swallowed, nodding, but you didn’t trust your voice.

“Besides,” he added with a gentle laugh, “I need you here. You have better taste in lyrics than me, remember?”

The tension in your shoulders eased, just a little. “You used to hate it when I nitpicked your lines.”

“Maybe I did. Or maybe I just hated that you were right most of the time.”

You smiled, leaning back into the couch, your fingers finally relaxing.

Jihoon turned back to his screen, but not before you caught the faintest look of relief in his expression. He wasn’t just working—he was making space for you, creating an atmosphere that felt safe, unhurried.

“Wanna try it?” Jihoon asked, casually, but his gaze was attentive.

Your heart skipped. “Sing it?”

He nodded, not pushing but not letting you hide either. “Just try. No pressure.”

You leaned back, taking a deep breath. “Okay… just… play the track.”

Jihoon adjusted a few settings, and soon the familiar sound of the demo filled the room. The gentle guitar strums, the soft beat—familiar yet new, warm and inviting.

You inhaled sharply, your fingers curling around the edge of the couch. And then, with a voice that felt shaky at first but gradually steadied, you began.

“Come stop your crying, it will be alright…

Just take my hand, hold it tight…”

Your voice wavered, but you pushed on. Jihoon’s eyes remained on the screen, but you could see the subtle way his head nodded, following your rhythm.

“I will protect you from all around you…

I will be here, don’t you cry…”

Jihoon made a few adjustments, lowering the instrumentals slightly, letting your voice shine just a bit more.

“For one so small, you seem so strong…

My arms will hold you, keep you safe and warm…”

The nerves twisted inside you, but the words carried you. They weren’t just lyrics—they felt like a promise, a warmth you had missed, a memory that still lingered.

Jihoon’s hand reached out, his index finger tapping a small rhythm on the desk, a silent gesture of encouragement.

“This bond between us can’t be broken…

I will be here, don’t you cry…”

As you reached the final line, your voice softened, but it didn’t shake. It flowed.

“You’ll be in my heart…

Yes, you’ll be in my heart…

From this day on, now and forevermore…”

Silence followed, the track fading into nothingness. You barely realized you were gripping the edge of the couch until you felt the tension in your fingers.

Jihoon turned, a soft, almost amazed smile spreading across his face. “You’re still incredible.”

You looked away, feeling your cheeks warm. “It’s… it’s just a draft.”

“A beautiful one,” he corrected. “And your voice… it’s still there, Y/n. Stronger than you think.”

You bit your lip, a small laugh escaping. “I was terrified.”

“And yet, you sang like that.” He leaned back in his chair, his smile growing. “You wanna try another take? Just to warm up more?”

You met his eyes, a quiet spark of excitement finally breaking through your nerves. “Yeah… I’d like that.”

Jihoon leaned back in his chair, the soft glow of the studio lights casting a warm hue over his face. He was quiet for a moment, his fingers tapping lightly against the armrest, eyes still on you. You expected another round of feedback, another subtle correction. But instead, he smiled—a slow, thoughtful smile.

“I think we should release it.”

You blinked. “Release? Like… as in, actually put it out there?”

“Yeah,” he nodded, leaning forward, his hands resting on his knees. “We could release it as an indie song. No heavy promotion, just… something real. Something raw.”

“Jihoon, I haven’t sung in years,” you whispered, your fingers instinctively curling into your sleeves. “I mean… this was just—”

“Beautiful,” he interrupted, his voice gentle but firm. “This was beautiful. Your voice, the lyrics… it’s all there.”

Your lips parted, a hundred protests dancing on the tip of your tongue. The fear, the anxiety, the echo of all those years wasted, the bitterness of dreams abandoned—they all screamed at you. But beneath them was something else, something softer and far more dangerous.

Hope.

“What if…” you hesitated, your gaze falling to the polished floor, “what if no one listens?”

“Then it’s just a song we made,” Jihoon said easily, his voice calming. “But if someone does… if it reaches even one person, then it’s worth it.”

Your gaze met his, and you saw nothing but sincerity in his eyes. No judgment, no pity—just that quiet, unwavering faith Jihoon always seemed to carry.

“But… it’s just a draft. It’s not perfect.”

“Then we’ll perfect it. We’ll record a proper take, polish the instrumentals, mix it right.” His voice grew animated, that spark of creative energy you knew so well lighting up his expression. “It can just be under a simple artist name—no big reveal, no pressure.”

You bit your lip, a nervous laugh escaping. “I don’t even know what name I’d use.”

“Then we can come up with one.” Jihoon’s grin widened, his excitement infectious. “Or we can just go with something simple. Y/n. Nothing to hide.”

Something in your chest tightened at that—your name, out there again, but this time without the weight of forced expectations or shattered dreams. Just you.

“You’re serious,” you whispered, a hint of awe slipping into your tone.

“I am.” He leaned forward again, his voice softer now. “You deserve to be heard, Y/n. Even if it’s just this one song. Even if it’s just this one moment.”

Your throat tightened, and you looked away, blinking quickly. You didn’t want to cry—not now, not in front of him. But you couldn’t stop the smile that spread slowly across your face.

“Then… let’s do it,” you whispered, barely trusting your own voice.

Jihoon’s smile softened, relief and pride mingling in his expression. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You let out a shaky laugh. “Let’s do it.”

*

The song was out—and it was a hit. More than just a quiet indie release, it spread like wildfire, carried by word of mouth and algorithmic whispers. People were captivated by the raw emotion in your voice, the honest lyrics, and the gentle but powerful production. It didn’t take long for listeners to notice the signature touch in the arrangement. Soon, word got out: Woozi of Seventeen had produced it.

Suddenly, you were no longer just a voice behind an anonymous track. Labels started reaching out, messages flooding your inbox with offers and promises. It was overwhelming, surreal.

Jihoon was there, calm and steady as always, sifting through the chaos with you. He recommended a label—one he trusted, one that would nurture your talent without forcing you into a mold. And you listened, handing in your resignation at the convenience store without a second thought.

Your world changed. You went from late-night shifts stocking soda cans to late-night sessions in recording studios. The label signed you, and they were careful, letting you be yourself, preserving the authenticity that made your first song a success.

And now, here you were, standing under the stage lights of a bustling university festival. A gentle breeze rustled your hair, the warm glow of the sunset casting an amber hue over the crowd. You sat with a guitar in your lap, the mic waiting. Nervous? Absolutely. But the moment your fingers found the strings, a familiar calm washed over you.

You played Jihoon’s song—no, your song. Your voice carried over the crowd, clear and heartfelt. People swayed, some holding up their phones, and you lost yourself in the music.

In the audience, Jihoon stood beside Hansol, his cap pulled low but not low enough to hide the proud smile tugging at his lips. His gaze never left you, watching every strum, every note you sang.

Hansol leaned over, his hands in his pockets, his voice a mix of honesty and admiration. “I thought you were going to give this song to Dokyeom hyung.”

“I was about to, for his solo.” Jihoon’s eyes softened, a quiet sense of satisfaction settling in. “But this song found its owner first.”

Hansol chuckled, his gaze shifting back to you. “I guess it did.”

Jihoon didn’t reply, but his heart swelled with pride, watching you command the stage with a quiet, soulful power he always knew you had. And he couldn’t help but feel like this was just the beginning—your beginning.

*

“I don’t know if you’re the type who likes staring at the stars.” Your voice teased Jihoon, a soft laugh lacing your words as both of you lay side by side on the rooftop of his place, the summer night sky stretching endlessly above. A gentle breeze rustled, carrying the scent of warm grass and distant city lights.

Jihoon had picked you up from a performance at a local music festival, a quiet but thoughtful way of celebrating the first anniversary of your debut. The night air felt cooler up here, the world below seeming a distant hum.

“I always enjoy nature,” Jihoon muttered, a hint of mock annoyance in his voice. “Wonwoo’s not the only one who’s romantic in our group.” But his expression betrayed him, a playful grin spreading as he turned to see you laughing.

“You sure? Because he sets the bar pretty high.”

Jihoon’s grin softened, his gaze wandering back to the stars. For a moment, a comfortable silence wrapped around you, the kind that didn’t demand to be filled.

“How do you feel?” he asked, his voice a touch quieter.

“About what?”

“Everything.”

“Surreal.” You breathed out, the word slipping past your lips like a confession. Your fingers traced idle patterns on the cool rooftop surface, searching for words that didn’t feel cliché. “I don’t know, honestly. Everything was hard—very hard. I was just... surviving. Then suddenly, I woke up one day, and I was on stage, singing. Living my dream.”

Jihoon listened, his gaze steady, his silence an invitation for you to continue.

“But sometimes, it still feels like a dream I might wake up from. Like I’m just waiting for someone to tap my shoulder and tell me it’s over.”

“Then why did you stop?” Jihoon’s question was gentle, but it hit deeper than you expected.

You hesitated, watching a faint cloud drift across the stars. “Because it felt like the world I knew crumbled overnight. Everything I thought I’d always have just… disappeared. I thought my dream went with it.”

Silence settled between you two, the gentle rustle of the summer breeze the only sound. Jihoon’s gaze remained on the stars, but his focus was entirely on you.

“What happened back then?” he finally asked, his voice cautious, almost hesitant.

You didn’t answer immediately, your fingers nervously tracing the rough texture of the rooftop. “It was… well, you know, my parents died in an accident. The business went to my uncle, and they kept me there. I was… stuck. And the company didn’t reach out either.”

Jihoon turned his head slightly, concern darkening his eyes. “I… I didn’t know that.”

“Yeah.” You tried to keep your voice steady, but a hint of bitterness slipped through. “I don’t know what the company told everyone, but once my uncle stopped funding them—the monthly support my father used to send—suddenly, I didn’t exist to them anymore. I wasn’t even a memory.”

Jihoon’s brows furrowed, his expression a mix of anger and sadness. “That’s… that’s awful.”

“It was.” You laughed, but there was no humor in it. “Being forgotten hurts more than losing everything else.”

You took a deep breath, letting the summer air fill your lungs before exhaling slowly. “Thank you, Jihoon.”

His gaze shifted to you, confusion flickering in his eyes. “For what?”

“For everything.” Your voice was softer now, carrying a weight you hadn’t meant to show. “There was a time when it felt like everyone had forgotten me. My family, the company… even the dream I once had. But you… you didn’t.”

Jihoon’s lips parted, but no words came out immediately. His fingers fidgeted slightly, a nervous habit you had come to recognize.

“I didn’t do much,” he finally murmured. “I just… I just gave you a song.”

“That’s more than enough.” A gentle smile tugged at your lips. “It wasn’t just a song, Jihoon. It was a reminder that I could still be someone. That I could still do something I love. And you listened. When no one else did.”

He looked away, staring back at the stars as if they had suddenly become the most interesting thing in the world. “You’re giving me too much credit.”

“Maybe.” You leaned a bit closer, your shoulder brushing against his. “But I’d rather give it to you than let myself think I did this all alone.”

A quiet chuckle slipped from him, a hint of warmth returning to his voice. “Well, I guess I can accept that. Just don’t forget that I’m still your producer. I’m allowed to be bossy.”

You laughed, a genuine, lighthearted sound that seemed to lift the weight from your chest. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

*

Jihoon leaned back in his chair, his gaze shifting between the scattered lyric sheets on the table and the two figures beside him. You were seated cross-legged on the couch, your phone in one hand as you scribbled words onto a notebook with the other. Seungcheol sat beside you, far too close for Jihoon’s liking, his shoulder pressing against yours as he leaned over, peering at your notes.

“Are you sure that line flows well?” Seungcheol asked, his voice a low murmur close to your ear, his hand resting casually on the back of the couch—dangerously close to your shoulder.

You smiled, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “I think it captures the feeling. But I’m open to suggestions.”

“Here,” Seungcheol’s fingers lightly grazed your wrist as he reached for your pen. “What if you say—”

Jihoon’s jaw tightened, and he reached over, pulling his keyboard closer with a faint, intentional clatter. “Let’s focus on the melody first. No point in perfecting lyrics we can’t fit to the music.”

You glanced up at him, your expression caught between amusement and gratitude, while Seungcheol just laughed, leaning back but making no move to create more distance.

“Of course, Producer-nim,” Seungcheol teased, though his tone was light. “I’ll leave the melody to the master.”

Jihoon’s fingers danced over the keys, the soft piano notes filling the room. But even as he worked, his eyes would occasionally dart back to you and Seungcheol. He saw the way Seungcheol would lean in, his hand sometimes brushing against yours, his quiet chuckles always a little too close. And you… you seemed oblivious, focused on your lyrics, nodding at his ideas, but never quite leaning back into his touch.

Still, it was enough to gnaw at Jihoon.

“I think this transition needs more impact,” he finally said, a little louder than necessary, his gaze meeting yours. “Y/n, try humming it with me?”

You perked up, nodding. “Sure.”

You moved slightly forward, leaving Seungcheol’s side as you walked over to Jihoon’s setup. He adjusted the mic stand for you, his hands lingering for a second, his voice softer now. “Just follow my lead.”

The melody played, and you hummed along, your voice blending seamlessly with his instrumental. As you sang, Jihoon’s tense shoulders seemed to ease, and the faint hint of a smile played at his lips.

Seungcheol watched, a knowing smirk crossing his face as he leaned back against the couch. “Wow, Producer-nim really knows how to bring out the best in his artists.”

Jihoon’s fingers paused on the keys, his gaze flicking to Seungcheol. “That’s the job.”

But beneath the calm expression, his focus never strayed from you.

The door clicked shut behind you, leaving a quiet stillness in the studio. Jihoon leaned back in his chair, exhaling as his fingers tapped rhythmically against his armrest. He began to tidy up the lyric sheets scattered around, but his calm didn’t last long.

“You know, I should start charging for my acting,” Seungcheol's voice cut through the silence, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. “I mean, watching you go all stiff with jealousy was worth every second.”

Jihoon’s eyes shot up, narrowing. “What are you talking about?”

“Oh, please,” Seungcheol laughed, casually leaning against the back of the couch. “The way you practically glared holes through me every time I leaned close to Y/n? The piano smashing was a nice touch too.”

“I wasn’t glaring,” Jihoon grumbled, shuffling the lyric sheets with unnecessary force. “I was focused on the work.”

“Sure. Because ‘Let’s focus on the melody’ wasn’t you screaming ‘Back off’ in music producer language.”

Jihoon’s cheeks tinted the faintest shade of pink, and he spun his chair around, refusing to face Seungcheol. “You were the one being unnecessarily touchy. That’s a cheap move, hyung.”

“Cheap but effective,” Seungcheol sang, walking over to Jihoon’s desk. “I just wanted to see how far you’d go. Honestly, I thought you were going to throw that keyboard at me.”

“I considered it,” Jihoon muttered, his grip tightening around the edge of his desk. “Don’t push it.”

Seungcheol chuckled, leaning closer. “You should just tell her, you know. You’ve already done the hard part—writing with her, watching her grow, supporting her in the background. The only thing left is saying it.”

Jihoon’s shoulders tensed, and for a moment, his eyes softened. “She… has a lot going on. And I’m…”

“A coward?”

Seungcheol had known about Jihoon's little crush on you since predebut. It wasn't anything Jihoon ever said—it was everything he didn’t. The way his eyes would follow you just a moment longer than anyone else, how his usually stoic expression softened whenever you spoke, and how his rare laughter seemed to come easily whenever you made a joke. Jihoon never talked much, but when it was with you, his words seemed to flow a little easier.

But Seungcheol had kept quiet, just observing, thinking it was just a passing crush. After all, they were all young, chasing dreams, busy with practices, and dealing with the pressure of a debut that seemed just out of reach. Feelings were bound to get tangled.

It wasn’t until years later, when he heard Jihoon was producing a song for you—your first song, the one that became a hit—that Seungcheol realized it wasn’t just a crush. Jihoon didn’t just work on your song; he poured himself into it, perfecting every note, making sure the melody brought out the best in your voice. It wasn’t just a project to him.

So, one night, when the two of them were alone in the studio, Seungcheol leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, watching Jihoon fine-tune your track for the hundredth time. The younger one didn't even notice him at first, too lost in his world.

“You like Y/n, don’t you?” Seungcheol finally asked, his voice calm but direct.

Jihoon’s fingers stilled over the keyboard, a faint hesitation hanging in the air. He didn’t turn around. “What are you talking about?”

“Oh, come on,” Seungcheol chuckled, pushing off the doorway and walking in. “Don’t pretend. I’ve seen how you look at her. I saw it back then, and I see it now.”

Silence. Jihoon’s shoulders seemed to tense slightly, and then he exhaled, leaning back in his chair. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Doesn’t matter?” Seungcheol frowned, taking a seat on the couch. “You’re making her first song. You’re working harder on it than any other track you’ve touched lately. If that’s not a confession in itself, I don’t know what is.”

“She deserves something good. Something that works,” Jihoon mumbled, his fingers fidgeting with a pen.

“Yeah, because she’s talented. But for you? It’s more than that.”

Jihoon finally turned to Seungcheol, his expression unreadable. “What if it’s pointless? What if she doesn’t see me that way?”

Seungcheol leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “You won’t know unless you try. And you know Y/n. She’s not the type to run away from something honest.”

Jihoon’s gaze dropped to the floor, the faintest trace of a smile ghosting his lips. “I don’t even know where to start.”

“Well, maybe not by glaring at me every time I joke with her,” Seungcheol teased, lightening the mood.

Jihoon rolled his eyes, but there was a warmth in his expression now. “Maybe I’ll throw the guitar at you next time.”

“Sure, sure. But just so you know, if you keep pretending you don’t care, someone else might show up and make her fall for them.”

That thought alone seemed to light a fire in Jihoon’s chest, and Seungcheol caught it—the brief flash of determination in his eyes.

*

After that night, Jihoon began to change in ways that were almost too subtle to notice—unless you were paying attention. Jihoon was still Jihoon, calm and focused, but now there was a quiet sort of energy around him whenever you were near.

He started texting you more often—just small things, like asking if you got home safely after a late recording session or sending you a link to a song he thought you’d like. He listened intently when you spoke, his gaze never wavering, and his usual brief responses grew a little longer, more thoughtful.

In the studio, he would suggest a break whenever he noticed you seemed tired, even going as far as bringing you your favorite drink without asking. Once, he even swapped his hoodie with yours when you shivered slightly from the cold air conditioning.

You noticed it too. The way he would look up when you walked in, how his usually distant expression softened, or how he would stay in the studio a little longer when you were there, even if his part of the work was done.

One evening, as you tried to perfect the chorus of a song, your voice cracking slightly from overuse, Jihoon stood up and gently took your wrist. “Let’s take a break. Pushing won’t make it better.”

“I’m fine. I can—”

“You’re not a machine, Y/n,” he interrupted, his voice gentle but firm. “Come on.”

He led you out of the studio, the warmth of his hand lingering on your skin. Outside, the cool breeze swept across your face, and you sighed, leaning against the wall.

“Thanks,” you murmured, looking at him.

Jihoon nodded, but his eyes lingered on you, as if there was something more he wanted to say. But instead, he just stayed there, standing beside you in the quiet hallway, his presence alone enough to calm your nerves.

Seungcheol noticed too—how Jihoon’s attention seemed to orbit around you. He watched with a grin whenever Jihoon would get subtly annoyed if someone else got too close, how his friend seemed to naturally gravitate toward you.

“Man, I never thought I’d see Woozi being soft like this,” Seungcheol teased one day when you left to get water.

“Shut up,” Jihoon muttered, pretending to focus on his laptop.

“You’re not even hiding it anymore.”

“I’m just making sure she’s okay.”

“Yeah, and I’m the president,” Seungcheol laughed. “Just admit it, you care about her.”

Jihoon’s lips pressed into a thin line, his gaze flickering to where you stood by the water dispenser. “I do.”

“You should tell her.”

“Easier said than done,” Jihoon mumbled, but the way his eyes followed you spoke louder than any confession he could make.

The quiet hum of the studio equipment filled the room, a gentle backdrop to the creative chaos surrounding you. Papers scattered on the table, some scribbled with half-finished lyrics, others with scratched-out chords. You sat on the couch, your guitar resting against your thigh, and Jihoon was beside you, his laptop open, the familiar glow illuminating his focused expression.

You strummed a gentle melody, your fingers moving almost automatically, but your mind was elsewhere—specifically, on the way Jihoon’s gaze kept flickering toward you. He wasn’t obvious, but you’d known him long enough to recognize when something was on his mind.

“Let’s try it again from the second verse,” he said, his voice steady as always. But the way he leaned closer, his shoulder brushing against yours, felt different.

You cleared your throat, trying to shake off the slight flutter in your chest. “Okay, but I still think the transition feels awkward. It’s too sudden.”

Jihoon hummed, leaning back, but even then, his arm remained against yours, his warmth grounding you. “Then let’s smooth it out. Maybe extend the line or add a softer bridge.” His fingers tapped on the keyboard, adjusting the track.

You glanced at him, trying to focus on the work, but the closeness was impossible to ignore. “You’re getting really good at reading my mind, you know that?”

Jihoon smiled, a gentle, almost shy smile that you rarely saw. “Maybe I’ve just been paying attention.”

Silence fell again, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. You played the melody, humming along, your voice blending with the soft notes. Jihoon’s gaze didn’t leave you, his eyes tracing the way you lost yourself in the music.

“Your voice… it always suits this kind of song,” he murmured, almost to himself.

You stopped, cheeks warming slightly. “You think so?”

“I know so.” His tone was soft, but there was a quiet certainty to it. “You bring the lyrics to life. That’s why I knew this song was meant for you.”

Something in your chest tightened at his words, the sincerity in his voice wrapping around you. “Jihoon, I—”

The door swung open, and Seungcheol peeked in. “Still at it? I knew you two would be here until dawn.”

You cleared your throat, suddenly aware of the closeness. Jihoon leaned back slightly, his expression returning to its calm, composed look. “Almost done. Just refining.”

“Of course.” Seungcheol grinned, stepping in. “But don't overwork her, Woozi. She still needs that voice tomorrow.”

Jihoon rolled his eyes. “I know. I’m not a slave driver.”

But as you tried to refocus, you couldn’t shake the lingering warmth of his words—or the way his gaze had softened when he looked at you.

The door swung open again, and Soonyoung waltzed in, carrying two plastic bags that crinkled noisily. “Midnight snacks! I bring salvation in the form of tteokbokki and kimbap!”

“Finally,” Seungcheol cheered, abandoning his spot by the soundboard to raid the bags. Jihoon, ever the disciplined one, simply raised an eyebrow, though the faint smile on his lips betrayed his amusement.

“You two are gonna spoil her,” Jihoon muttered, but he didn’t stop you when you reached for a kimbap roll.

“Oh, please. She’s working too hard. A little late-night energy won’t hurt.” Soonyoung plopped down on the couch beside you, practically beaming. “So, what are we working on?”

Jihoon tapped on his laptop. “Just fine-tuning the second verse. Y/n thinks the transition’s too abrupt, and I agree. We’re trying to find a smoother flow.”

Soonyoung leaned forward, chewing on a piece of tteokbokki. “Why don’t you add a two-bar instrumental bridge? Something subtle, like a rising piano line to ease the mood?”

Jihoon’s eyes lit up. “That could actually work. Give me a second.” He started tinkering with the software, and the room filled with the delicate rise of soft keys, fitting perfectly between the verses.

“I’m a genius,” Soonyoung declared, looking smug. “I should get producer credits.”

“You wish.” Jihoon snorted, but he saved the updated version, clearly pleased.

As you sipped on a can of soda, feeling the comfort of the warm, slightly chaotic atmosphere, Soonyoung’s voice suddenly cut through, clear and casual—too casual.

“Didn’t you like him in the past?”

Silence. An absolute, crushing silence.

The room seemed to freeze. The soft hum of the equipment suddenly felt louder. You stared at Soonyoung, your breath caught, the half-chewed kimbap in your mouth suddenly dry.

Jihoon’s fingers, which had been moving so fluidly over the keyboard, halted mid-gesture. His gaze snapped to you, a mix of shock and confusion. Seungcheol looked up, a piece of tteokbokki half-raised to his lips, his jaw slack.

“I—What?” you managed to say, your voice smaller than you intended.

“You forgot?” Soonyoung looked genuinely surprised, blinking at the stunned faces around him. “I remember you told me about that on our way to the dorm. You thought Jihoon was cute—especially when he got all serious with his lyrics.”

“I—That was…” Your voice faltered, heat rushing to your cheeks. “I was young. We were all kids.”

“Soonyoung-ah,” Jihoon’s voice was a warning, but the redness creeping up his ears betrayed him. He still hadn’t looked away from you.

Soonyoung seemed to sense the tension he’d stirred up, but instead of backtracking, he leaned back with an amused smile. “Hey, I’m just stating facts. And now look at you two, making music together all over again. Feels like fate.”

You tried to focus on your food, each bite feeling heavier than before. Jihoon’s gaze flickered away, his attention returning to the screen, but his fingers hovered, unsure.

The warmth in your chest was impossible to ignore. Jihoon’s eyes met yours once more—fleeting, almost shy—but in that glance, there was a question, a hesitant spark. And your heart raced just a little faster.

*

The chaos erupted like a wildfire.

You had just stepped off the stage after another successful performance, the bright lights still lingering in your vision when your manager rushed toward you, her expression pale. “Y/n… you need to see this.”

She handed you her phone, and there it was—a news article that had already gone viral. The headline screamed: "Rising Star Y/n Accused by Family of Theft and Runaway: The Truth Behind Her Past."

Your heart dropped. Your uncle’s name was right there, and his words were cruel and twisted.

“She stole from our family, took a large sum of money, and disappeared to Seoul. We tried to help her, but she betrayed us,” the article quoted him. He painted a picture of you as an ungrateful, deceitful child who had thrown away family for fame.

Panic twisted your stomach. Your manager’s phone kept vibrating, notifications pouring in—fans commenting, people demanding an explanation, other news outlets picking up the story.

“How… How could he…?” your voice was barely a whisper, your hands cold

“Y/n, we need to make a statement,” your manager urged. “We have to clear this up.”

Clear it up? What even was there to clear up? It was a complete lie. You knew the truth, Jihoon knew, but would anyone believe you over the man parading as your family?

Your mind spun with memories—the suffocating isolation back then, your uncle holding back your inheritance, his family treating you like a burden. You had nothing when you left, nothing but the tiny bit of courage you had left to chase a life they tried to take from you.

The staff members whispered, your phone buzzed incessantly. Social media was already flooding with comments—some defending you, others calling you a fraud.

*

Jihoon’s phone buzzed endlessly. Notifications flooded in, messages from the members, the manager, and even his mother, asking if he knew about the chaos involving you. His jaw tightened, a sense of dread clawing at his chest. He had just seen you hours ago, your smile bright after another successful performance. How had everything fallen apart so quickly?

He dialed your number, pressing his phone to his ear, but the call went unanswered. Once, twice, three times. Panic gripped him tighter with each failed attempt. He paced his studio, his fingers tapping against his thigh, a nervous habit he couldn’t shake.

The headlines were ruthless, and the comments even worse. People who didn’t know anything about you were already labeling you a liar, a thief. Jihoon knew better. He knew how you had struggled, how you had clawed your way out of the darkness they had thrown you into.

Finally, he grabbed his keys and stormed out. He wasn’t going to just sit there. He needed to find you.

As he sped through the city, he tried calling you again. This time, he called Seungcheol.

“Hyung, where is she? Did you get to her?” he blurted the moment Seungcheol picked up.

“Jihoon?” Seungcheol's voice was muffled, the sound of a car engine in the background. “Yeah, I have her. We’re heading somewhere safe. Soonyoung’s coordinating with the legal team, but things are blowing up fast.”

“Is she… Is she okay?” Jihoon’s voice softened, betraying his fear.

“She’s in shock, I think. Trying to stay calm, but you know Y/n. She’s… trying to hold it together,” Seungcheol explained, his voice quieter. “But Jihoon, she’s hurt. Her own family did this to her.”

Jihoon’s grip on the steering wheel tightened, knuckles pale. “Where are you taking her?”

“To my place for now. It’s better if the press doesn’t know,” Seungcheol replied.

“Stay there. I’m coming.” Jihoon didn’t even wait for Seungcheol’s reply before ending the call, his foot pressing harder on the accelerator.

His mind raced, thinking of what to say to you, how to comfort you. But all he knew for sure was that he needed to be there. You weren’t going to face this alone. Not again.

*

When Jihoon stepped into Seungcheol’s apartment, the air was thick with tension. The lights were dim, and Soonyoung stood in the kitchen, whispering urgently into his phone. Seungcheol was by the window, his gaze shifting between the streets below and the silent figure curled on the couch.

And then he saw you.

You were sitting there, knees drawn to your chest, your face buried against them. Your shoulders trembled slightly, and even from across the room, Jihoon could see your fingers gripping the fabric of your pants so tightly your knuckles were pale.

“Y/n…” Jihoon’s voice was barely a whisper, but it seemed to echo in the room.

You didn’t look up immediately, but when you did, your eyes were glassy, lost. A faint, broken smile appeared on your lips, but it crumbled just as quickly. “Jihoon… I…”

Before you could finish, Jihoon crossed the room, kneeling beside the couch. He didn’t hesitate, reaching out to gently hold your hands, prying your fingers free from their tight grip. “It’s okay. I’m here.”

You shook your head, a choked laugh escaping you. “It’s not okay. They’re saying… they’re saying I stole from them. That I ran away with their money. That I… Jihoon, I didn't do that. I swear—”

“I know.” His voice was firm, leaving no room for doubt. “I know you didn’t. We all know.”

Your breathing was unsteady, each gasp catching in your throat. “But the whole world thinks… They’re calling me a thief, a liar. My own family did this… Why? Why would they—” Your voice broke, and tears slipped down your cheeks.

Jihoon’s heart twisted painfully. He had never seen you like this—so exposed, so lost. The woman who stood on stage, who wrote lyrics with such passion, who fought to rebuild her life, now reduced to this fragile state.

“They’re scared, or greedy, or just cruel. But none of that is your fault,” Jihoon whispered, his thumb brushing away your tears. “We’re going to fix this. I promise you.”

You stared at him, searching for something—reassurance, hope, anything to hold on to. “Jihoon… I don’t know what to do.”

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he leaned closer, resting his forehead against yours, letting you feel his warmth, his steady presence. “You don’t have to know. You just have to let us help you. Let me help you.”

A quiet sob broke from you, and you leaned into him, your arms instinctively wrapping around his shoulders. Jihoon’s arms enveloped you, holding you close, his chin resting on your shoulder as he whispered, “You’re not alone. Not anymore.”

Across the room, Seungcheol looked away, giving you both a moment. Soonyoung stepped out to the balcony, continuing his call but throwing a quick thumbs-up toward Jihoon. The world outside might be cruel, but here, you had them—people who knew you, who cared, who would fight for you.

*

Within hours, statements from both your label and Pledis were released, carefully crafted yet resolute in their tone. Your label firmly denied your uncle's accusations, clarifying that his claims were false and rooted in a personal dispute. They acknowledged the difficult situation you faced in the past, explaining that you were a young trainee who had to abandon her dreams due to unforeseen family circumstances.

Pledis, under the direct supervision of Seungcheol, Jihoon, and Soonyoung, released their own statement. They confirmed your history as a promising trainee who was forced to withdraw from debut due to family complications. They expressed regret that you had to leave under such circumstances but emphasized their support for you now.

The company stood by your truth, and it wasn't just words on paper. Seungcheol was the one who demanded the statement be released immediately, his voice firm and unwavering in the meeting room. Jihoon insisted on the wording, making sure every detail reflected the reality of your situation without exploiting your trauma. Soonyoung, surprisingly serious, went as far as personally reaching out to industry connections, making sure the narrative didn’t spiral out of control.

With their combined efforts, the public's perception shifted. Sympathy replaced doubt, and the comments under your social media flooded with support.

Alongside the official statements, photos of you with Seungcheol, Jihoon, and Soonyoung began to circulate on social media. Some were candid shots—Seungcheol playfully ruffling your hair, Jihoon walking beside you with a faint smile, and Soonyoung making exaggerated faces to make you laugh. Others were from studio sessions, showing you deep in conversation with Jihoon or Seungcheol leaning over to check your lyrics.

Fans started piecing together the connection. Jihoon, the genius producer behind almost all your songs, wasn’t just a collaborator—he was a steadfast presence in your life. Seungcheol and Soonyoung, who were known for their loyalty and protectiveness over their members, clearly extended that same care to you.

Online discussions swelled with sympathy. “If Seungcheol and Jihoon trust her, then I trust her too.” “You can see in their eyes they genuinely care about her.” “Jihoon produces all her songs—there’s no way she’s the person her uncle described.”

A week after the tide of public opinion began to shift in your favor, Jihoon arrived at your doorstep unannounced. The moment you opened the door, he stepped inside with quiet confidence, his eyes searching the small space until they found you standing there—alone, vulnerable, yet somehow still holding on.

He said nothing, letting the silence fill the room before slowly opening his arms wide. Without hesitation, he pulled you into a deep, unwavering embrace. Your body shook as the walls you’d built crumbled, and the sobs you had kept buried for so long spilled out uncontrollably. You melted into his chest, feeling like fragile glass finally cradled safely after a storm.

Jihoon’s arms tightened gently around you, his steady heartbeat resonating against your ear like a calming rhythm. In that quiet moment, his presence spoke louder than words ever could—he was here, unwavering and steadfast, ready to be the anchor you needed. No matter what had happened, no matter how far you had fallen, he wasn’t going anywhere.

Jihoon’s hands slowly stroked your hair, his touch gentle and soothing as if trying to erase every trace of pain you’d carried alone for so long. He whispered soft reassurances, low and steady, barely more than a breath.

“You’re not alone anymore,” he murmured. “I’m here. We’ll get through this—together.”

His voice held no pressure, only quiet strength that wrapped around you like a warm blanket. As your sobs softened, you clung to him tighter, letting yourself finally rest, finally breathe. For the first time in a long while, you felt seen—not as someone broken or forgotten, but as someone worthy of care and love.

Jihoon held you like that until the world outside faded away, and all that mattered was the steady beat of two hearts healing side by side.

After a while, Jihoon gently pulled back just enough to look at you. The two of you settled on the worn-out couch, close but not crowded, the quiet hum of the city outside your window filling the space between you.

He studied your face with soft concern. “How are you feeling? Really.”

You hesitated, then let out a shaky breath. “Honestly? Still fragile. But... better, now that you’re here.”

Jihoon nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving yours. “It’s okay to take your time. I’m not going anywhere.”

His words wrapped around you like a shield, giving you the courage to admit the weight you’d been carrying, the fear that had made you shut down for so long. In that moment, sitting side by side, you realized maybe—just maybe—you could start to heal.

You looked down at your hands, twisting the edge of your sleeve nervously. “I’m sorry,” you whispered, voice barely steady. “For everything that happened—how I disappeared, how I pushed people away... especially you.”

Jihoon’s hand found yours, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “Hey, none of that was your fault. You didn’t ask for any of this.”

“But I still feel like I should’ve done better. Stayed strong—for myself, for everyone who believed in me.”

He shook his head gently, eyes soft but firm. “You’ve been through so much. It’s okay to be human, to stumble. What matters is you’re here now, and we’re going to face this together.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat, grateful for his steady presence. “Thank you... for not giving up on me.”

Jihoon smiled, a quiet promise in his gaze. “Never.”

Jihoon’s grip on your hand tightened just a little, his eyes searching yours with a seriousness that made your heart skip. He took a slow breath before speaking, his voice softer than before.

“Y/n, I’ve been holding this in for a while… but I can’t anymore. I like you. More than just a friend, more than just someone I want to help. I’ve liked you since before you even knew I existed.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden confession, your heart racing.

“I didn’t say anything because I wanted to be there for you, not add any pressure. But seeing you now, vulnerable and still so strong—it’s made me realize I don’t want to hide it anymore.”

He gave you a small, hopeful smile. “I want to be by your side. Not just as your producer or friend... but something more, if you’ll let me.”

Your breath hitched, and a heavy wave of doubt washed over you. You looked down, voice barely a whisper.

“I... I don’t know if I deserve this—deserve you. After everything I’ve been through, all the mistakes, all the pain... How could someone like you want someone like me?”

Your heart ached with a mix of gratitude and fear, the weight of your past pressing hard against the hope Jihoon’s words had sparked.

Jihoon reached out, gently lifting your chin so your eyes met his. His gaze was steady, full of warmth and certainty.

“Y/n, you don’t have to be perfect for me to want you. I see you—everything you are, everything you’ve been through—and it only makes me want to be by your side more.”

He smiled softly, his voice low and sincere.

“You deserve kindness, love, and a fresh start. And I want to be part of that with you.”

You searched his eyes, vulnerability and doubt still lingering in yours. “Jihoon… are you sure you won’t regret this? Being with someone like me—after everything?” Your voice cracked, heavy with the weight of all the pain and uncertainty you carried.

He held your gaze steadily, no hesitation in his eyes. Slowly, he shook his head, a gentle but unwavering smile playing at his lips. “Never. I’ve waited so long to tell you this. You don’t have to be anyone else for me—I like you exactly as you are.”

Then, without breaking eye contact, he reached out and cupped your cheek tenderly. The world around you seemed to quiet as he leaned in, closing the distance between you. His lips met yours softly at first—warm, comforting—like a silent promise that he was here to stay, no matter what.

You melted into the kiss, feeling a fragile hope bloom inside you for the first time in so long. It wasn’t perfect, but it was real. And in that moment, that was enough.

His lips brushed against yours with a softness that took your breath away, gentle like the first drop of rain after a long drought. The kiss deepened slowly, tender but full of meaning, as if every unspoken word between you was being conveyed through this quiet connection.

Jihoon’s hand moved from your cheek to cradle the back of your neck, steadying you, grounding you, letting you know he was there—completely present. You felt the warmth of his breath mingling with yours, the faintest tremor of emotion in his touch.

It wasn’t hurried or desperate; it was patient and sincere, like a promise that no matter how broken or uncertain your past had been, he wanted to be part of your future. Your heart hammered wildly as the kiss lingered, a delicate thread weaving your two souls closer in that perfect, fragile moment.

After pulling back just slightly, Jihoon rested his forehead against yours, his eyes searching yours with a quiet intensity. His voice was soft but certain, carrying all the emotions he had kept hidden for so long.

“I love you,” he said simply, as if those three words held the weight of everything between you. “I’ve loved you from the moment I first saw you, even when I didn’t say it. And I want to keep loving you—if you’ll let me.”

He gave you a small, hopeful smile, his hand still gently holding your face.

“Will you be my girlfriend?”

The end.

[thedensworld]

Period is coming and I'm getting emotional about Hoshi-Woozi's enlistment.

Can't believe i'm crying:(

[thedensworld]

A Tempting Damage | K.Sy

Pairing: Nepo Baby Soonyoung x reader

Genre: office au!, enemy to lover au!

Type: romance, fluff, smut (mdni!)

Word Count: 15k

Preview: You should’ve known the moment he walked into the boardroom with a grin too expensive for someone so inexperienced, This was temptation—tailored in Armani and absolutely lethal.

How did the two of you end up here—his office, lights off, half-breathing on his desk at nine o’clock at night?

You should’ve known the moment this would spiral. The signs were all there.

Soonyoung Kwon was the grandson of your boss’ boss’ boss’ boss. Which, by hierarchy, technically made him your boss too—though the title felt more ornamental than functional. You still remember the day he stepped out of the elevator a month ago, flashing a dazzling smile, shaking hands with the interns like he was on a political campaign.

He had announced himself as the new Director of KF Label, like he was gifting you all with his presence. And then your former director, who clearly saw the chaos ahead and ran, called you in for a “quick chat” and gracefully asked you—read: begged—to guide Soonyoung during his adaptation period.

A polite corporate term, you’ve since realized, for “He has no idea what the hell he’s doing, so make sure he doesn’t crash and burn the company before Q4.”

And yes—he truly has no idea what he’s doing. He is rich in confidence, poor in skill. A golden retriever with a black card and a C-suite title. Infuriatingly cheerful, tragically unqualified.

Which is how you, the marketing manager who actually built her way up from zero, spent the past month babysitting someone who thought "brand synergy" was a soft drink.

Thirty days of training him, fixing his mistakes, dragging him out of meetings he wasn’t prepared for, and still—still—somehow he manages to get under your skin.

“Now, tell me…”

“What should I say… during the meeting… with the supermarket owners tomorrow?”

Your fingers dug into the edge of his desk as he slammed into you, hips snapping forward with a pace you didn’t know he was capable of. God. Why were you into this? And why were you suddenly sounding like a desperate young woman getting her brain fucked stupid?

Kwon Soonyoung was an idiot. A cocky, clueless pain in your ass.

Yet tonight—he was making you worse than everything he is. Your moan broke the silence of the office in a high, breathless pitch no one in this building had ever heard from you. You—who kept your heels sharp, your lipstick in place, and your tone professional no matter the pressure. But now? Now you could barely get out a single word. Barely answer his simplest questions.

Yet he kept asking them. “We have a slogan?” — his first dumb question, asked a month ago when you handed him a company profile and procedural system you had rewritten in the simplest terms possible. You’d practically turned it into a corporate comic book, hoping to minimize the damage.

And now?

“Should I wear a Rolex or a Cartier for tomorrow’s meeting?”

He whispered it against your ear like it was dirty talk, the smirk in his voice cutting sharper than his thrusts. He probably thought he won something. Okay—fine. He won a little. Ever since he had you bent over his desk, squirming, gasping, ruined.

But still—stupid. Always with the stupid questions. “You’re… stupid!” you managed, voice strangled between a moan and a cry, half an insult and half a plea. You barely made sense, and you hated that he knew it.

He laughed, low and wicked, before slowing his hips, dragging out the motion just enough to make you whimper at the loss. His hand ran along your front, slipping under your blouse and palming your breast like he knew you needed that grounding, that release.

“Please… Kwon Soonyoung…” you gasped, back arching when his fingers grazed your nipple.

But instead of mercy, he pulled you upright, chest to chest, keeping you firmly locked against him. His hand gripped your waist as his lips brushed the shell of your ear.

“Answer me first, Ms. Ji. And remember…” His voice dropped a note deeper, quieter, deadlier.

“I’m your boss. So it’s Director Kwon.”

The next morning felt criminal.

Not just because you only managed two hours of sleep, or because your thighs still ached from being bent over a mahogany desk like some overworked intern in a very inappropriate drama. No. It was criminal because you still showed up on time, coffee in hand, hair done, heels on, and speech script perfectly printed.

Even after Kwon Soonyoung had given you three orgasms in one hour. In the office. On his desk. Under the goddamn company logo.

You were trying your best to pretend it never happened. Really, you tried. The speech script was crisp, stapled, and revised at 3 a.m. in between waves of humiliation, aftershocks of pleasure, and the memory of him whispering “Answer me, Ms. Ji…” like he wasn’t buried so deep inside you— you forgot your own name.

You had cross-checked every paragraph, every bullet point, just to make sure you hadn’t unconsciously written “Your cock has a better function than your brain.”

Honestly? If that line made it in, it wouldn’t be inaccurate. Was there a company that specialized in evaluating performance like that? Maybe it was time to write to the Kwon family directly. You could pitch it as a side venture—something like Kwon Enterprise: More Brains Below the Belt.

Hell, they might even give you equity for surviving their grandson.

“Thank you, Ms. Ji,” Soonyoung said quietly, his voice low, velvet-wrapped. He took the papers from your hand, but didn’t let go. His fingers lingered. So did his eyes.

And you swore—you swore—you saw the same madness in them that you saw last night. The hunger. The chaos. The wicked tilt of his mouth that said he remembered everything.

You cleared your throat, yanking your hand away as if his touch burned. It did, in a way. You forced your face back into your best professional mask.

“Try not to freestyle this time, Director,” you said coolly, taking the seat beside him. “And no dumb questions about ‘what synergy means.’ It’s in bold on page two.”

He smirked without turning, flipping the paper open. But you caught the way his leg brushed yours under the table. Intentional. Definitely intentional.

Last night was incredible. You couldn't lie. But if this man thought he could rattle you in daylight the same way he did in the dark. Well. He really was stupid.

*

A gentle touch on your shoulder startled you out of your screen-staring trance—you didn’t even know how long you’d been zoning out. Your eyes blinked back into focus, and you looked up to see Kim Mingyu, your colleague and the ever-reliable Finance and Accounting Manager of the label.

His brows were furrowed, concern written across his face. “You okay, Y/n? Director Kwon’s called for you three times,” he said softly.

You sighed, pushing yourself up from the chair with a tired stretch. “I’m fine. Just... running on fumes,” you said, flashing him a half-smile that tried to pass for reassurance.

But Mingyu didn’t look convinced. He tilted his head, gaze narrowing just a little. “Is he still bothering you?”

You blinked. “Who?”

“That bastard,” he replied, voice lower now—him, meaning Jeon Wonwoo, your ex. The IT guy who cheated on you two months ago with an intern. The same incident that created a domino effect of side-eyes and rumors throughout the building. It wasn’t a secret that Wonwoo’s spiral post-breakup had revealed just how deeply insecure he truly was. And not just about you—about everything.

You rubbed the back of your neck, feeling a sudden weight in the room. “No,” you said, clearing your throat. “He’s not worth mentioning anymore.”

Mingyu nodded slowly, reading between the lines but not pushing. “Okay. But you know I’ll throw hands if I have to.”

You couldn’t help but smile at that. “Appreciated. But no violence in the office—unless it’s against that printer in the copy room.”

That earned a soft chuckle from him. “Did Director Kwon actually say anything, or does he just need me to be present and breathing?” you asked, your eyes scanning your desk for the folder Soonyoung needed to sign. You knew how he was—selectively urgent.

Mingyu reached over and pulled a document map from the far corner of your workspace. “This. He needs this.”

You took it with a grateful sigh. “I’m seriously glad I have you, Mingyu. Otherwise I’d probably die in here for the stupidest reason—death by incompetent boss.”

Mingyu laughed, that boyish grin spreading across his face, fangs peeking out. “You��re dramatic.”

“You know I’m not.”

“True,” he replied, still grinning. “But at least the chaos keeps things interesting.”

You rolled your eyes with a quiet chuckle, fingers tightening on the file as you braced yourself to face Soonyoung again. That man could burn your patience to the ground in five minutes—and somehow still leave you… you didn't want to think about it!

You entered his office with quiet steps, the thick folder in your hand still warm from Mingyu’s grasp. Director Kwon Soonyoung sat behind his desk, sleeves rolled to his forearms, hair pushed back in a way that looked almost too polished for someone who once asked if a “slogan” was a new type of dip.

Without looking up, he extended his hand. “The file?” You placed it gently in his palm, expecting some sort of snide comment or dumb question about where to sign. But instead, he opened it, flipped straight to the right page, and signed with swift, confident strokes. No questions. No confusion. Just… efficiency.

Your brows lifted slightly. Who was this? Then, without looking up, “what’s the projected ROI on the third campaign under the Miju rebranding?”

You froze. Not from fear—but from pure shock.

He finally glanced up, and your eyes locked. There was no usual smirk, no cocky glint in his gaze. Just focus. Calculation.

You cleared your throat. “Projected ROI is 127%, assuming we maintain target engagement through the influencer channels and retail activations we discussed last week.”

A beat passed. He nodded once. “Good. Shift the TikTok rollout to next Monday. Make the data look prettier before we send it to the board. I want them convinced before they even read it.”

Another pause. You blinked. You were still blinking. He signed the final page, closed the folder, and handed it back with a smooth slide across the desk.

Then, with the slightest tug of amusement curling at the corners of his mouth, he said—

“You may go on the clock for today, Ms. Ji.”

You narrowed your eyes just slightly. “Excuse me?”

He leaned back in his chair, lazy again. Back to his usual smug, languid rhythm. “I said you may go. Early dismissal. I hear sleep deprivation reduces productivity—and I’d hate to see the company suffer just because you forgot how to say no to your boss.”

Your jaw tensed. He was back. The devil in Dior. But you refused to let him have the last word. So you smiled sweetly, flipping your hair off your shoulder. “Then I’ll use the time wisely and remind myself what good leadership looks like.”

His laughter followed you out the door. But so did his eyes.

*

You woke up to the sound of your phone ringing, the sharp buzz pulling you out of a sleep so deep, you almost forgot where you were. The living room was dim, the drama still playing quietly on TV—the last thing you remembered before dozing off. You hadn’t napped like that in years. Not since you started working your ass off at the label.

You squinted at your phone screen. 9:02 PM. The name flashing across it: “Boo Dam.”

“Mmm… Seungkwan…” you mumbled as you slid to answer.

“Honey!” his voice practically sang through the speaker. “You just woke up? Heol! That’s a record. Anyway—I’m going to this new bar with Vernon and Chan. Come join us!”

Seungkwan and Chan were your friends from college—your soulmates in chaos. Meanwhile Vernon… well, Vernon was the guy Seungkwan successfully seduced at a club a year ago with nothing but eye contact and a whiskey sour. They've been disgustingly cute ever since.

You stretched, letting your limbs slowly remember how to function. “Is it like a bar,” you asked, voice dry, “or a bar?” You didn’t need to explain the tone difference—Seungkwan knew.

Without missing a beat, he replied, “A bar. Capital B. Good lighting, better drinks, people who bathe.”

You smiled, already getting up. “Pick me up in thirty. Should I wear the red dress I sent you last week?”

The one you bought after seeing the intern Wonwoo cheated with had liked it on Instagram. It was an impulsive purchase—unlike you. But still… it looked fire on the model, and tonight, you wouldn’t mind setting something on fire.

Seungkwan gasped like he’d been waiting for this moment his whole life. “YES. Yes please! I want that intern to cry just by breathing the same air as you!”

You grinned. Tonight might not fix your mess of a professional life. But maybe, just maybe, it would remind you what it felt like to be you again.

*

Seungkwan rushed up to you like a windstorm in designer sneakers and pulled you into a quick hug that reeked of cologne and overpriced candles. “You look unreal. That intern is somewhere crying right now, I know it.” He held your arms and took a step back like he was inspecting artwork. “Ten out of ten. No—eleven. You’re welcome, world.”

Vernon chuckled beside him. “Glad you made it.”

“Thanks,” you laughed. “Though now I’m wondering if I overdressed.”

“You definitely didn’t,” Chan said without missing a beat, raising his hand to you. “You’re just raising the bar.”

The bar Seungkwan had chosen was all velvet mood and amber light—dim enough to hide your regrets but not dark enough to trip on your heels. Hushed conversations buzzed low under a jazzy remix of something that used to be a love song, and the scent of expensive gin and citrus filled the air.

You made your way toward the bar counter, scanning the place. But before the group could fully settle, Seungkwan clapped his hands once. “Okay, baby,” he turned to Vernon, “we need to find the bathroom. And by bathroom I mean selfie lighting. Emergency.”

Vernon just smiled, like this wasn’t the fifth time tonight. “Lead the way.” And just like that, the couple vanished into the crowd like glitter in a wind tunnel.

You slid onto the barstool, crossing your legs as you adjusted the hem of your red dress, feeling the fabric hug your skin in all the right ways. You stared after them, then turned back to Chan, brows raised. “Did they even sit down?”

Chan shrugged, raising his hand toward the bartender for an order, strong whiskey. “I give them ten minutes. Tops. Then they’ll either come back drunk or deeply emotional.”

You laughed again, warmer this time. “Or both.”

“Always both.”

“So,” Chan said, turning slightly to face you, “what do you want out of tonight?”

You blinked, caught off guard by the question. “Out of tonight?”

He nodded, serious now—his eyes clearer despite the liquor. “I mean… what would make this night feel like it was worth leaving your bed and dreams behind?”

You looked at him for a second. Your red dress clung to your skin in all the ways that made you feel powerful. But somehow, that question made you feel a little bare.

“I don’t know,” you admitted. “Maybe just a moment where I don’t feel like I’m holding the weight of everything. A night where I’m not someone’s manager, not the woman who got cheated on by an IT guy with bad eyesight.”

Chan chuckled, amused. He knocked back a shot of whiskey, exhaling sharply as it hit. Then, as if it were the most natural shift in conversation, he muttered, “So. Still dealing with your incompetent boss?”

You tilted your head with a sigh, leaning your elbow on the bar. “Worse. I think he’s trying to be competent now, which is terrifying in itself.”

“Hmm.” Chan nodded solemnly. “Mine forgot to approve the budget this week and then blamed it on Mercury retrograde.”

You blinked. “Isn’t he the one who doesn’t believe in astrology?”

“Exactly.”

A beat passed, then both of you laughed quietly into your drinks, bitter and understanding.

“People like us deserve a position,” Chan muttered, more to himself than to you. Then he downed his next shot like he was trying to silence something. Maybe his ambition. Maybe the reality.

Your eyes followed his line of sight, catching a man on the other side of the bar—tall, broad-shouldered, eyeing Chan like he was something worth unwrapping.

Chan caught it too. He turned to you with a mischievous smirk, the kind you knew too well. “Excuse me,” he said smoothly, setting down his glass. “Duty calls.”

You laughed as he sauntered off, watching the silent exchange between him and the stranger—how easily Chan slipped into chemistry, how effortlessly people gravitated toward him.

It made you smile. And ache, just a little. Your friends really were better at finding men than you. You swirled your drink in its glass, watching the liquid catch the light like molten gold. Fuck.

A subtle shift in air made you glance to your side. Someone had taken the stool Chan had vacated minutes ago—unannounced, but not unwelcome.

He looked crisp. A semi-formal suit in charcoal gray, black shirt unbuttoned just enough to suggest ease without arrogance. His hair was freshly cut, styled like he walked out of a luxury magazine spread, but the smile he wore? Surprisingly… cute.

“Hey,” he said, voice smooth but warm. “Are you alone?”

You blinked once, thrown for the smallest second before recovering with a polite smile. “Nah, I’m with friends.”

He nodded, gaze never drifting, posture casual but confident. “I’m Choi Seungcheol.”

Your eyebrows lifted slightly. Choi Seungcheol? You’d heard the name before. Everyone in the building had. Director of Grand Paradise Hotel, under the Choi Group. One of your company’s most important VVIP clients—usually talked about in numbers, not in the context of flashing a boyish smile at you in a bar.

“Ji Y/n,” you replied, offering your name with an ounce of surprise still clinging to your voice.

“I like your dress, by the way,” he said sincerely, his tone the kind of soft that didn’t ask for attention, but gave it fully. “You look amazing in it.”

You opened your mouth, but nothing clever came. His compliment didn’t feel like a line. It felt like the truth wrapped in manners. He flagged down the bartender, ordering something light—no shots, no bravado. Just a mild liquor with a twist of lime, like he was trying to prove he was here to talk, not to get drunk.

Cute. And unexpectedly polite—for someone carrying that much power behind his last name. Unlike someone you were really, really trying not to think about.

“So,” he said, turning slightly toward you, “my friends are at a table across the room. Do you mind joining us?” He paused, then added with a soft chuckle, “I promise they’re decent guys. No finance bros in sight.”

You considered it. Not too quickly, not too slowly—just enough to give the impression that you weren’t that easy, but you also weren’t cold.

You smiled, head tilting. “Sure.”

His eyes sparkled briefly at that, and in one smooth motion, he stood. Then, reaching for your hand, he helped you up from the high stool—like a man raised right. His grip was firm, confident, warm. And it was probably nothing. Probably just good manners.

Seungcheol’s hand remained gently on yours as he guided you across the bar, weaving through polished shoes, crystal glasses, and laughter that cost too much.

The place changed as you moved deeper—less noise, more privacy, the lighting softer, shadows richer. The kind of spot reserved for people who didn’t have to wait in line. And you were being led there. You.

When he stopped at the table, three men looked up mid-conversation, drinks in hand, posture relaxed in the way only old money could be.

“Everyone,” Seungcheol said casually, “this is Ji Y/n. She’s joining us tonight.”

You smiled, polite but composed, heart thumping a little harder than you liked. You recognized the faces before Seungcheol even opened his mouth. You’d seen them in magazine articles, shareholder meetings, boardroom slides—not up close, not like this.

Jeonghan sat at the far end, one arm draped lazily over the back of the velvet booth, legs crossed, a glass of scotch in hand. Hair tucked just right behind his ear, a soft silk shirt half-buttoned like he was born too elegant to care about dress codes. He was the kind of man who turned being looked at into an art form. You’d seen him before—once at a fashion gala you were nowhere near important enough to attend, and many times in the margins of headlines about high-end runway investments, creative directorships, and quiet takeovers. The heir of a fashion empire, and from the look in his eyes, fully aware of it.

Next to him was Joshua, spine straight, shirt pristine, smile the kind that had likely been melting boardroom resistance since he was a teenager. He exuded charm without arrogance—a quieter sort of influence that didn’t need to announce itself. You remembered him from a different kind of context: a company email signature at the bottom of a rejection letter when you’d applied to Hong Finance 8 years ago. Back then, you imagined men like him sitting behind high-rise windows, too far out of reach to even notice people like you.

“Nice to meet you,” you said calmly, shaking his hand with a professional grace. No bitterness. Just quiet history you kept to yourself.

And then—then your gaze moved to the last man at the table. Your breath stalled for half a second.

Kwon Soonyoung. He was mid-sip, glass frozen near his lips, eyes wide with what could only be described as… surprised indignation. He looked clean and collected in a black button-up with his sleeves rolled up, top two buttons undone like the night didn’t deserve his full formality. But his stare? It was searing.

You’d never seen him in this kind of setting. Not as your annoyingly attractive director. But as one of them. Powerful. Prestigious. Connected.

You tilted your chin slightly, letting a small smile rise to your lips as if to say, Fancy seeing you here.

He blinked, then lowered his glass slowly. “Ji Y/n.” Your name sounded strange coming from his mouth in front of this table. Too familiar. Too… intimate.

Joshua and Jeonghan looked between the two of you with mild interest, picking up on the tension like it was perfume. Seungcheol remained seated, watching the exchange without interference. Then he leaned over, voice smooth as his smile.

“Looks like you two know each other?”

You chuckled softly and sat down beside him. Soonyoung’s eyes narrowed. His fingers tapped against the side of his glass, lips parted like he wanted to say something—but didn’t.

*

Your eyes met across the polished length of the boardroom table. Again. This has become a weekly ritual now—joining board meetings not just as the Marketing Manager, but as Kwon Soonyoung’s unofficial shadow. Secretary. Handler. Babysitter. Pick a label, they all applied.

Still, a small part of you secretly flattered at the elevation. The prestige. You were seen, involved, and whether they liked it or not, your presence had weight in that room.

Every time a meeting wrapped, you’d nudge Mingyu and mutter, “I’m going to be the one talking in there someday. Note that.” To which he always replied with a half-laugh, half-sigh, “Sure you are.”

He never debated you. He knew better. You didn’t bluff when it came to ambition. But right now, ambition wasn’t the problem. It was Soonyoung.

He’d been staring since you walked in. Sat down. Dragged him out of his office five minutes before the meeting began, muttering something about punctuality and image and for once just pretend you’re not a walking HR hazard.

Staring wasn’t new with him. He often looked at things the way a curious toddler would—eyes wide, mouth slightly parted, like the world was one big mysterious object. But this time? This time his stare wasn’t childish curiosity. It was more like you grew a second head and he couldn’t decide if he liked it or wanted to poke it with a stick.

You shot him a sharp look, mouthing the word “Focus” and subtly motioning toward the executives who were mid-discussion about budget forecasting.

Soonyoung blinked, then smiled—too innocently—and turned his gaze toward the speaker, nodding along like he hadn’t just spent the last three minutes trying to telepathically undress your thoughts.

You furrowed your brow in suspicion before glancing down at your watch. Almost noon. And you were starving. Your fingers tapped the table quietly as the meeting stretched on, words starting to blur together. You tried to stay alert, but every time you felt yourself zoning out, Soonyoung shifted slightly in your peripheral vision. Not because he was fidgeting.

But because he was still watching you. And now you were convinced of one thing: He wasn’t staring like you grew a horn.

“You went home with Seungcheol-hyung last night.” His voice broke the silence as the two of you had just settled in after the board meeting—him tossing off his blazer like he ran the world, you gathering your files with the intention of escaping before your stomach officially started devouring itself.

Your steps halted mid-stride. “Yes, Mr. Kwon,” you replied, turning slightly over your shoulder. Tone neutral. Civil. Professional.

Soonyoung nodded slowly, a little too calmly. “I bet you went home… very safely.”

You blinked. Was that supposed to mean something? “I did, actually,” you said, brows lifting in subtle confusion. “Thank you for your concern.”

He slid into his chair, tilting it back with that look on his face. A smile curled at the corner of his lips—not his usual, goofy, harmless grin. This one was... sharp. Teasing. With just enough glint of mad to make you want to throw a stapler across the room.

“I’m expecting the summary from the meeting,” he said, lacing his fingers behind his head, “after lunch.”

You blinked again. “I was planning to finish it after I eat.”

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. “Mmm, but you always say I should send the report right after the meeting ends, remember? ‘Strike while the numbers are hot,’ wasn’t that your words, Ms. Ji?”

Shit. That was your line. You cleared your throat. “With all due respect, I’m afraid I can’t hand it in that fast. I’ll need some time to—”

“Really?” he cut in, voice dipped with mock surprise. “Because I need it quickly. You made that very clear. Efficiency is everything, right?”

You stared at him, mouth parting in silent disbelief. This was personal. You knew it. That little smile on his face was soaked in petty vengeance. You bowed stiffly, jaw clenched. “Understood, Mr. Kwon.”

As you turned to leave, fuming and still hungry, you could practically feel his smugness trailing behind you like expensive cologne. And everyone who saw you stomping back into your department after that? Knew exactly who you were cursing under your breath.

Kwon Soonyoung, the golden heir of the Kwon Group. A menace in designer shoes. And currently, the reason you’d be skipping lunch and possibly losing your sanity.

*

No one stayed in the office during lunch. It was the only sacred hour when even the most cutthroat employees stepped out to breathe something that didn’t reek of toner, stress, or twenty kinds of corporate ambition. Even Mingyu had left—after tipping you off about a new KF Label instant spaghetti that only needed five minutes in the microwave. “Garlic cream or tomato,” he’d whispered like he was offering black market gold.

But not you. You sat at your desk, typing the meeting summary like your job—or pride—depended on it. Which, let’s be honest, it did. You weren’t about to give Kwon Soonyoung the satisfaction of thinking he’d thrown you off just because he got a little petty over last night’s company. Your stomach growled in rebellion, but your ego growled louder.

When the last word clicked into place and the printer began humming behind you, you pushed away from your chair with a smug stretch and headed to the pantry. You’d earned that microwaved meal, sad as it was.

Except when you stepped inside, the scent of cheap instant coffee hit you first—followed by the last person you expected to see.

Kwon Soonyoung. Blazer gone, sleeves rolled up, stirring his coffee like this wasn’t the same man who’d made your blood pressure spike all morning. His tie hung slightly loose, hair messier than it had been during the meeting. He looked... calm. Almost casual. Like he belonged here. He didn’t.

“Ms. Ji,” he greeted smoothly, his voice low, almost too composed.

You bowed without thinking, still halfway in surprise. “I didn’t know you were staying in.”

He shrugged, not quite smiling. “Neither did I.”

Your gaze narrowed slightly. “Didn’t grab lunch, Mr. Kwon?”

He swirled the plastic stirrer in his cup, then leaned against the counter with the kind of confidence that didn’t belong in a pantry. “Didn’t have time,” he said, eyes cutting toward you. “You said I needed that report fast, remember?”

You ignored him and turned to the microwave, peeling back the film cover. “I came here for spaghetti.”

The microwave beeped. You retrieved the steaming bowl, grabbed a fork, and gave it a quick stir. The scent of tomato and roasted garlic filled the small space—a reminder that, yes, your company did do something right.

“So that’s it,” he said behind you. “The new KF Label product.”

You nodded without turning. “Premium instant line. Heat-and-Meet.”

There was a pause. Then, Soonyoung stood.

He moved to stand beside you, too close for the pantry’s size, or for what little sanity you had left. “You’re eating company product,” he said, voice lower now. “That’s very… loyal of you.”

“I’m starving. Loyalty’s a coincidence.”

He glanced at your fork, then back at your face. “Still looks good on you.”

You blinked. That line shouldn’t have worked. But it stirred something anyway. You cleared your throat. “Do you want a bite?”

He raised a brow. “You’re offering to share?”

“Don’t make it weird. It’s R&D. You’re the director. You should know what it tastes like before you embarrass yourself at investor tastings.”

Without hesitation, he leaned forward and took the bite directly from your fork. It was too smooth. Too deliberate. The slide of his lips against the plastic, the way he held your gaze as he chewed.

You stared at him, half wondering when the room got warmer. He swallowed, thoughtfully. “Tangy. Surprisingly rich.” He looked at you, a beat too long. “Kind of like the woman who made me eat it.”

You stared at him. Not just because of what he said, but how he said it—like it wasn’t a line, like it was a fact. His gaze didn’t move. Didn’t even flinch. And then it did—just slightly—drifting down. You felt it like a touch: the way his eyes paused at your lips. Not in a rush. Not in hunger. Just there.

Studying. Contemplating. Wanting. Your breath hitched, just enough that you swore he noticed it. He tilted his head slightly, as if waiting to see what you’d do. And suddenly, the air between you didn’t feel casual anymore. It felt hot. It felt loud.

You didn’t move. He didn’t either.

But the tension between you was already leaning forward, even if your bodies hadn’t yet.

And then, slowly—so slowly—it happened.

Your eyes fluttered down. His breath brushed your cheek. Neither of you said a word as you both leaned in at the same time, like it wasn’t a choice but a conclusion. Like something you’d been avoiding had finally cornered the two of you in the smallest room in the building.

Your lips met—soft, hesitant at first.

A question. An answer. And then it deepened.

Not rushed, not frantic, but sure. Deliberate. Like every back-and-forth bicker, every power play, every petty jab in the boardroom had been leading to this.

His hand touched the edge of the counter beside you, grounding himself. Yours hovered somewhere near his chest before settling on the curve of his arm—tense beneath your fingers.

It wasn’t a kiss that screamed recklessness. It was a kiss that whispered, we knew this was coming. And maybe… maybe that was worse.

Because when you finally pulled away, just barely, lips still brushing, you didn’t dare look at him. Not yet. You just whispered, voice low and cracked at the edge, “That was very… unprofessional, Mr. Kwon.”

Soonyoung’s lips curved near yours. “Good,” he murmured, “because I’m not done being unprofessional.”

You barely had time to process his words—“I’m not done being unprofessional”—before his lips captured yours again, firmer this time. Less tentative. Less testing.

Your back bumped against the edge of the counter as he stepped closer, his hand skimming your waist like he was trying to memorize the shape of you through the thin fabric of your blouse. The scent of his coffee still lingered on his breath, mixing with something uniquely his—clean, warm, infuriatingly intoxicating.

You let out a quiet sound, something between a sigh and a gasp, as your fingers slipped into his hair—soft and slightly messy from the day. You gripped it lightly, tugging just enough to make him groan against your mouth. God. That sound.

His hand settled firmly on your hip, pulling you into him like gravity had a personal agenda. The kiss turned deeper, messier, your bodies syncing in a rhythm that felt far too natural for two people who spent most of their time trading sarcasm and sideways glances in glass-walled meetings.

It was heat. Friction. Unspoken things finally spoken with mouths instead of words. Soonyoung broke the kiss only to trail his lips to the corner of your jaw, his voice warm and ragged against your skin. “You always talk so much in meetings,” he murmured, his fingers brushing the exposed skin beneath your tucked blouse. “But now you’re so quiet.”

You swallowed, breath shaky, heart hammering against your ribs. “Maybe I’m waiting for a good question for once.”

He chuckled against your neck, low and sinful, before lifting his head—eyes dark, lips kissed pink, voice like velvet. “Okay then…”

His thumb grazed the hem of your skirt. “…Ms. Ji, what do I have to do to make you say my name again?”

You should’ve walked away. You should’ve reminded him this was a pantry, in a corporate building, at lunchtime. But instead?

You pulled him back into you like your body had already made the decision your brain refused to acknowledge. Fingers tight in his hair. Mouth crashing into his like you were both starving. And maybe you were.

You didn’t remember taking another breath—only the weight of his body caging you against the counter, the soft clang of your forgotten fork hitting the floor, and the rush of his hands finally going where your thoughts had wandered for too long.

Soonyoung hovered close, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, his breath warm and deliberate. “You’re shaking,” he whispered, voice almost reverent.

“Am not,” you breathed, your fingers still tangled in his hair, holding him there like you weren’t entirely sure you could stay upright without him.

His hand slipped beneath the hem of your skirt, slow, assured, until his knuckles grazed the band of your underwear. He paused, as if testing the waters. As if daring you to stop him.

But you didn’t. You let your head fall back slightly, eyes fluttering shut as he tugged at the fabric—just enough to slip his fingers under, to brush against heat and softness and the part of you that ached with how long you'd resisted this exact moment.

A quiet gasp escaped you, and that seemed to break whatever restraint he still had. “God…” he exhaled like a confession, “you really drive me insane, you know that?”

He kissed you again, slower this time—almost sweet if not for the way his hand moved with purpose, with intention, like he wanted to memorize every reaction you gave him. Your hand gripped the back of his neck, grounding yourself in him, in this, in the ridiculous insanity of making out in the pantry like it was your last chance on earth.

“You’re always so in control,” he murmured, teasing the edge of your jaw as his other hand anchored your hip, “but I think you like it when I push.”

You opened your eyes just enough to meet his, and there it was again—that flicker of madness, mischief, and something dangerously close to need.

“Careful, Mr. Kwon,” you whispered, mouth brushing his, “push too far, and I might pull you under.” He smirked like he hoped you would. And then he kissed you again—deeper, slower, pulling you closer like the world outside that pantry didn’t matter.

*

You were flabbergasted. A month ago, you were heating instant spaghetti in the pantry, trying to pretend that fucking your boss didn’t feel like the worst idea you’d ever fallen into.

Now? You were sitting stiffly in a room with three people from HR, a folder in front of you, your hands cold despite how warm the room felt.

Yes, you had slept with Kwon Soonyoung. A few times. Consensually. Not impulsively, not irresponsibly—not from your perspective. And as ridiculous as it was to admit even to yourself, he hadn’t been bad at all in those areas. Too good, in fact. Dangerously good, both with his hands and the way he listened—actually listened—to your ideas during board meetings. He even stopped wearing Cartier and started taking actual notes.

So the fact that you were here, now, caught off guard and very much alone, felt like a slap out of nowhere.

The woman in the middle of the HR panel cleared her throat, hands folded neatly. “Ms. Ji. We wanted to discuss something concerning that’s come to our attention.”

You blinked, still unsure where this was going. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t aware I did anything against the—”

“Your last relationship,” the woman interrupted gently, “was already a topic of concern when it involved someone significant to the company.”

Wonwoo.

You stiffened, jaw tightening. You hadn’t heard his name in weeks, and you preferred it that way. But yes, the intern he cheated with turned out to be someone's niece from the Kwon family. Of course that hadn’t died quietly.

You opened your mouth to respond, but the man sitting beside her cut in first. “We didn’t expect this one.”

You blinked again. “Excuse me?” They didn’t repeat it. They didn’t need to.

The third HR rep leaned forward, sliding a paper your way—an incident report, stamped and dated. “We’re going to have to take action regarding your affair with Director Kwon.”

Everything in you froze. For a moment, all you could hear was the soft buzz of the overhead light. You didn’t move, didn’t speak, as the words circled your head like a siren you couldn’t shut off. Your affair. Director Kwon. It felt like your lungs deflated.

“I… don’t understand,” you finally said, slow and careful. “On what grounds?”

The woman in the center flipped open a file. “There was a complaint submitted anonymously, referencing inappropriate conduct in the office. Specifically in shared spaces. A pantry, for instance.”

Your stomach dropped. So fast, it made your fingers go numb. “And—if I may,” the younger HR rep added, “there’s also concern regarding power dynamics, given your reporting line.”

You wanted to laugh. But it wasn’t funny. Because you’d worked so damn hard. You trained Soonyoung. You cleaned up his messes and wrote half the proposals with his name on them, and still walked into every meeting like your career had been built on steel, not glass.

And now, after everything, it came down to this? A moment. And an anonymous report.

You clenched your jaw, sat straighter, and folded your hands in your lap. “So what kind of action are we talking about?”

The room went quiet. The silence that followed your question felt like it lasted forever. And then the answer came, quietly, like they already knew how you’d react—and were bracing for it.

“We’ve decided,” the woman said carefully, “that you will be reassigned to a different department effective immediately.”

Your breath caught in your throat. “Reassigned?”

“Demoted,” the man clarified with corporate softness, as if using the word wouldn’t hit like a fist. “You’ll be moved from Marketing Management to Administrative Strategy under Corporate Communications.”

You stared at them. Not because you didn’t understand. But because you did. They weren’t firing you. That would’ve made noise. No—they were burying you quietly, slipping you into a department where your work wouldn’t shine, where your name wouldn’t show up on campaign reports, board meeting minutes, or executive proposals. They were pushing you out of the light.

You let out a slow, controlled exhale, refusing to let the tremble in your chest reach your face. “Is Director Kwon receiving the same treatment?”

Another pause. “No,” the lead HR officer said. “After discussion with the executive board, it was determined that Director Kwon will be formally warned, and the matter will be noted in his file.”

A warning. You blinked. A warning for him. A demotion for you. You pressed your lips together, not trusting your voice to stay steady. “And that’s fair, in your opinion?”

“Ms. Ji,” the younger officer interjected gently, “you’ve had a prior history of internal relationship issues that—”

“He’s my superior.” You snapped before you could stop yourself. “If anything, he should’ve been held to a higher standard.”

They didn’t answer. No one ever did, when the unspoken truth hung heavy in the air. He had power. You didn’t. And even if you were the one who helped him become competent, presentable, capable—even if you were the one cleaning up his early failures and doing your work and his—they didn’t care. Because it was easier to punish the one they knew would quietly take it.

Your jaw clenched as you stood, straightening your blazer. “I understand.”

The head officer gave a polite nod. “Your reassignment email will be sent by the end of day. Your new manager will expect you tomorrow morning.”

You turned to leave, your heels echoing sharper than usual against the tiled floor. Your desk had never felt this bare before. You moved like your body had detached from the rest of you—silent, efficient, folding your things with the kind of care you’d normally reserve for the start of something, not the end. Each click of a pen, each rustle of a folder being stacked, was sharp in the quiet.

You didn’t speak. You didn’t cry. You just packed. A shadow passed in your peripheral vision.

“Y/n?” You turned slightly to find Mingyu standing there, a confused frown drawing across his face. His eyes darted to the box on your desk, to your emptied shelves, then back to you.

“What’s going on?”

You kept your head down, pretending to double-check a folder as you tucked it into the box.

“I just got an email from HR,” he continued, voice tightening. “They’re asking me to step in as acting Marketing Manager… temporarily.”

He said the last word like it tasted wrong in his mouth.

You didn’t answer. Your fingers paused at the edge of a stapler, then moved past it.

“Y/n.” Mingyu stepped closer. “What the hell is happening?”

You closed the box slowly, pressing your palm flat against the top as if to anchor yourself. Your chest felt too full—tight with shame, anger, disbelief—and none of it had a name you were ready to say out loud.

You looked up, just enough to meet his eyes. His worry was sincere. Of course it was. He didn’t know. He wouldn’t have accepted the offer if he did.

“I’m being moved,” you said quietly. “Another department.”

“Wait—what?” Mingyu blinked, stunned. “Why? You didn’t do anything wrong.”

You looked away. “I don’t want to talk about it,” you said, voice low and flat. “Not right now.”

He fell silent. You could hear the protest building in his throat, the way he shifted his weight like his body didn’t know whether to stay or follow. But he didn’t press. He just nodded once—slow, reluctant.

You gave him a tight smile, the kind that didn't touch your eyes. Then you picked up your box and walked out of your office—your former office—without looking back.

*

Soonyoung walked into the office with his blazer half off and irritation simmering behind his eyes. The lunch meeting had been a disaster—numbers thrown around without context, board members talking in circles, and nobody knowing what the hell they actually wanted from him. He needed grounding. He needed clarity. He needed you.

So when he stepped out of the elevator and saw Mingyu standing by his office door instead of you, he frowned. “Mingyu?” he asked, blinking like he’d walked into the wrong floor. “Where’s Ms. Ji?”

Mingyu straightened a little, caught off guard. “I… see HR hasn’t told you.”

Soonyoung’s brows pinched. “Told me what?”

“Ms. Ji has been reassigned to another department,” Mingyu said, careful with his words. “I’ve been assigned to assist you until your new executive assistant is recruited.”

For a beat, the air felt thicker. Soonyoung tilted his head, confused. “She was moved? When?”

“I’m not sure about the details, sir,” Mingyu replied, trying not to fidget under Soonyoung’s narrowing gaze. “I only got the notice after lunch.”

Soonyoung stared past him for a second, processing. You were just… gone? No meeting. No sarcastic remarks. No quiet nod as you handed him a stack of deadlines and subtle reminders to behave like a functioning adult. No draft on his desk of the proposal you were supposed to polish before 3 p.m. Gone. Without a word.

“Right,” Soonyoung finally said, brushing past Mingyu and into his office. “Thanks.”

At exactly 2 p.m., two sharp, precise knocks echoed against the glass door of Soonyoung’s office. He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. Only one person knocked like they were keeping time on a metronome. The door opened anyway.

Kwon Soonyoung looked up to see Lee Jihoon—his cousin, his childhood sparring partner, and unfortunately, also the manager of the Human Resources department. Jihoon was sharp as ever, dressed in a pale button-down and black slacks, sleeves rolled past his elbows like always, giving him the air of someone both overworked and unbothered by it.

He walked in with calm purpose, a single manila folder in his hand and a look on his face that said this wasn’t a social visit. Soonyoung sighed and leaned back in his chair. “What now?”

Jihoon said nothing. He reached the desk, dropped the folder down with a solid thump, and crossed his arms over his chest.

“Your notice,” he said, tone clipped. Soonyoung dragged his fingers through his hair and opened it with two fingers like it might bite. Inside was a printed letter bearing the company’s watermark and the clinical, unmistakable phrasing of HR. The header hit first:

Formal Reprimand — Director Kwon Soonyoung.

Beneath it:

Violation of company policies regarding professional conduct and inappropriate relations within workplace hours...

A wave of heat spread across the back of Soonyoung’s neck. He exhaled through his nose. “A love letter,” he muttered bitterly.

“I warned you,” Jihoon replied, not even flinching.

Of course he had. Jihoon had been warning him since the second week Soonyoung started at KF Label. First subtly. Then with passive-aggressive memos. And then with real conversations—cousin to cousin, HR to Director.

Soonyoung kept reading. Then he stopped. Your name was listed. His. Dated timestamps. A note about internal protocol breaches and the review that followed. “She was moved because of this?” Soonyoung’s voice was low. Tight.

Jihoon gave a slow, neutral shrug. “She’s been reassigned to Corporate Communications under Admin Strategy. Effective immediately.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Jihoon didn’t move from where he leaned against the desk, arms crossed again. “The complaint came in. Security reports matched the time. You want the details? You’ll get them in writing. Bottom line—HR took action.”

“She didn’t file anything,” Soonyoung said, more to himself than anyone.

“No,” Jihoon replied. “But someone else did. You’re in a glass building, Soonyoung. Don’t act like you’re invisible.”

Soonyoung looked away, jaw clenching. “She didn’t deserve that,” he muttered.

“No, she didn’t,” Jihoon agreed, voice flat. “But she’s not the one with Kwon as their last name. You are. And between the two of you, the board wasn’t about to sacrifice their own director—so they cut the easier string.” The words hit harder than they should have.

Soonyoung sank into his chair, fingers curling slightly around the edge of the folder. “She made this department function,” he said. “She made me functional.”

Jihoon tilted his head, stepping away from the desk. “And now she’s somewhere no one will bother her again.”

He reached for the door handle, pausing with one foot out. Then, without turning back, “She covered for you every single time you slipped. Maybe instead of being angry at HR, you should be asking yourself why she ever had to.”

The door clicked closed behind him.bAnd for the first time since Soonyoung sat behind that director’s desk, it didn’t feel like power anymore. It felt like consequence.

Days later, Soonyoung stared at his screen, the cursor blinking beneath the words he had retyped at least four times. He wasn’t good at this part. The… formal part. The “trying to keep things clean after it’s already messy” part.

But he had to try something. He’d already felt the hollow space you'd left behind the second he walked into the office and saw someone else standing where you should have been. The wrong energy. The wrong rhythm. Everything off balance. The chair behind your old desk was too still, like no one dared to fill the space you carved.

So he wrote the email like a coward—because walking to your new department unannounced felt too aggressive. And calling felt too personal.

Ms. Ji, I would appreciate the opportunity to meet briefly regarding recent events and your transition. Please let me know if you’re available this week, at your convenience.

Regards,

Kwon Soonyoung

Director, KF Label

He wrote it like a professional. And hated every line of it. But he sent it anyway. Then he sat there, one elbow on the desk, teeth pressing against his knuckle as if it might keep the anticipation at bay. It didn’t.

When your reply came in twenty-three minutes later, he opened it instantly. The corner of his lips lifted—small, involuntary.

I didn’t realize you had mastered the art of professional communication—should we alert HR?

Of course you’d say that. He let out a breath of something that was almost a laugh. It tugged at his chest in a way that was both cruel and comforting. You hadn’t blocked him out. Not entirely. You still knew how to twist the knife with charm. He leaned back in his chair and reread the last line.

Please book a meeting room that doesn’t echo.

So you were coming. Soonyoung swiveled in his chair, glancing toward the hallway, toward the part of the building where he used to see you moving between departments, coffee in one hand, files in the other, bossing people with that crisp, no-nonsense tone that made him fall for you in the first place.

It had been a month. A month of kissing you like he couldn’t help it. A month of crossing lines in ways that felt reckless but right. And then one day—just gone. No fight. No confrontation. Just a folder on his desk from Jihoon and a quiet, echoing absence.

He turned back to his screen and opened the calendar. Booked Meeting Room 5A—the only one with decent soundproofing—and sent the invite. As he pressed send, he sat back and rubbed a palm against his jaw, heart slower than usual but heavier.

You were coming. But this time, you were coming from a different department, a different floor, a different version of what the two of you had built—one meeting, one mistake at a time.

And he didn’t know if you were coming as a former colleague, a woman he’d ruined something with, or someone who still wanted answers.

Soonyoung wasn't the type to fall for the cold ones. Not at first glance, anyway. His usual preference tilted toward softer edges—women who laughed too easily, said yes too quickly, and let him coast through the surface of things. People who didn’t poke at his insecurities or point out the gaping holes in his competence like it was part of their daily job description.

Which is exactly why you were not his type. At least, you weren’t supposed to be.

You were the definition of precision—smart, fast, efficient, and terrifyingly prepared. You didn’t flirt. You didn’t dangle compliments or flash polite smiles unless they were strategic. You were the woman who made everyone in the room sit up straighter when you walked in.

And yet, from day three, he was already in trouble.

You’d walked into his office with your file folder tucked against your chest, wearing a blood-red pencil skirt and a black blouse so sharp it could’ve sliced someone’s quarterly budget in half. Stockings, heels, hair pulled back in that tight, quiet way that made him forget what you’d said right after you said it.

He hadn’t even known what department you were from before then. But he knew from the second he looked at you that you were dangerous.

You weren’t just attractive. You were intimidatingly put-together. The kind of woman whose brain was hotter than her body—and her body was already a goddamn threat.

Call him a pervert—but he’d nearly choked on his own thoughts that day. And his type? Changed. Overnight. It wasn’t just the clothes. Or the legs. It was how you looked at him when you spoke. Like you knew ten things he didn’t. Like he was your slowest subject in class.

And that mouth. You didn’t curse. You didn’t yell. You told him he was stupid with elegant, HR-friendly, vocabulary—inefficient, unprepared, unfamiliar with protocol. Words that stung more than insults because they were true.

Soonyoung wasn't a saint. He loved women. But your breed? Rare. Too rare to ignore. Too rare to resist. Maybe that’s why when you’d stayed late with him that first time—papers everywhere, the city lights bleeding in through the blinds, and you standing too close with your hair falling from that bun—you became inevitable.

Maybe that’s why his hand reached for you like instinct. Why you didn’t push him away. Why your kiss tasted like the end of something professional. And maybe that’s why he’d bent you over that desk that night—not just because he wanted to (God, he did)—but because some part of him had already fallen.

*

"Fuck..."

Your breath hitched as you settled onto him, your knees braced on either side of his thighs, the edge of the table digging lightly into your back. The polished surface was cold. His hands were anything but.

Soonyoung’s fingers gripped your hips with a firmness that said he’d been dreaming of this—of you—for longer than he wanted to admit. His thumbs pressed into the curve just above your waistband, guiding you, grounding you.

Each movement between you was desperate but controlled, like something learned through tension rather than timing.

Earlier, You arrived at Meeting Room 5A at 4:01 p.m. He was already inside. Blinds drawn. Door locked. Suit jacket hung neatly over the chair beside him. His shirt sleeves rolled up, wrists bare. A bottle of water sat untouched in front of him, condensation sliding down its sides like even it was nervous to be in this room.

You didn’t sit right away. Soonyoung looked up, eyes scanning you with something unreadable. He stood as you approached, as if unsure whether to greet you like a colleague… or something else.

“Ms. Ji,” he said quietly, too formal for the way he was looking at you.

“Director Kwon,” you returned with equal sharpness, sliding into the chair across from him. You placed your phone on the table, screen-down. Just in case.

Silence hovered like a third presence. He was the first to break it. “I didn’t know they were going to move you.”

You tilted your head. “That’s the thing about consequences. Sometimes they arrive quietly.”

“I didn’t file anything,” he said. “You know that, right?”

You gave a small, humorless smile. “I know. But your silence wasn’t exactly protective either.”

That landed. He didn’t argue. The seconds stretched again, thick with things neither of you wanted to say out loud.bThen, Soonyoung leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on the table. His voice dropped, no longer formal. “I miss working with you.”

You didn’t answer right away. Your fingers tapped against the wood, rhythm steady. “Is that what this meeting is about?” you asked eventually. “Missing your assistant?”

He smirked, but it was hollow. “You weren’t just my assistant, and you know that.”

You did. And that was the problem.

His hands slid up slowly, tracing the slope of your waist, steadying you as you moved against him. He tilted his head back just slightly, his jaw clenched, mouth parting with a quiet exhale that barely made it past his throat.

You didn’t need him to say anything. You felt it in the way he held you tighter with every shift. The way his fingers pressed into your skin like he couldn’t believe this was real again.

Your palm found his chest, steadying yourself. He was too warm, too solid beneath you.

Then he looked up at you. Eyes darker. Focused. Not on what you were doing, but on you—like watching you fall apart on him was more powerful than anything else he could feel.

His hand rose, brushing up the length of your spine, fingers threading into your hair before tugging just enough to steal your breath again.

You weren’t sure when your head tipped back, or when your hands gripped his shoulders like they were the only thing keeping you tethered to this moment. The edge between pleasure and collapse was thin now—barely holding.

His breath was ragged against your throat, each exhale growing more erratic, his hands no longer guiding but gripping—like he was trying to ground himself in you, like letting go too soon would ruin everything.

Soonyoung’s voice came low and strained against your skin, “Y/n—don’t stop.”

You didn’t plan to. Your rhythm faltered for half a second, hips stuttering from how tightly your body coiled around the sensation—but he was right there, his hand steady at the small of your back, keeping you close, keeping you moving.

Your foreheads touched. Sweat. Breath. Tension.

He looked at you—really looked. And for a beat, the air stopped. There was nothing but the heat of his palm at your waist, the tremble in your thighs, the way your name barely formed on his lips like a prayer or a warning.

And then it hit you—how close you were. How close he was. Every movement became desperate, sloppier. More like instinct than intent.

Your lips brushed his cheek, your body arching as your pulse surged, your voice catching in your throat. “Fuck—Soonyoung—”

That did it. His hands tightened, his body tensed, and in the space between control and surrender, you both tipped over the edge—together. Breathless. Silenced. Shaking.

For a few seconds, there was only the sound of your breathing. Tangled limbs. Quiet gasps. And the soft creak of the table beneath you. He didn’t speak. He just held you—one hand still at your back, the other cradling your waist like you might disappear if he let go too fast.

Your breath was still uneven, your limbs trembling slightly as the silence wrapped around you both like a warm, heavy fog. You rested against his chest, trying to steady your heartbeat, when his voice broke through.

Soft. Low. Like a secret he wasn’t ready to share but couldn’t hold back any longer.

“Resign.”

You blinked.

“Hand them your resignation.”

The words didn’t register at first—your mind too hazy, your body too loose. But when they did, your brows furrowed instinctively. You lifted your head just slightly, startled.

He was already watching you. Still inside this moment. Still bare and open and raw in a way he rarely allowed.

“I—what?” you whispered, breath catching again—but not from desire this time.

Soonyoung reached up, brushing a strand of damp hair from your cheek. His touch was slow, almost reverent. And then he tilted your chin until your eyes met. His gaze wasn’t playful now. No teasing. No smug curl to his lips. Just quiet sincerity.

“I couldn’t watch you being humiliated like this,” he said. “Not after everything you’ve done. Not after everything you’ve fixed… for me.”

You felt it then. The way your throat tightened. The sharp sting behind your eyes. You didn’t even realize a tear had fallen until his thumb was already brushing it away, tender against your cheek like you’d break if he pressed too hard.

His fingers traced the curve of your face, slow, careful. You hated how gentle he was being—it unraveled you faster than anything else. This wasn’t supposed to be gentle. This wasn’t supposed to feel like he cared.

But he did. And that made it worse.

You tried to swallow the lump in your throat. Tried to pull back the flood of emotion that had been simmering under your skin since the HR meeting—since the reassignment, the whispers, the humiliation you had to wear like perfume the minute you stepped into your new floor.

And now this. Soonyoung, who was never supposed to take anything seriously, was the one seeing you the clearest.

Your lip quivered. You bit down on it hard enough to taste metal, willing yourself to stay composed. But the second tear came. Then another. You looked away, ashamed of your silence, your vulnerability, your inability to respond.

“Y/n,” he said gently, pulling you closer, foreheads touching again. “If they don’t see your worth… leave. And I’ll help you find a better place.”

The weight of those words hit you harder than anything else. You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

But your hand slid to his chest, curled softly in his shirt like you needed something to hold onto.

And for once, he didn’t ask anything more from you. He just stayed with you in this quiet, undone moment.

*

You didn’t mean to call anyone. You had told yourself you'd just shower, maybe eat, maybe sleep—but instead you found yourself curled up on the edge of your bed, still in your clothes, your phone pressed to your ear as it rang.

It was late. The kind of late that made everything feel heavier. The dim light from the kitchen gave the room a soft glow, but your phone pressed to your ear felt heavier than usual.

“I’m just… tired,” was all you said when Seungkwan picked up, his voice chipper at first—then cautious. He didn’t push. He never did. He let the silence fall, filling it with his presence, not questions.

There was a pause, long enough that you almost said “never mind.” Then your voice slipped through again, barely above a whisper.

“What do you think if I’m resigning?”

A beat. Then Seungkwan answered, calm and sincere. “I don’t mind. I mean, yeah—it’ll be hard to find something with the same value, same reputation. But if that’s what you want, I’ll support it. Always.”

You sighed, pressing your thumb against your temple. Your head hurt in the kind of way that wasn’t about lack of sleep—but a lack of peace.

“I don’t know, Seungkwan... I really don’t know.”

“Of course you’re clueless. You’ve been shoved around and put in situations where you had to survive. I understand,” he said, his voice gentler now. “Do you have any career plan? Is someone offering you a job?”

No. No one. Well— Soonyoung had said he’d help. Said it with conviction in that private moment like it was gospel. Like he meant every word.

But he was Kwon Soonyoung. A man who once asked if “ROI” was the name of a new intern. Who didn’t know how to schedule his own meetings without color-coded prompts you made for him. Who showed up to investor brunches with lipstick on his collar—your lipstick—and still made a joke out of it.

You couldn’t even trust him to send an attachment properly in an email. And now he was asking you to trust him with your life after this?

Your silence must’ve stretched too long, because Seungkwan spoke again. “Is it him?” That stopped your breath. You didn’t say his name. You didn’t have to. He knew.

“I don’t know what he promised you,” Seungkwan continued gently, “but if you’re holding on to that as your only parachute, make sure it’s not just… words.”

You closed your eyes. You wanted to believe him.bWanted to believe that Soonyoung meant it—that he would fight for you, that he saw everything you sacrificed for that label, that he wouldn’t let this end with you packing your things and being erased.

But that was the problem, wasn’t it? You didn’t know if it was belief… Or wishful thinking. And you were tired of hoping. You didn’t answer. Just let the silence fall again.

*

When Soonyoung stepped into his apartment, the first thing that hit him wasn’t the silence—but the scent. Something warm. Garlicky. Familiar. He paused by the door, blinking like he had to recalibrate. There was someone in his kitchen. You.

Wearing one of his aprons—badly tied—and frowning softly at the pot in front of you. The sleeves of your blouse were rolled up, and your hair was clipped messily at the back. You didn’t hear him come in right away, too focused on adjusting the stove and tapping at the edge of the box labeled KF Meal Kit –Kimchi Jjigae.

He chuckled, loosening his tie. You and these damn company products. It was the fifth time he’d seen you cooking them in the last month. At work. At home. He shrugged off his blazer, folded it neatly, then quietly walked to the kitchen. You looked up as he reached the counter, eyebrows raised and a small smile tugging at your lips.

You leaned a little on the counter, watching the pot begin to simmer. He stepped closer without thinking, hands finding your waist like they belonged there. You didn’t move. You didn’t stop him. If anything, your body softened beneath his touch, like it remembered the rhythm of standing this close.

Soonyoung exhaled quietly, pressing his forehead near your ttemple I miss you,” he murmured.

There was no teasing in it. No smug grin. Just honesty, spoken low and barely audible over the bubbling of the meal.

You blinked, the words catching you off guard—but not in a bad way. They melted into the air, sinking into the skin between his palms and your ribs. You didn’t respond immediately. You just leaned the tiniest bit into him, a silent answer in itself.

His thumb brushed over your hip, and he pulled you just slightly closer—not possessive, not rushed. Just… here. Present.

You tilted your head toward him slightly. “Dinner’s not even done yet and you’re already getting sentimental?”

Soonyoung chuckled, resting his chin on your shoulder, “You in my kitchen is enough. Feels like I’ve already won.”

And for a moment, it was quiet. Dinner was long gone—plates in the sink, lights dimmed, and the two of you curled on the couch like gravity pulled your bodies together on instinct. The TV played something neither of you paid attention to. Just background noise to the slow rhythm of Soonyoung’s fingers trailing along your cheek, brushing the edge of your jaw, memorizing your face like it was the first time again.

You blinked, lazy from the warmth of his hold, when he spoke.

“I talked to Joshua hyung today.”

Your brow lifted. “Yeah?”

“He said there’s a manager position opening in his company. He’d like to see your resume.”

You turned toward him a little, eyes wide in disbelief. “Really?”

He smiled, nodding, looking far too proud for someone just casually bringing life-altering news. “Yeah… I told him about you. About how competent and sharp you are. He said he can’t wait to meet you.”

You stared at him. “That’s… unexpected.”

Soonyoung immediately pouted, his brows knitting together in that ridiculous way that never quite matched how tall and put-together he could look in a suit. “What’s that supposed to mean? You think I wouldn’t come through?”

You chuckled under your breath, “No, it’s not that. I just…” you exhaled, “I didn’t expect you’d actually do it. I know you can, with your last name and network. But I guess a part of me thought… I was just someone who helped you with work.”

Soonyoung stared at you like you’d just said something blasphemous. Then sighed heavily and pulled you closer, tucking your head beneath his chin.

“You should know by now that you’re more than that, Y/n. Everyone sees it. Even Seungcheol hyung said you were—what did he say—ah, charismatic.”

You groaned, pressing your face briefly into his shoulder. “Don’t bring that up…”

Soonyoung chuckled, a little too amused. “What? It’s true. Remember that night he drove you home from the bar? You told him what you did—accidentally, if I recall—and he just went, ‘So you’re the one supervising Soonyoung? Ah… the annoying marketing manager, huh?’”

You sighed dramatically. “Great. That’s my legacy.”

“Sexy annoying marketing manager,” he corrected with a grin, pulling you closer.

“Shut up.”

He laughed harder now, contentment laced into every curve of his smile.

Then, a pause. Softer.

“You’re not mad?” he asked.

You looked up at him. “Mad?”

“For… helping you like this. I mean, I know you’re strong. I didn’t want to bruise your pride or make it seem like I thought you couldn’t land something on your own.”

You stared at him, heart clenching in that way it sometimes did when people said something too kind. Something too thoughtful.

“You’re competent. Smart. Efficient,” he said, as if repeating it to himself. “And I was worried you’d turn it down because you thought I was underestimating you. But I wasn’t. Not even a little.”

You blinked, then smiled, unable to stop the warmth spreading through your chest.

“You’re cute, Soonyoung,” you murmured, fingers reaching up to pinch his cheek gently.

“Hey! I’m being serious!” he protested, squirming under your touch—but his grin betrayed him.

You leaned into him again, nestling under his chin as his arms instinctively wrapped tighter.

“I know you are,” you whispered. “And that’s why I might actually consider it.”

He didn’t answer. But the way his breath slowed, and the way his thumb gently brushed the back of your hand, said everything.

The TV murmured in the background—some drama neither of you were really watching—as the quiet between you stretched long and comfortably still. The couch dipped just slightly beneath your bodies, your fingers lazily tracing the hem of his sleeve. You were dangerously close to dozing off again in his warmth. Until—

“Soonyoung-ah?”

The sudden voice made you jolt so hard you lost balance. He turned his head sharply—just as you tried to sit up. Your knees caught the edge of the coffee table, he tried to grab your waist, you both fumbled—and then fell.

Hard.

The thud was loud, a tangle of limbs and fabric hitting the floor, followed by a stunned silence and a hissed curse from Soonyoung.

“Oh my—are you okay?!” came the voice again. It was closer now.

You froze, eyes wide. Soonyoung groaned beneath you. “Why didn’t you lock the damn door?” you whispered sharply as you sat up from his chest, trying to fix your shirt, your dignity already lost in the living room rug.

“I didn’t think I needed to!” he hissed back, rubbing the back of his head.

Then a pair of heels stepped into view.

“Oh,” said a woman with a well-maintained bob cut and too-perfect makeup. Her tone was pleasantly surprised, but her gaze was anything but subtle. “I… didn’t know you had company.”

You scrambled upright. “Hello—I'm sorry—I didn’t hear anyone come in—”

“Clearly,” she said with a polite smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

Soonyoung stood, brushing off his slacks and walking past you like nothing happened. “You visit,” he said flatly.

His mother blinked. “I brought food. And I wanted to check on you.”

He walked toward the kitchen without glancing back. “I’m not twelve.”

She gave you a knowing glance and followed. “Still, you always forget to eat when you're under pressure. And you’re hosting. I had to make sure she wasn’t starving.”

You stiffened slightly. Soonyoung looked back at you, unreadable. “She ate.”

“I can see,” she said, eyes flicking toward the leftover meal kit container on the counter. “Microwave dinners. Very romantic.”

His mouth twitched. “It’s from the label.”

His mom looked at him, then at you, and smiled again, this time softer. “You must be the reason he’s actually showing up to board meetings.”

You opened your mouth, unsure what to say.

“Mom,” Soonyoung interjected, tone clipped. “You’ve delivered the soup. You’ve confirmed I haven’t died. Are you staying?”

She tilted her head slightly. “I can go. Don’t let me interrupt.” Her gaze lingered on the couch—on the crumpled blanket, the two glasses, the clear closeness—before she turned to the door.

“I’ll call you later, Soonyoung,” she added as she slipped her heels back on. “Nice to meet you, Miss…”

“Ji,” you supplied quickly.

“Miss Ji,” she echoed with a small smile before she stepped out, closing the door with an audible click.

Silence.

You turned to him, breath still uneven from both the fall and the mortification. “So that was your mom.”

“Yep.”

“She didn’t seem… warm.”

“She’s not.”

A pause. “She said she brought food.”

He rolled his eyes. “She’ll Venmo the maid to drop it off later.”

“…You okay?”

Soonyoung scratched the back of his head, then looked at you with a crooked grin. “Honestly? I’d rather fall again.”

You laughed. Loudly this time. And maybe—just maybe—it made the awkwardness a little easier to carry.

*

Your first day at Hong Finance went better than expected. The morning had been a whirlwind of handshakes, onboarding documents, and a glossy welcome kit with your name printed in soft gold on the folder. The office was sleek, everything glass and grey and expensive-smelling, but the people? Surprisingly warm. Joshua, your new Director, had personally introduced you to each team member, casually mentioning that you came highly recommended—without saying by who.

Though you had a guess. A certain someone who used to forget what KF Label even stood for.

You worked through the day with quiet diligence, letting your brain adjust to the faster pace, the bigger picture, and the knowledge that you weren’t being micromanaged by HR this time around. You weren’t running damage control. You were actually doing your job—and being respected for it.

It was 6:10 when you stepped out of the building, your heels clicking gently on the pavement. The golden haze of sunset stretched across the city skyline.

And right there, leaning against a black car with sunglasses perched atop his head, was Kwon Soonyoung.

He looked like he belonged on the cover of a lifestyle magazine—tailored slacks, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, one hand in his pocket and the other lazily scrolling his phone. But the second he spotted you, he straightened up and pulled the door open.

“For the newly hired marketing manager of Hong Finance,” he grinned.

You raised an eyebrow as you walked up. “Look who’s playing chauffeur.”

“I prefer ‘supportive boyfriend who can finally say that title out loud.’” He gave you a dramatic bow before you slid into the passenger seat. “You worked hard. I’m proud of you.”

You chuckled as he got in, started the engine, and the two of you merged into the soft blur of city traffic. “So how was your day?”

He shrugged with a grin. “Better now. I was thinking of you the whole time. Could barely sit through my meeting without wondering if you were dying in there or thriving.”

“I’m thriving,” you smirked. “Try not to look so surprised.”

He glanced sideways at you, eyes softening, then turned back to the road. “You know, I meant it when I said I wanted to take you out tonight. Properly.”

You leaned your head against the seat, lips curving. “I know.”

He glanced at you again.

“And I meant it too,” you added, mischievous. “‘Finally growing up,’ huh?”

Soonyoung groaned playfully. “You’ll never let me live that down, will you?”

“Nope.”

It happened six months later. You weren’t expecting it. Not after all the teasing. Not after the jokes he made every time marriage came up, always with a sly grin and a "we’ll see" or a "why rush, we’re young, aren’t we?"

And certainly not on a regular Saturday afternoon, in the middle of folding laundry in his apartment, your hair tied up in a loose bun, wearing one of his old oversized shirts that still smelled like his cologne no matter how many times you washed it.

But maybe that was why it happened. Because you weren’t dressed up. There was no audience. No violin strings, no rooftop dinner. Just sunlight spilling through the windows, the quiet hum of domestic life, and the two of you surrounded by all the little pieces of your routine. Your world.

He stood behind you, not saying anything at first. Just watching. You felt his stare and turned around, sock in hand. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

Soonyoung tilted his head, lips quirking faintly. “I’m thinking.”

“Dangerous.”

He laughed softly, but didn’t look away. “I mean it.”

You waited.

“I was thinking,” he said again, this time quieter, “about how I used to think love was chaos. Fireworks. Like a storm you couldn’t control.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden sincerity in his voice.

“But you’re not chaos,” he went on, stepping closer. “You’re… steady. You’re grounding. You told me when I was being stupid. You stayed when it would’ve been easier to quit. You even learned to like our new meal kit.”

You rolled your eyes, but your chest tightened. “So now you’re confessing your undying love through carbs?”

“No,” he chuckled, then reached into his pocket. “I’m proposing through this.”

Your breath caught as you saw the small velvet box. He opened it slowly, revealing a ring so simple and beautiful it nearly took your breath away. No diamonds shouting for attention. Just a gold band with a small, elegant gem. The kind of thing someone would wear every day. Quiet. Constant.

Just like the love he’d built with you.

“I’m not good with a lot of things,” he admitted, voice trembling just slightly. “But I know I want to wake up next to you for the rest of my life. I want our dumb, quiet mornings. Our microwave dinners. You calling me an idiot when I deserve it. And maybe one day, you walking into my office again—but with my name.”

You stared at him, completely speechless. Then he laughed, nervously. “You don’t have to say yes now, by the way. I know your career’s still—”

“Yes.”

He paused. “Wait—what?”

You dropped the sock you were holding, stepping closer. “Yes, Kwon Soonyoung. You idiot.” His smile split wide as you tackled him in a hug, the ring box still clutched in his hand.

*

Meeting his parents was something you’d quietly prepared for, even if Soonyoung said you didn’t need to. “They’re not scary,” he promised with his usual shrug. “You met my mom. My dad’ll just talk about the stock market until someone stops him.”

Still, as you sat beside Soonyoung at the long dining table in their sleek Hannam-dong house—with its museum-level lighting and not a single speck of dust—you knew this wasn’t just any dinner.

His mother greeted you first, of course, in a flurry of perfume, pearls, and the kind of warmth that felt performative but not unkind.

“Oh, you’re getting prettier!!” she said, gripping your hands with both of hers. “Soonyoung was never this glowy, you know. He must be eating well.”

You smiled, bowed politely, and thanked her—twice. She seemed like someone who appreciated a bit of extra etiquette. She gave you a quick once-over—your outfit passed the silent inspection, thank God. then insisted you sit beside her son like you were already part of the family.

His father arrived late, after the wine was already poured and the soup already served.

He was tall, imposing, with the kind of sharp silence that made your posture straighten without thinking. His handshake was firm, his gaze sharper.

“You’re working in finance now, I heard?” he asked, cutting his steak slowly.

“Yes, sir. Hong Finance. I handle B2B marketing strategies under Director Hong Joshua.”

His father hummed, noncommittal. “I see. No family ties to the industry?”

You blinked, just once. “No, sir. I’m from Busan. My family runs a small printing business.”

Another hum.

Soonyoung glanced at you, eyes flicking in concern. You nudged his knee gently under the table—a silent it's fine. I got this.

The conversation moved, meandering through safe topics, until the elder Kwon brought up the label again.

“You know, the KF Label still has too many bleeding points. Sales growth is good, but not stable. I’m not convinced Soonyoung understands where it’s leaking,” he said bluntly. “You do understand what I mean by that, don’t you?”

Soonyoung opened his mouth, clearly trying to assemble something in his head. You could almost see him reaching for words, for numbers you knew he hadn’t looked at since last quarter.

But before the silence stretched too long, you calmly lifted your glass, smiled, and spoke.

“The margin inconsistencies in the semi-premium line have been narrowing, actually. Since February, we’ve scaled down redundant distribution channels and optimized the logistics route from our Cheonan facility. The recent push with ‘Heat-and-Meet’ expanded brand visibility with minimal promo spend.”

You placed your glass back down and added, with polite finality, “Soonyoung has been involved in all those strategy approvals. We’ve made it a point to streamline executive summaries so he can lead without getting buried in jargon.”

The table went quiet for a beat. His father looked at you properly now—eyes no longer cold, but assessing. Appraising. “Hm,” he said. “I wasn’t aware of the Cheonan streamlining.”

“I prepared the original logistics adjustment proposal,” you said with a slight smile. “But the final call was Soonyoung’s.”

A pause. Then, almost grudgingly, the elder Kwon nodded. “Impressive.”

Soonyoung gave you a look under the table—half grateful, half floored.

His mother clapped lightly. “You speak better about business than some of his uncles do, dear.”

You blushed politely and simply replied, “I just care about what I do, ma’am.”

His father said little else after that, but the look he gave Soonyoung as he excused himself from the table later carried something unfamiliar. Respect. Maybe for the first time.

And as you and Soonyoung helped clear the dishes together in the kitchen, his mother called from behind you with a small, satisfied smile:

“You’re already helping him become a better man, Y/n.”

Soonyoung grumbled, cheeks warm. “I told you. She’s the smart one.”

You just bumped your shoulder into his and whispered with a smirk, “Glad someone finally noticed.”

*

The revolving glass doors of KF Label glided open with a quiet sigh as you stepped inside, heels tapping steadily against the pristine marble floor. The lobby hadn’t changed—still sterile, still polished, still smelling faintly of lavender diffuser and corporate ambition.

But you had. Not Ji Y/n, the former marketing manager. You were now Kwon Y/n. The name settled differently on everyone’s tongue now. Especially here, where whispers spread faster than memos.

You nodded at familiar faces—staff from various departments, even the security guard who once complimented your meal-prep lunches. Some smiled with genuine warmth, others with thinly veiled curiosity. And a few didn’t bother to hide their surprise.

Your steps slowed only when you reached the seventh floor. There, near the meeting room, you saw him. Kim Mingyu. He looked up from a file he was reviewing, pausing mid-page when he saw you. His expression didn’t change much—no shock, no smile. Just a polite flicker of his brows. You offered a small, courteous smile and bowed slightly. He returned the gesture with the same practiced civility. That was all.

It was a month after your resignation when you’d found out through Dokyeom in a hesitant voice over a coffee meeting, that it was Mingyu who had filed the HR report. The report that cost you your role. Since then, there’d been no real confrontation. No apology. Just stiff smiles across event halls and neutral nods across meetings.

Jun, Soonyoung’s secretary, greeted you the moment he saw you approach. He looked much livelier than he did during your era of damage control.

“Y/n,” he beamed, standing quickly and smoothing his tie. “You look amazing, as always.”

You offered a gentle smile. “Is he available?”

Jun nodded, already walking to the heavy door. “Just finished a call. I’ll let him know.”

He knocked once and pushed the door open with a practiced hand.

“Sir,” he said with a knowing grin, “your wife is here.”

There was a pause, then a familiar voice from inside, low and warm with the tone he reserved only for you.

“Let her in.”

And just like that, you stepped through the door—leaving behind the past titles, the old pain, and the fractured stares.

You weren’t here to prove anything anymore.

You were here as Kwon Y/n—his partner, in more ways than one.

Soonyoung stood the moment you entered, his face lighting up with that boyish grin that never failed to soften you. His tie was loose, his sleeves rolled, and the stress lines on his forehead were deeper than usual.

Still, he reached you first—fingers brushing yours before he gently guided you toward the couch like you were something precious.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?” he asked, sitting close, knees turned fully toward you.

You tilted your head, teasing, “What would you have done if I told you?”

“Prepared something,” he said dramatically, eyes twinkling. “Like a red carpet. You’re a star here, baby.”

You let out a soft laugh, brushing your hand against his cheek. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Only for you.” He leaned his head against your shoulder then, a deep sigh escaping from him as his whole body relaxed. “Have you had lunch?” you asked quietly, resting your cheek on his head.

He shook his head. “No time. This anniversary event… the product launch, five proposals due by tomorrow—” he exhaled sharply, motioning vaguely to his chaotic desk. “I’m going crazy. If you hadn’t walked in, I might’ve actually curled under that table and disappeared.”

You ran your fingers gently through his hair. “I took a half-day off.”

His head lifted slightly. “Why? Still feeling fatigue?”

You nodded, pressing your lips together. “Yeah. And I went to the doctor earlier.”

That made him sit up straighter, concern painting his face. “You should’ve come home. Why didn’t you say anything? Why are you visiting me if you’re not feeling well?”

Instead of answering right away, you pulled a neatly folded document from your bag and handed it to him.

His brows furrowed as he took it. “Wait—this… is this what I think it is?”

“Open it.”

Soonyoung unfolded the paper slowly, eyes scanning over the lines until they landed on one sentence that made everything around him blur.

Pregnancy confirmation – estimated gestational age: 6 weeks.

He looked up at you, completely still.

You smiled, a nervous, tender curve. “Surprise.”

His mouth opened slightly, but no words came out at first. His hands trembled just enough for you to notice, the document still in his grip.

“I’m—” he blinked, voice rough with disbelief. “I’m going to be a dad?”

You nodded, your own breath catching. “Yeah. We’re… we’re going to be parents, Kwon Soonyoung.”

For a second, he just stared.

And then he laughed—a soft, breathless sound of pure joy—as he leaned in and wrapped his arms around you, pulling you against his chest with a mix of awe and something almost like reverence.

“You’re everything,” he whispered. “I swear, you are.”

“I’m telling Jun I’m going home. Everything can wait until tomorrow.” Soonyoung stood up with a spark in his eyes after pulling you into one last firm hug.

You opened your mouth to protest—“Soonyoung, your schedule—”

But he already had his phone to his ear, spinning half toward his desk while still watching you like he couldn’t stand looking away for too long.

“Jun. Yeah. Cancel everything for the rest of the day. Postpone the internal review, shift the client call. Send a memo that the director is off-duty. No, not sick—in love.” He grinned at you while Jun, somewhere across the floor, probably died a little. “You can blame the most beautiful woman in my life.”

You covered your mouth with your hand, trying not to burst out laughing. “You’re so dramatic.”

“I’m not dramatic,” he said, putting his phone down and coming back to you. “I’m in love. And apparently, I’m going to be a dad, which means I have very important priorities now.”

He helped you up gently, his hands warm on your arms. “Let’s go home, baby.”

You smiled, heart full. “Okay.”

As the two of you stepped out of the office hand in hand, the corridor lights overhead felt softer. Familiar faces turned, surprised, and smiled—some knowingly, some with wide eyes.

But you didn’t care.

Not as he walked beside you, fingers laced tightly in yours, saying things like “I’m buying dinner. No��wait, I’m cooking! No, I’m ordering and cooking!”

And you laughed. Because this was your life now.

Messy. Bright. Full of Soonyoung.

The end.

[thedensworld]

No Safe Place | C.Hs

Pairing: Hitman Vernon x reader

Genre: Action, Romance, Suggestive (mdni!)

Word Count: 18k

Preview: He was meant to kill for her, but he didn't expect to fall in love

Amazing gif from @chwedout 🤍🌼🤍🌼

Hansol glanced at the new message notification on his phone—an unknown number. Just two words, "hi". Followed by another, "I need your help."

They weren’t the first. He lost count of how many people had texted, called, or even left anonymous notes with the same desperate plea. Help me.

He wasn't a saint. Far from it. Not really a sinner either—though some might argue otherwise. Honestly, who gets to decide? But one thing was certain: he had helped some people. In his own way.

He grew up in a foster home after his parents died in a car crash when he was six.

It was supposed to be a trip to the beach before starting elementary school. He remembered the smell of sea salt and the soft sound of waves—before everything went black.

Instead of a classroom, he entered a new life in a cramped government house. The foster home wasn’t all bad. He shared it with one other kid, which made things bearable—almost fun sometimes. Minus Mrs. Park, the caretaker. God, she was horrible. He didn’t even want to start unpacking that.

Now, he's a hitman. People pay him to kill. Ironic, right? Some people study ten years behind a desk to keep a heart beating. He was trained to stop it in seconds.

At 12, a man adopted him. Just like that—papers signed, suitcase packed.

Mr. Ki. He never smiled, never yelled. Just barked orders like a military ghost. Hansol never understood why he had to run kilometers every morning, or why his squats and jumping jacks had to be counted out loud. Reflex training. Silence drills. Night vision tests.

Then, one day, Mr. Ki handed him a gun. No words. Just a deer in the woods. His first kill.

Cold eyes. Steady hands.

“You are Vernon now,” the man said.

That was the day Hansol died. And Vernon was born.

Now, he tossed his Nietzsche onto the nightstand and walked toward the computer, phone still in hand. He typed back, "Tell me."

Almost instantly, the reply came. "I'm Jung Y/n. I want you to kill my husband. His name is Lee Seokmin. He works at Shinjeon & Baek Law Group."

He arched a brow. Efficient. His fingers flew across the keyboard. Lee Seokmin.

Dozens of links. Headlines. Smiling photos. Press statements. Typical corporate face. White-collared. Polished. He clicked one photo—Seokmin, arm wrapped around a woman. Her hand rested on his chest. Wedding bands caught the light.

That must be her. Jung Y/n. Out of habit, Vernon clicked her profile next. Her account wasn’t private.

Bio: Kindergarten Teacher. Devoted Wife. Philosophy Lover.

That last part made him pause. A crooked smile tugged at his mouth. A woman who quotes Plato but hires a killer in secret?

Interesting.

He leaned back in his chair, still staring at her photo. “Let’s see what kind of truth you believe in, Jung Y/n.”

*

The café was nearly empty, just the way Hansol preferred it.

Muted jazz played low in the background, blending with the soft clink of porcelain and the occasional murmur of baristas. Rain tapped gently against the windows—persistent, but polite.

He sat in the farthest corner, back to the wall, hood pulled low. His fingers curled loosely around a cup of black coffee—untouched, cooling. He didn’t drink when he worked. And this? This counted as work.

The door creaked open. He looked up.

You stepped in, brushing raindrops from the sleeves of her coat. Hair still damp, cheeks flushed from the cold, eyes scanning the room until they landed on him. You looked… ordinary.

Hansol didn’t wave. He didn’t need to.

He just sat there, a shadow in the farthest corner of the quiet café, the scent of dark roast and rain-soaked pavement wrapping around him like smoke.

Then you walked in.

The soft chime of the door followed you, along with the sharp scent of petrichor clinging to your coat. Your eyes scanned the room, then lit up when they landed on him—

A smile bloomed. Warm. Natural. Disarming.

And it took him aback.

Because you were smiling at a man you believed would soon kill your husband.

“Hey, nice to meet you. You must be Vernon.”

You said it with the polished tone of someone used to customer service counters and PTA meetings—cheerful, bright, oddly soothing. The same kind of tone the woman near his apartment used to sell massage chairs every weekend.

“Yes,” he said simply. He took your handshake—cool fingers, light grip, steady. “That would be me. And you’re Jung Y/n?”

You nodded, setting your coat over the chair before sitting across from him. A few rain droplets clung to your hair, glittering like tears under the café lights.

“I was a little nervous before coming, so… I brought you this.”

You pulled out a box and nudged it toward him.

“If you don’t mind.”

Mini donuts.

Neatly arranged. Some glazed, some dusted with sugar, one with pink sprinkles that didn’t quite match the mood.

Hansol blinked at the box.

In ten years of this life, he’d received death notes, bloody wallets, burner phones—never pastries.

He didn’t reach for one. He just stared at them for a second longer than he meant to.

Strawberry sprinkles. Jesus.

He remembered liking them. Once. Long ago. When someone packed him lunch before first grade. Before things turned cold.

His eyes lifted to yours.

And he watched.

Straight-cut hair, still damp. Your features were quiet, balanced, unremarkable—but somehow the softness in your expression caught him off guard.

You smiled like you didn’t know where you were. Like you didn’t care.

“I forgot my umbrella at school,” you said lightly, brushing hair behind your ear. “Sudden rain, of course.”

“How are you, by the way?” you asked next, like you weren’t sitting across from a killer-for-hire.

Your eyes were curious. Not cautious. That, too, surprised him.

Hansol nodded slowly. “Good. Very good. Like every day.”

You mirrored him. Smile intact. “You… you look normal,” you said without hesitation.

That stopped him. Hard.

Normal.

No one had ever called him that. Not in any tone that wasn’t sarcastic or suspicious.

Hansol cleared his throat, shifting slightly in his chair.

“So,” he said, his voice returning to neutral, “what do you do for a living, Mrs. Jung?”

You waved your hand, almost shy. “Please. Just call me Y/n. Be casual with me.”

“I’m a kindergarten teacher. St. Louisville Kindergarten. Ring a bell?”

He nodded. “Yeah… Heard about it. Kind of far from here, isn’t it?”

“Yes! That’s why I’m drenched.” You glanced down at your clothes—water-darkened at the sleeves, a few strands of wet hair clinging to your cheek. “I hope you don’t mind.”

“No, that’s fine,” he said, watching closely. “But are you fine?”

There was a flicker of concern in his voice.

You shook your head quickly. “I’m heading home anyway. I just didn’t want to miss this.”

Hansol nodded. Still quiet. Still measuring.

Then you tilted your head slightly. “So… what about you, Vernon? What do you do?”

He raised his brows, caught off guard. That wasn’t a line people usually crossed with him.

A beat passed.

Then your eyes widened as you groaned under your breath.

“Ah—I’m sorry, I tend to forget things when I’m nervous. That’s… ridiculous.”

Hansol inhaled slowly. He had to bring this back to what mattered. “So, Y/n. Y/n, right?”

You smiled again. “Right.”

“Listen.” His tone lowered, firm now. “I don’t do business without reason. My rules are clear. I kill bad people. That’s it. Sinners only. I don’t touch the innocent.”

His gaze locked onto yours. There was nothing playful left.

“So if you want me to kill your husband…” He leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table, voice like steel behind velvet.

“You need to tell me. What’s his sin?” Hansol noticed it immediately—the way the color drained from your face the moment he mentioned your husband.

It was subtle. The way your shoulders tensed, your fingers curled slightly in your lap, your eyes losing that soft shine. He’d seen it before. Too many times. That quiet shift before a story that hurts.

You took a deep breath, voice quieter now, careful. “I’ve been married to Lee Seokmin for five years.”

Your thumb brushed the rim of your coffee cup. “He was a good man. Really. Funny, dependable, affectionate when he wanted to be.”

Hansol didn’t blink. He listened.

“But… things changed. Slowly. At first, it was just the way he talked—he got mean when he was angry, started throwing things when we fought. But it escalated. Last year, he started getting physical.”

Hansol’s brows pulled together slightly. “Why?”

That made you pause. You blinked, lips parting.

“I just wanted to have a child,” you said, almost like a confession. “That’s all I asked. A baby. A family. But he was… afraid. Said I was trying to trap him. Said he wasn’t ready.”

You looked away, jaw tightening.

“The more I brought it up, the more he pulled away. And then one night…”

Your voice trembled slightly as you reached into your coat pocket and pulled something out—a small mirror. You angled it under your chin and slowly lifted your scarf.

Hansol’s eyes narrowed as he leaned in.

There it was. A healing cut, faint but unmistakable, just under the curve of your jaw.

A blade. Close. Intentional.

“He threatened to kill me,” you said softly. “That night, I knew it wasn’t just words anymore.”

Hansol sat back. A deep silence stretched between you.

You stared at your hands. “I just wanted a happy family. That’s it. A house with a kid, maybe two. Someone to come home to. Laugh at stupid movies with. Fight about groceries and then make up the next day. I didn’t ask for too much, did I?”

Happy family.

The words echoed.

Hansol looked down briefly, his fingers tapping against the table, almost like they remembered something his mind didn’t want to.

Then he looked back up. “Have you ever considered divorcing him?”

You let out a breath that sounded too close to a laugh.

“I did. Twice. But every time I packed my things, he’d cry. Apologize. He’d tell me he’d change, say he’d go to therapy. He even bought baby clothes once. Told me we could try.”

Hansol tilted his head, unreadable.

“And did he?”

Your silence was answer enough.

“No,” you whispered. “He just got better at hiding the threats. At gaslighting me. At making me question my own memories. And I… I got tired.”

Your voice cracked then. Just slightly. Just enough to make Hansol lean back, look at you differently.

He’d seen people cry before. Seen them beg, scream, curse. But this— This quiet surrender in your voice. This was different.

And for the first time, Hansol took a sip of his coffee.

*

The amber glow of the bedside lamp stretched over the pages of the book resting in Hansol’s hand, it cracked open to a passage he’d read too many times to count. His eyes moved slowly over the line, Schopenhauer’s quote lingering at the edge of his mind:

“A man can do what he wills, but he cannot will what he wills.”

He paused. The sentence seemed to hum beneath his skin, more familiar than he wanted to admit. He leaned back against the headboard, the leather spine creasing beneath his thumb, and let the words take him somewhere else.

A week ago.

A rainy afternoon.

And you.

His memory slipped easily into that quiet café, where the sound of soft jazz tangled with the patter of rain against the window. You had sat across from him, your damp sleeves clinging to your arms, fingers wrapped around a lukewarm mug of tea. The donuts sat untouched between you, half-glazed offerings between strangers.

Your voice had trembled only slightly when you told him about your husband. Married for five years. A good man, once. Then cruel in slow, almost invisible degrees. Throwing things. Silence as punishment. One night, the blade. The thin scar you showed him was still pink beneath your neck.

And Hansol had said, his voice quiet but unyielding,

“You should punish him, not kill him.”

You had looked up, startled. Your eyes widened—not with fear, but disbelief. Hope, maybe, or the lack of it.

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the edge of the table. “Men can’t run from who they are,” he said. “They’ll never change.”

His fingers tapped once against the rim of his cup. “Killing him won’t give you anything. Not peace. Not justice. Not freedom. And it won’t give his family anything either—just another grave they’ll never understand.”

You didn’t answer immediately. You simply blinked slowly, and your lips parted as if you wanted to say something but didn’t trust the words to come out right.

Back in the present, Hansol closed the book gently and placed it on his nightstand. The silence in the room felt heavier now, like the echo of a decision that hadn’t yet been made. He rubbed the back of his neck, then glanced at his phone, the screen still dark. No new messages. No name at the top of the list.

Only yours—still saved as Jung Y/n.

Hansol remembered how the conversation ended that day—unexpectedly gentle for a man like him.

You sat with your fingers tangled together in your lap, eyes fixed on the corner of the table like the grain of the wood might reveal a hidden answer. The scar you’d shown him still hovered in his memory like a question mark. But it wasn’t the wound that haunted him—it was the way your voice trembled after. Not with rage. Not with vengeance. With fear. With exhaustion.

You were scared.

And Hansol, for once, didn’t feel like a weapon. He felt like a man sitting across from someone trying not to drown.

“Think about it,” he’d said after a pause, sliding the untouched box of donuts toward you. “You don’t want to do this. Not really.”

You looked up at him, surprised, as if his words cracked through some wall you hadn’t realized you’d built.

“I don’t usually offer that,” Hansol added, leaning back into his chair. “Options. Most people come to me with answers, not fear.”

Your lips parted. You wanted to argue—he could see it in your eyes. But instead, you nodded. Slow. Grateful. A little broken.

He let you go. Told you to take your time. Think it through.

That had never happened before. He never gave people time. They either meant it, or they didn’t.

But something about you made him certain—you didn’t. You weren’t a killer. You were just cornered, and no one had ever handed you a way out that didn’t end in blood.

Back in his apartment now, Hansol stared at the ceiling, the quiet pressing down like a weight. He rolled onto his side, phone still silent, screen dim.

He should’ve heard something by now. A text. A thank-you. Even a final word, saying you’d changed your mind. Maybe you’d filed for divorce. Maybe you were healing.

He almost smiled.

For once, he hoped he’d done something good.

He hoped, in this twisted life of contracts and kill orders, he’d managed to give someone a different ending.

And for the first time in a long time, Hansol told himself he should try to believe in that.

He shut his eyes, and let that quiet hope keep him warm. A frustration sighed out, he started to think he'll make a good therapist

Hansol didn’t believe in coincidences. But when he reached for a jar of jelly—blueberry, the good one—only for his hand to brush against someone else’s, he paused.

And blinked.

You.

You, with your hair tied up messily and a basket half full with tofu, milk, and instant coffee. You, wearing a soft blue sweater and looking at him with the same wide-eyed surprise he must’ve mirrored.

“…You shop here too?” you asked, sounding more breathless than the question warranted.

Hansol glanced at his own basket—just two items. Packed kimchi and jelly. It almost felt embarrassing. “Only for essentials,” he replied, raising a brow. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Same,” you smiled, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “I just moved in with my sister. She lives a block away.”

His eyes narrowed slightly. “You moved?”

“Yeah,” you said, shifting your weight to one foot. “I filed for divorce this morning.”

That made him straighten a little. “You did?”

You nodded, and for the first time, he saw something new on your face—relief. Not full, not yet. But it was a start.

“I needed to. I mean… you were right.” Your voice softened as you looked down at the neatly stacked rows of jelly. “Killing him wouldn’t have made me feel safe. It would’ve made me something I’m not.”

Hansol exhaled slowly through his nose. The faintest curve touched his lips. “I see…” He placed the jelly in his basket and leaned a little closer. “Is that a sign I’ll be seeing you a lot around this area?”

You looked up, surprised again—he kept catching you like that.

“Depends,” you said slowly, teasingly. “If you keep your grocery list this short, maybe not.”

Hansol smirked. “Then I guess I’ll start cooking.”

You laughed, and the sound lingered, unexpected and warm among the quiet fluorescent aisles. It felt strange. Natural. Dangerous, even. But Hansol didn’t walk away. For once, he didn’t want to.

Again… Hansol never believed the world was small. He believed it was deliberate. The way things happened. The way people crossed paths. Like how he saw you again—twice that same week.

Once, in a quiet bakery when he was grabbing his usual black coffee and you were hunched over a cinnamon bun with whipped cream. You waved when you saw him and offered a bite without hesitation.

Then again, outside the pharmacy. You were picking up vitamins, hair still damp from a shower, bundled in a hoodie and slippers like the world was your living room. You smiled, and that smile sat in his mind for the rest of the day.

The next night, he texted you.

[Unknown Number]

“Don’t tell me you’re going to show up at my gym next.”

You replied ten minutes later:

[Y/n]

“Do you go to the one with the green sign near the station?”

“Asking for a friend. Who likes jelly and kimchi.”

Hansol stared at his screen longer than he meant to, lips twitching into something dangerously close to amusement.

[Vernon]

“If I say yes, you’ll show up on purpose.”

[Y/n]

“No comment.”

It wasn’t normal for him—this kind of banter. But nothing about you was. You weren’t like the people he dealt with. You didn’t walk in with envelopes or plans. You walked in with donuts. With a storm in your past and a laugh that somehow cut through his quiet.

He started texting more after that. Little things.

“Saw this and thought of you.” —attached was a photo of a small bookstore display featuring Nietzsche.

“Is the school near the coffee place?”

“Don’t forget your umbrella this time.”

You answered. Every time. And slowly, it stopped being surprising that you were in his day. It started feeling… expected. He didn’t know if it was dangerous. Maybe it was. But then again, so was he.

*

Hansol had just finished dinner—nothing fancy, just some rice and grilled mackerel from a nameless place down the street—when he stepped into the alley behind the building to cut across toward the main road. The air was damp, heavy with the smell of rain and old grease.

Then—

An arm coiled tight around his neck.

His reflexes kicked in. No time to think.

He dropped his weight low, elbow driving backward into the assailant’s ribs. A grunt. Another twist, and he slammed the stranger against the wall. The man fought hard, fists flying, but Hansol moved faster. A punch to the jaw, then a brutal knee to the gut. The man collapsed in a heap, unconscious before his body fully hit the ground.

Hansol didn’t wait.

He darted through the alley, turning corners, hand sliding into the pocket of his coat where his gun rested.

Every sound was a threat. Every shadow, a question. Someone wanted him dead. That much, he knew.

Then—

Movement.

A flash of white fabric. Soft footsteps. Running. He raised his weapon.

But then your voice cracked through the air.

“Vernon!”

You came into view like a ghost out of a nightmare—wearing what looked like a nightgown, breath coming in short, fast puffs. And in your hand—

A gun.

He blinked. “What the hell—?”

You looked just as shocked to see him. “Why are you here like this? What happened? What is this?” his eyes dropped to the weapon in your hand, then to your clothes—ripped slightly, stained from the scuffle.

You followed his gaze and swallowed. “Someone broke into my place. I—I knocked him out and took his gun.”

His jaw tightened. “You should’ve called the police.”

“I was too scared,” you said, voice breaking. Your fingers gripped his jacket like it was the only solid thing left. “I couldn’t think straight.”

He understood that. Who could think clearly when death brushed your skin?

With a sigh, Hansol pulled off his coat and draped it over your shoulders, steadying your hands. “Stay with me.”

He gripped your wrist, careful but firm, and led you toward another alleyway—a shortcut to his apartment. His mind raced, calculating. Someone was targeting both of you. This wasn’t a coincidence.

Then he saw it. A flicker of movement near the stone gate at the far end. A silhouette.

Gun raised.

In one motion, Hansol spun, pulling you flush to his chest, shielding you. His arm extended, finger on the trigger—

Bang.

The shot rang out clean. The figure crumpled, weapon falling from their grasp with a metallic thud.

Silence. Then just your breathing, heavy and uneven against his collarbone.

Hansol slammed the apartment door shut and double-locked it. The air inside was warm, lived-in. Sparse lighting and the faint smell of black coffee clung to the corners. He didn’t speak as he dropped his coat, yanked open a drawer beneath the shoe rack, and tossed you one of his black jacket.

“Here. Wear this, you’re shivering.”

You caught it silently, hands still trembling from the alley encounter.

Hansol was already moving—opening cabinets, drawers, retrieving a duffel bag from under the couch. He threw in a handful of ammunition, a switchblade, burner phones, an old passport. The shift in his demeanor was swift—methodical, practiced. This wasn’t the first time he had to move quickly.

“You’re not safe anymore,” he muttered as he knelt beside a safe hidden in the floorboards. He clicked it open and pulled out two more handguns. “Keep these. One in your bag, one on you. Safety’s on. Don’t take it off unless you’re aiming to kill.”

He placed one gun in your palm, firm and cold.

But you didn’t grip it.

Not yet.

Hansol turned his back to you, kneeling again to tie up the duffel’s zipper.

And that’s when he felt it—

A sharp, chilling pressure at the back of his neck. Metal. He froze. His eyes shifted to the window’s reflection in front of him—and there you were.

Gun in hand. Arm steady. Finger near the trigger.

His breath caught.

“Shit.”

Hansol’s fingers were still wrapped loosely around the gun when you reached into your night gown pocket and pulled out something small—flat, encased in leather. You flipped it open.

The badge caught the dim apartment light, flashing gold and stark against the dark—

NIS. National Intelligence Service.

His jaw locked.

You looked up at him, expression unreadable now. Everything—your trembling hands, the nervous smiles, the soft-spoken fear—fell off you like a mask. Your voice, when you spoke again, was steady. Crisp. Cold.

“Let’s go down,” you said. “People are waiting outside.”

The shift hit Hansol in the gut like a steel punch. Your tone—professional, sharp, devoid of warmth—wasn’t the woman who brought him donuts, or the one who clung to his jacket in the alley, whispering that she was scared.

You were someone else. Someone trained.

Hansol didn't move right away. He let out a bitter chuckle, short and humorless. “So that’s what this was.”

They’d been waiting for this. For him. For a while. And the worst part? He hadn’t seen it coming. Not once. He, the one who could smell death in a three-mile radius, had been outplayed. Cornered. By you.

The agents closed in. And all Hansol could do was walk. Then he noticed it—no one had their weapons trained on him. Every barrel, every laser dot, every cold, quiet threat… was aimed at you.

His steps faltered.

Eyes narrowing, he turned just enough to catch your profile. Your jaw was clenched, unreadable. But your grip on his wrist trembled—only for a second—before locking firm again. It was a slip, but it told him everything.

“They’re not here for me,” Hansol muttered, voice low and certain. “They’re here for you.”

You didn’t answer.

Didn’t need to.

Your breath hitched. The silence screamed louder than any denial.

Hansol scanned the crowd again, his eyes landing on the man nearest—a clean-cut figure with sharp posture and a standard-issue Glock. The man didn't even spare Hansol a glance as he barked the order.

“Agent Jung. Step away from the target.”

Hansol froze.

Agent Jung.

So even your name… had been real.

The gun you still held to his neck hadn’t wavered, but he could feel it now—your arms weren’t braced in duty anymore. They were trembling beneath the weight of something heavier. Regret.

“Y/n,” the man said again, harsher this time. “You know the protocol. You’ve compromised the mission. Step away—now.”

Hansol turned slowly, deliberately. Your eyes met his. Not the eyes of a stranger, not the eyes of a spy—but of someone who had cooked with him, shared stolen laughter in the quiet aisles of a grocery store, who had once clutched his jacket in fear and now held a gun to his neck with shaking hands.

You blinked. And something broke.

The muzzle dropped an inch. Then another.

Hansol didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. He didn’t want to rush you. This wasn’t about the agents or the mission anymore. This was about whatever war was being waged inside you.

Then, slowly, you reached into your coat pocket and pressed something cold and familiar into his hand.

One of his guns. The one he’d given you.

Your fingers curled over his. You leaned in, your lips grazing his ear, and whispered, “In three.”

Hansol’s mouth twitched. Damn.

He didn’t know what twisted part of him found this thrilling—but it was there. He could feel it rising like heat under his skin. A hell of a night was about to begin, and his heart wasn’t afraid.

It was alive.

He counted in silence.

“One…”

Your eyes flicked sideways. Your stance shifted.

“Two…”

The man in front of you stepped forward, aiming. “Agent Jung, do not engage—”

“Three.”

In a single motion, Hansol twisted left, catching your wrist to pivot you behind him as he fired up, shattering the overhead lights. The alley plunged into chaos—glass rained, red beams danced across the walls like wild eyes.

You dropped low, scooping a weapon from a fallen agent and rolled behind a car.

Hansol was already moving—swift, calculated, every movement a blur.

Two agents dropped before they could find cover. Another shouted, trying to call for backup, before a clean shot from you silenced him.

“Parking lot,” you said between breaths. “East exit’s clear.”

Hansol reached for your hand. “Then what are we waiting for?”

You didn’t hesitate. Your fingers met his, tighter than ever. No orders now. No protocol. No lies. Just two fugitives, running headfirst into the dark.

And Hansol—grinning, blood thrumming—knew one thing for sure.

This was far from over.

*

The road stretched endlessly in front of them, headlights carving through the darkness like a scalpel. Hansol gripped the steering wheel in silence, the hum of the engine the only thing filling the air between you. You sat rigidly in the passenger seat, tapping furiously on your phone, switching between encrypted channels, hoping for a response.

Nothing.

No confirmation. No debrief. No explanation.

Just silence… and that one chilling command you’d caught before the line went dead.

"Terminate if compromised."

Your pulse roared in your ears. The phone shook in your hands. With a breath that barely stayed in your lungs, you shut it off and—without a second thought—hurled it out of the window. The sharp crack of glass on asphalt echoed like a closing door.

Hansol didn’t say anything at first. But you caught the smirk twitching on his lips through the faint dashboard light. Of course he noticed.

“What?” you snapped, your voice rougher than intended.

He didn’t look at you. Just kept his eyes on the road. “Nothing.”

You turned fully toward him, eyes narrowed. “You’re enjoying this.”

Hansol let out a breath that was nearly a laugh, but there was a thread of disbelief in it. “No. I’m trying to wrap my head around it.”

“Wrap your head around what?” you asked, biting back the storm in your chest.

He glanced at you, just briefly. “I mean, first off—you’re not a wife with a violent husband. You’re NIS.”

You said nothing.

“Second, you tried to arrest me. After I saved you.”

You rolled your eyes.

“And third—plot twist of the year—they weren’t even coming for me.” He turned to you with a smirk. “You really buried the lead there.”

“You’re such an ass,” you muttered under your breath. Your fists clenched in your lap.

“And what?” Hansol continued, quieter now. “You were going to let them take me? Tie up a loose end?”

You looked away, jaw tight. “It wasn’t supposed to go like this.”

“That’s not a no.”

“No,” you snapped. “It’s not.”

His silence returned, but it wasn’t comfortable—it was sharp. Heavy. He shifted in his seat, his hands tightening on the wheel. The smirk was gone.

“Figures,” he muttered.

You exhaled through your nose, shoulders tense. “Don’t pretend you’re some innocent bystander. The agency had every reason to keep eyes on you.”

“Yeah?” he bit back, calm tone fraying. “Then why are those same eyes on you now?”

That stopped you.

He chuckled, low and cold. “Exactly.”

The tension in the car was thick enough to strangle. The betrayal ran both ways, and neither of you were pretending otherwise now. You stared ahead at the road, your pulse drumming against your ribs.

“I don’t know what they’re hiding,” you said finally, voice brittle. “But they weren’t just watching you. They used me to get close.”

Hansol scoffed under his breath, but didn’t interrupt.

“And now they’re trying to erase it. Erase me.”

A long pause.

The night stretched on, the highway empty except for their car cutting through it like a blade.

Hansol’s knuckles were tight on the steering wheel, but his tone stayed even when he spoke again. “Then… is Lee Seokmin real?”

You nodded slowly, still staring out into the dark. “An old friend. Got him a lot of cash for the role. We're going to his safe house.”

The car’s engine cut off with a low rumble, and the world fell into silence again. A worn cabin stood before you—quiet, nondescript, half-buried by trees and dusk. No lights, no sign of life. But you knew better.

You moved first, brushing past Hansol as you stepped toward the entrance with practiced caution. He followed, eyes sharp, tense fingers near the hem of his jacket—close enough to draw if anything went wrong.

The front door creaked open under your hand. No alarm. No traps. Just the smell of dust and old wood.

As you stepped inside, Hansol scanned the place in quick, calculated sweeps. A map folded on the table. A lantern, a half-empty mug, sealed ammunition cases. The kind of house built for vanishing.

You dropped your bag to the floor, exhaled slowly.

"Seokmin was an agent as well," you said, breaking the silence as you pulled off your jacket. “He ran a month ago. Burned all his ties. Don’t know the reason… just vanished mid-mission.”

You ran your fingers along the edge of the desk, as if grounding yourself with something familiar. “He left me this. Said if anything ever felt off at HQ, come here and don’t look back.”

Hansol raised a brow. “So he knew something.”

You nodded. “He always knew things before anyone else. It’s why they hated him.”

There was a pause.

Then Hansol asked, voice low and unreadable, “Was he… close to you?”

You didn’t answer immediately. Just met his eyes.

“We trusted each other,” you said finally. “More than most.”

Hansol didn’t push. He turned instead, eyes flicking toward the window, body never fully relaxed.

“Do you think we’re safe here?” he asked.

You shrugged. “Safe enough to breathe. Not enough to sleep.”

He smirked, just barely. “Good. I wasn’t planning to sleep anyway.”

You scanned the safe house—barebones, dim, but stocked. Your hands moved quickly, gathering weapons, spare mags, folding maps. One bag, efficient. No room for mistakes.

“We drive to Busan before sunrise,” you said, checking a pistol’s slide before slipping it into the side pouch. “Lay low for a day or two. I have a contact who can forge IDs. After that, we head to China by boat.”

Behind you, Hansol leaned against the doorway, arms crossed casually. “I’m coming with you?”

You paused mid-movement. Turned slightly. “What?”

“One bag. Two sets of plans,” he said, one brow raised in mock surprise. “I assumed I was invited.”

You scoffed, flustered. “You’re not. I mean—I didn’t think you would even want to. I figured you'd have your own escape planned or… I don’t know. Whatever. I don’t have to explain this.”

Hansol’s lips curled into a smirk. He pushed off the doorframe, walking toward you. “Relax,” he said softly. “I’ll come with you.”

He reached out, gently taking the bag from your hands, setting it aside without looking.

His fingers brushed against a loose strand of your hair, tucking it carefully behind your ear. Then, they lingered—just for a second too long—against your cheek.

“The fact that I don’t feel betrayed by you,” he murmured, his voice low and unsettlingly honest, “is dangerous.”

You didn’t move. Didn’t speak. But you didn’t stop him, either.

His fingers traced the line of your jaw, and you leaned into the touch without thinking. Your breath hitched.

He tilted his head slightly. “At least now, I don’t need to feel bad about liking you.”

Your eyes flicked up to his just as he leaned in—deliberate, slow, with the kind of tension that made the air feel sharp. His hand slid to the back of your neck, gentle but firm, and then—

He kissed you.

There was nothing rushed about it. No fury, no heat of survival. Just something solid, something dangerously steady in a world that had just fallen apart.

When he pulled back, your forehead rested against his. You could feel the weight of his breath, feel your pulse pounding through your ribs like it wanted to say something your mouth couldn’t.

“You sure about this?” you whispered.

Hansol gave a soft, short laugh. “No. But I’m sure about you.”

Your breath tangled with his, and for a moment, time warped—flickering between everything you were running from and the person standing in front of you.

Hansol’s hands didn’t leave you. They rested at your waist, grounding you. But the silence between you cracked like a match striking dry wood.

You should’ve stepped away. You didn’t.

Instead, your fingers reached for him—curling into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer. You didn’t need to say anything. He was already moving with you, pressing you back until your spine met the wall of the safe house.

The kiss deepened, no longer careful.

It was urgent now—desperate, laced with the kind of heat only shared between people who had seen death knock and chose to cling to something alive instead.

His jacket dropped first, then yours. Hands fumbled against belts and holsters, mouths parting only to breathe hard, uneven. There was no room for caution—only want, and the tremble of adrenaline refusing to fade.

“You should hate me,” you whispered against his skin.

Hansol’s mouth grazed your neck, voice low and ragged. “I should. I don’t.”

The bag of weapons lay forgotten on the floor. The outside world—the betrayal, the chase, the agency you once trusted—felt miles away.

*

Morning slammed into you like a slap to the face—uninvited, merciless, and too bright for a pair of fugitives with no time left to lose.

You woke to the weight of a warm palm brushing your cheek. The low hum of a car engine idled outside the cabin’s thin windowpane, muffled by cheap curtains and the restless hush of wind through pine branches.

“Hey.” Hansol’s voice cut through the fuzziness in your head, a soft rasp close to your ear—gentle, but edged with urgency. “Y/n. Up. Now.”

Your eyes cracked open. For a fleeting moment you didn’t know where you were. Then the night came back in pieces: the safe house. The loaded bag on the floor. The stolen heat of his mouth on yours. The truth sitting between you like a live grenade, its pin half-pulled.

You shoved yourself upright, blinking the sleep from your eyes. “What time is it?”

Hansol shot a glance at the crooked wall clock above the door. “Eight. We should’ve been gone an hour ago.”

You groaned, pressing your palms to your face, trying to squeeze out the ache behind your eyes. “God—did we really—”

His low chuckle cut you off. Rough, amused, and infuriatingly unbothered. “We really did. Also… you snore, by the way.”

Your head snapped up, a weak glare in place of a retort. “Shut up,” you muttered, already fumbling for your jacket and shoving your half-loaded pistol deep into the bag beside the spare clips. He caught your wrist just as you brushed past him—strong fingers wrapping around the pulse point, halting you like it was nothing.

Hansol leaned in, close enough that his breath brushed your lips. Forehead pressed lightly to yours, grounding you in the middle of this storm.

“Hey,” he murmured, voice steady as an oath. “You’ll be safe with me. I promise. Even if the whole damn country wants us dead.”

You stared at him—really stared—and for one quiet heartbeat, all the running, the betrayals, the blood that wouldn’t wash off yet… none of it mattered more than this.

You nodded, the word stuck in your throat but clear in your eyes.

“Okay.”

The car rumbled down the highway an hour later, tires humming against cracked asphalt, a battered duffel bag tossed in the back seat next to leftover ammo boxes and half-spilled maps.

You pulled into a quiet rest stop near the coast—last chance for a hot drink and anything vaguely pretending to be breakfast before Busan swallowed you both whole.

Hansol returned from the convenience store, dropped a packaged sandwich and a steaming coffee in front of you where you sat on a cracked picnic bench beneath a lonesome pine. Salt air drifted in from somewhere past the highway, a briny promise of freedom you weren’t sure you’d ever touch.

You ate in silence for a while, trucks and early commuters groaning by in the distance. Your body was wound tight, yet beside him, your heart felt oddly, stubbornly steady—like he was an anchor in the storm you’d unleashed together.

But the quiet didn’t last.

“Why did you become a hitman?” you asked suddenly, your voice rough from sleep.

Hansol didn’t answer right away. He turned the coffee cup in his hands, thumb pressing down on the cheap plastic lid, releasing and pressing again—like he needed something to hold him here.

When he finally looked at you, there was no mask left. Just Hansol—raw, unguarded, heartbreakingly young beneath the man you’d come to trust with your life.

“I didn’t choose it,” he said simply. His voice was so calm it almost hurt. “I was trained for it before I even knew what the word meant.”

Your half-eaten sandwich sagged in your lap, forgotten.

Hansol gave a small, bitter laugh that didn’t touch his eyes. “The first time, I thought maybe… if I took out people who deserved it, it would mean something. That it would balance out whatever was broken inside me.”

He looked past you then, eyes lost to a road only he could see. “I kept telling myself that lie. That I was doing good work. That ending bad people made up for how I started. And it gave me… a life. Purpose.”

His gaze flicked back to yours—steady now, but threaded through with a grief you knew too well.

His gaze flicked back to yours—steady now, but threaded through with a grief you recognized too well.

He drew in a slow breath, then murmured almost to himself, “He who fights with monsters should look to it that he himself does not become a monster.”

Your eyes snapped to his, the quote sparking recognition deep in your chest. “Nietzsche.”

A small smile ghosted across Hansol’s lips, tired but real. “Yeah. Funny thing to live by for a hitman, huh?”

You huffed a laugh, more air than sound. “I remember that line.”

Hansol cocked his head, studying you like he was reading a puzzle he already knew the answer to. “Did you ever actually read philosophy, Y/n?”

You dropped your gaze, nudging the sandwich aside, suddenly fascinated by the cracks in the old picnic table. “No. Tried. But it just… messes with my head.”

Hansol barked a short laugh, not mocking but almost relieved. He reached out, nudging your knee with his own under the table, his hand still wrapped around his coffee cup like it was armor.

“It does,” he agreed quietly. “Breaks it open, then leaves you to pick up the pieces.”

You looked up at him then, the salt wind tugging at your hair, the taste of half-meant promises between you. For a breath, neither of you were fugitives. Just two people stranded in the same question: Who am I now?

A truck engine rumbled to life behind you, snapping the moment. You stood, offered him a hand.

“Come on, philosopher. Busan’s not gonna wait for us.”

Busan swallowed you whole in the haze of late afternoon—salt air heavy with brine, fish stalls, and the sharp cries of gulls circling overhead like they could smell secrets slipping through the alleys.

Hansol wedged the borrowed car into a narrow spot behind Jagalchi Market, where rows of battered scooters leaned against graffiti-tagged walls. You tugged your cap lower over your brow as the sea breeze tugged loose strands of hair across your mouth.

“First things first,” you said, scrolling through your phone for the address burned into your memory. “We need clothes. Food for the ferry ride. And then—my contact.”

Hansol cocked an eyebrow as he fell into step beside you, weaving through the crush of fishmongers and tourists trailing plastic bags dripping with saltwater.

“Contact,” he repeated, voice edged with a lazy mockery that didn’t fool you for a second. “Should I be worried?”

“Only if you hate pretty faces and suspiciously efficient paperwork.”

He gave a sharp bark of laughter, but you didn’t miss how his eyes flicked sideways at you, narrowing just enough to betray the flicker of possessiveness he probably thought he hid well.

“Oh, I hate both,” he said dryly. “Definitely hate both.”

You bumped his shoulder as you pushed through a cluster of chattering students in matching uniforms. “Relax, Vernon. He’s harmless.”

Hansol clicked his tongue, but you could feel the tension rolling off him—like a blade pressed flat against your spine, warm and unspoken.

“Yeah, we’ll see about that.”

You led Hansol through a maze of back alleys behind the market, ducking under hanging laundry and sidestepping crates of flopping fish that stank of yesterday’s tide. Finally, you stopped at a battered metal door tucked between a noodle shop and a storage shed. You didn’t bother to knock—just rapped twice and shoved it open.

Inside, the air smelled faintly of oil and cheap cologne. Files and fake passports littered a metal desk, an old radio murmured some upbeat pop song in the background. And there he was—Kim Mingyu.

Tall, tanned, muscle packed tight into a plain white shirt stretched across broad shoulders. His grin was wide and careless, boyish dimples carved deep into his cheeks—a dangerous combination with those quick, clever eyes that flicked straight past Hansol and pinned you like a butterfly.

“Well, well, well…” Mingyu drawled, arms already open as he crossed the room in three easy strides. “If it isn’t my favorite headache come crawling back.”

Before you could stop him, he caught your shoulders and planted a kiss on one cheek—then the other, lingering just enough to feel his smirk against your skin.

“Mingyu—” you warned, shoving him back a step with a palm to his chest.

He laughed, ignoring the shove entirely, then flicked a teasing glance over your shoulder at Hansol. “Relax, man, I’m just saying hello. She’s the one who taught me how to greet French diplomats—very convincingly, might I add.”

Hansol didn’t say a word, but you felt his presence shift closer behind you—a quiet threat wrapped in casual silence.

Mingyu winked at you and released your shoulders, only to cup your face lightly and squint at you like he was looking for cracks. “Here’s my favorite person—finally got your pretty ass here in one piece. So tell me, boss… what happened? You look like you crawled through a bar fight and made out with a hurricane.”

You rolled your eyes, flicking his hands away. “We made it out of Seoul—barely. Turns out the Agency didn’t want me alive long enough to file paperwork.”

Mingyu’s grin faded a fraction. He dropped his hand, gaze flicking to Hansol, then back to you. “No surprises there. Seokmin was here an hour ago getting the same escape kit you’re about to beg off me.”

Your pulse jumped. “Seokmin was here?”

“Yup.” Mingyu tapped a stack of IDs on the desk, then leaned a hip against it, folding those annoyingly perfect arms. “Asked for a new identity and ferry papers to Shanghai.”

Hansol shifted beside you, voice quiet but edged in iron. “Where is he now?”

Mingyu’s smile returned—wolfish now, eyes flicking between you both like he was watching his favorite drama in real time. “That, jealous friend, depends. How nicely are you gonna ask?”

Before Hansol could open his mouth—and before Mingyu could smirk his way into getting punched—you stepped in, palm pressed lightly to Hansol’s chest to hold him back.

“Mingyu, behave,” you warned, voice low but firm.

Mingyu’s grin only widened, eyes dancing. “Behave? When did you ever like me behaving?” He flicked his chin toward Hansol, who stood a step too close behind you, bristling like a guard dog. “So… who’s Mr. Sunshine here? Bodyguard? Stalker?”

You shot him a look. “He’s… a friend.”

Mingyu clutched at his chest dramatically. “Friend? More than me?”

You almost rolled your eyes out of your skull, but then you felt Hansol’s stare burn into the side of your face—sharp, questioning.

You ignored it, turning back to Mingyu. “He makes sure I’m safe. That’s all you need to know.”

Mingyu cooed like you’d just handed him the gossip of the year. He leaned in, stage-whisper conspiratorial. “Mmm. Lover? You always did have a thing for the tragic types.”

You pushed at his shoulder—hard enough to shove him back a step. “Shut up. Just give me what I asked for.”

But behind you, Hansol’s voice rumbled soft and dangerously amused, low enough for only you to hear.

“Lover, huh?”

You felt your ears heat immediately, but refused to turn around. “Don’t start.”

Mingyu just laughed—loud and delighted—as he bent over the battered desk, rifling through stacks of fresh IDs. “God, I missed this. Okay, Romeo and Juliet. Let’s get you two ghosts out of my city before you ruin my clean record.”

*

The dusty back office rattled with the hum of an ancient fan while you and Hansol lingered by the grimy window, the staff cursing under his breath as he double-checked exit stamps and ferry tickets.

Hansol leaned one shoulder to the wall, eyes drifting lazily over the port beyond the glass—where fishing boats and rusty cargo skiffs rocked gently on choppy water. Then something snagged his gaze. A shape too familiar to dismiss.

“Y/n.” His voice cut through the staff's muttering. “Look.”

You turned just in time to see a tall figure slip through a gap between two crates stacked high with fishing nets—black leather jacket, faded cap pulled low.

Seokmin.

For a split second, your breath caught in your throat—then your body moved before your mind caught up. You shoved past him, crashing through the door into the bright slap of salt air.

“Seokmin!” you shouted, but he didn’t turn. He broke into a sprint instead—boot soles slamming the wet dock boards.

“Shit—Hansol, come on!”

Hansol was already at your side, boots pounding in rhythm with yours, the two of you tearing past startled fishermen hauling ropes and crates of wriggling octopus.

Seokmin darted left, vaulted a rusted railing, and landed hard on the deck of a battered trawler bobbing against its moorings. He scrambled for the cockpit, fumbling with the ignition as the old diesel engine coughed awake.

You hit the deck a heartbeat later, Hansol right behind you, gun drawn but lowered—eyes locked on the man who, for years, had been your friend, your cover, your silent co-conspirator.

“Seokmin—don’t!” you yelled, hands spread, voice raw from wind and betrayal.

But Seokmin barely glanced over his shoulder, one boot kicking at the gear lever, desperate to launch the boat out of the harbor before you could close the distance.

Hansol’s hand shot out, grabbing your elbow just as you lunged for Seokmin’s jacket. Together, you slammed him back against the rusty cabin door, the engine roaring beneath your feet.

Cornered. Caught. Nowhere to run but open water—and not fast enough.

Breathless, you locked eyes with him.

His chest heaved, eyes darting between you and the silent threat that was Hansol at your shoulder.

“You're here…” Seokmin rasped, voice cracking with something deeper than fear—guilt, maybe, or something darker. “…they're coming for us. There's no safe space.”

“Seokmin—” you stepped forward, trying to steady him by his shoulders. “Who? Who’s coming? Who sold us out?”

But Seokmin just laughed—high, splintered, wrong. His knees buckled before you could catch him properly. Hansol stepped in, grabbing under his arm to keep him from cracking his skull on the deck.

Too late. His head lolled forward, eyes rolling white for an instant before flickering shut.

You and Hansol were left half crouched on the swaying boat deck, your fingers fisted tight in Seokmin’s jacket, the sound of the harbor all around you—seagulls crying, waves slapping hulls, engines growling as if mocking you with the normalcy of the day.

“What the hell—” you gasped, heart pounding so hard you thought you’d pass out too.

Hansol looked from Seokmin’s unconscious face to you, mouth twisting into something between a snarl and a grim laugh.

“Fantastic,” he bit out. “Just fantastic. Now what, Agent Jung?”

Your mind spun—Seokmin’s words echoing like a gunshot in a tunnel: No safe space.

The salty wind lashed strands of your hair across your mouth as you crouched on the old trawler’s weather-beaten deck, knees tucked up, braced against the gentle heave of waves beneath you. Seokmin lay sprawled on his back beside you, jacket half unzipped, face pale under the slap of late afternoon sun.

Hansol stood a few feet away, half-shadowed by the rusty cabin wall—legs braced wide, one hand resting casually on the grip of his holstered gun, the other shielding his eyes as he swept a glare across the endless sprawl of water. He looked carved from stone: all hard lines and coiled patience, like he’d been born with the ocean wind snarling through his hair.

Seokmin’s eyelids twitched once, twice—then fluttered open to the white glare of the sky. His brow crumpled in confusion at the sight of gulls swooping lazy arcs overhead, their cries shrill and mocking. He sucked in a thin breath, licked cracked lips, and turned his head just enough to catch a shadow looming over him.

Hansol stared down at him like a cat sizing up an injured mouse. He didn’t blink. Didn’t smile.

“Welcome back, Sleeping Beauty.” His tone was so dry it could’ve sanded rust off the deck.

Seokmin’s mouth opened. Closed. Then opened again, the shape of your name forming on a hoarse exhale. He dragged his gaze sideways until it landed on you—your face half hidden by wind-tangled hair, eyes sharp as broken glass but weirdly soft around the edges when they landed on him.

“Y/n…? What—where—what the hell—”

You didn’t bother with sympathy. You thunked a plastic water bottle against his chest so hard he wheezed. “Drink. And breathe, genius. Or pass out again, I don’t care.”

Hansol’s chuckle rumbled under the whine of the old engine. He shifted his weight, boots scuffing the deck. “We’re on our way to Shanghai, by the way. Mingyu said that’s where you were headed—so… surprise. Road trip, but wetter.”

Seokmin choked on the first mouthful of water, hacking like an old man as a splatter hit his chin. He pointed an accusing finger at Hansol, hand shaking so badly he nearly smacked himself in the nose.

“Shanghai?! Who are you?! Why is he—what is this—”

Hansol shrugged, unbothered, mouth curling into a shark’s grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Bodyguard. Lover. Emotional support hitman. Depends who you ask.”

You shot him a death glare but didn’t dignify it with a comeback. Instead, you jabbed a finger at Seokmin’s forehead, ignoring how he flinched. “We didn’t have options, Seokmin. Either I drag your sorry ass with me or they’d find your corpse floating back to Seoul in a week.”

Seokmin’s wide eyes ping-ponged between you and Hansol—then to the rolling gray water stretching forever in every direction. He sagged back down with a dramatic groan, using the bottle now like an ice pack pressed to his temple.

“Perfect. I faint for five minutes and wake up in the middle of the sea. God, I hate my life!”

Hansol crouched down just close enough to cast Seokmin’s face in shadow, voice dropping to a low, pleasant threat that made even your skin crawl in a good way.

“Behave, buddy.”

Seokmin squeaked something that sounded like a prayer to every sea god he could remember. You laughed—sharp and sudden, the sound ripping through the salt and the fear like sunlight splitting storm clouds.

Hansol flicked you a glance, half-smirk playing on his lips despite the tension pulling his shoulders taut. And just for a fleeting second, the ocean didn’t feel so vast.

Your laugh hadn’t even finished echoing across the choppy water when you turned back to Seokmin—knees digging into the rough deck, eyes narrowing as the weight of everything you still didn’t know came crashing back in.

“Alright, Seokmin—enough stand-up comedy,” you said, voice low and sharp. “Tell us. All of it. Why did you run? What the hell is really happening to us?”

Seokmin rubbed a shaking hand over his mouth, still pale and clammy, breath misting the air between you. For a moment he just stared at you—like he was cataloging whether you could handle it. Then he huffed out a bitter laugh so soft it almost didn’t survive the wind.

“This wasn’t supposed to get this messed up,” he muttered, voice cracking at the edges. He wiped a tear that wasn’t really a tear, just the ocean salt stinging his eyes. “God, we were kids… Should’ve known better.”

Hansol shifted behind you—close enough that you could feel the tight coil of muscle and mistrust vibrating off him. He didn’t say a word, but you knew he was listening to every syllable.

Seokmin lifted his eyes to yours, dark and raw. Older.

“Remember what we talked about… about the foster home?” he rasped. “How we were all placed there, how they called it a ‘haven for war orphans’? We knew It wasn’t. It was a breeding ground.”

You felt the blood drain from your face. “I remember. But we knew that. We knew we were trained—conditioned.”

Seokmin swallowed hard, a muscle in his jaw jumping. “I got orders months ago. Quiet ones. My assignment was to start eliminating everyone from that program—everyone. Us. The old handlers... You.”

The words punched the air right out of your lungs. “Why? Why now?”

Seokmin barked a humorless laugh. “They’re phasing us out, Y/n. Cleaning up the old experiment. Making room for a new one. A better one. Perfect little soldiers—no flaws, no memories, no stupid feelings that make us hesitate to pull the trigger on each other.”

He dropped his gaze to the deck, shoulders curling in on themselves. “I tried to dig deeper. To see who’s funding it. How far it goes. It’s worse than we thought. They’ve got a whole batch of kids—trained harder, broken younger. They don’t want anyone left to question it. So they started tying up loose ends. Us.”

The gentle slap of waves against the hull filled the silence that followed—too gentle, too normal for the earthquake cracking through your bones.

“How many more of us are alive?”

Seokmin met your eyes. Defeated. Hollow. “I don’t know. Not many. And we’re next if we stop moving.”

*

The harbor at Shanghai cracked open before dawn—fog clinging to rusted cranes and the scent of diesel heavy enough to choke on. You’d barely spoken since you left the South Korean coast behind.

Hansol had watched you the whole way—how your shoulders stayed stiff even when you pretended to sleep, how your fingers ghosted over the old scar on your neck you’d lied about once upon a time.

When the boat bumped against the dock, he pressed a cheap chocolate bar into your hand. The wrapper crinkled, loud in the hush before morning chaos.

“You’ll be fine,” Hansol murmured, low enough that only you caught it. His eyes held yours steady, unwavering even as the deck crew shouted around you. “Worst case, I teach you how to kill. Properly this time.”

It was stupid. It was wrong. But the corner of your mouth twitched—just for a breath—and the flicker of it was enough to make his own chest ease for the first time in hours.

Seokmin jumped down from the railing beside you, rubbing at his sore shoulder from where Hansol had kindly yanked him out of that fishing net he’d almost fallen into earlier. He jerked a thumb your way, grinning at Hansol like they weren’t all fugitives now.

“What are you babysitting her for, Vernon? She’s the biggest badass out of the three of us— she dragged my corpse out of Seoul. I say let her handle you instead.”

Hansol shot him a dry look, then turned to you—taking in the smudge of fatigue under your eyes, the chocolate still unopened in your palm.

“She is,” he agreed simply. No teasing this time, no heat. Just the truth—sharp and steady as a blade.

The drive out of the harbor city was long and winding—through roads that spat them out at nameless villages, rice paddies blurring in the rearview until even memories of Seoul felt like a half-forgotten nightmare.

Thanks to you and Seokmin—both fluent enough to barter for a dusty secondhand van and a moldy apartment above a closed-down bakery—Hansol didn’t have to do much but watch, silent and absorbing, while the two of you did the talking.

The first month was awkward. Hansol hovered at the edges of local diners while you negotiated extra bowls of rice or free pickles from soft-hearted aunties who liked your accent. He ate in silence, listening to you and Seokmin argue over soy sauce ratios like a pair of squabbling siblings—each word foreign yet comforting in how it filled the spaces his old life had left hollow.

By the second month, the routine softened. Hansol found the abandoned town library a mile from your shared apartment—its books dusty, its shelves crooked, its windows permanently clouded by sea mist. He asked the local council for permission to “watch over it” for free, and they agreed with a shrug—no one visited anyway.

Most days, the door creaked open once or twice at most: a child looking for picture books, a bored housewife browsing old romance novels. Between those fleeting interruptions, Hansol read. Philosophy—whole shelves of it, Chinese and Western alike. He liked the quiet arguments on paper better than any order barked through a phone back when killing people was his job description.

Sometimes you would come by after your morning shift at the Chinese restaurant two blocks away—your apron still dusted with flour, your fingers warm from the wok. You’d press your nose to his cheek, ignoring the stale scent of old paper and coffee in favor of the steady comfort he’d grown into.

By the third month, it all felt real enough that the old ghosts only murmured now and then.

Nights were his favorite. The library keys heavy in his pocket, the hush of closing time settling like a promise. And you—tucked into his side on the thrifted couch in the corner of the tiny living room you both called home.

Hansol didn’t expect this. Happiness, he realized, wasn’t the roaring thing people described. It was quieter: your laughter bubbling from the kitchen, Seokmin’s footsteps creaking on the floorboards upstairs, your weight soft against him as he traced the lines of your collarbone while a half-read Nietzsche balanced on the armrest.

He’d forgotten how to be gentle—until you gave him the perfect excuse to remember every day.

Even paying rent was bearable, with Seokmin grumbling about leaks and sharing the bills without complaint.

An ex-hitman. A runaway agent. A traitor turned tenant upstairs.

And you—at the heart of it all.

Hansol closed his book one slow night and pressed a kiss to your hair, the words still echoing somewhere behind his ribs:

If this is freedom, I’ll guard it better than any job I ever did.

It was the crack of gunfire that tore the hush of your little safe life apart—one sharp echo that rattled the thin windows and the fragile peace you’d built in three stolen months.

You jerked awake, pulse stuttering as you instinctively reached for the warmth beside you—Hansol, already half up on one elbow, eyes wide and sharp in the dark.

For a heartbeat, neither of you spoke—just stared at each other in the faint spill of streetlight sneaking through the curtain. It was a look that spoke in the language you’d both learned the hard way: Are you okay? Stay with me.

Then came the heavy thud of feet on the hallway stairs—boots or shoes, too many to count, muffled orders barked in a dialect that even your sleepy brain recognized as local police slang.

Hansol slipped from the bed, a predator’s grace in every careful step. He tugged on sweatpants, grabbed the pistol he still kept tucked in a false book spine near the dresser—old habits die slow deaths—and turned to you with a rough whisper.

“It’s okay. Stay behind me, yeah?” His palm pressed briefly to your cheek—warm reassurance against the cold coil tightening in your belly.

Out in the dim hallway, Seokmin was already cracking open the door to the stairwell, his hair sticking up wildly, only half awake but eyes snapping clear the moment he caught Hansol’s low question:

“You heard it too?”

Seokmin just nodded, jaw tight. You stepped close behind Hansol, fingers brushing the bare skin of his back—anchoring yourself as much as him.

“What was that?” you murmured, voice raspy with sleep and dread.

Seokmin glanced back at you both, then stepped outside barefoot, the boards creaking under his weight. He disappeared down the landing while you and Hansol waited, every second stretching thin and tight as piano wire.

Hansol wrapped an arm around your shoulders, pressing you against his chest. You felt the steady hammer of his heart, the calm strength in the way he kissed the top of your head despite the tension rolling off him in waves.

“It’s nothing, okay? Just some idiot with bad timing.” His whisper ghosted against your temple—equal parts comfort and promise.

The door swung open again. Seokmin came back in, hair ruffled from the wind, an exasperated scoff riding his breath.

“Local cops. They’re hauling in one of the dragsters from the pier. Guy tried to bolt through the alley—gun went off, but he’s in cuffs now. Just dumb luck they passed our floor.”

Hansol let out a quiet huff—half laugh, half leftover adrenaline—and pressed another kiss to your hair.

“See?” he murmured. “Wrong place, wrong time. We’re fine.”

Seokmin rolled his eyes, already trudging back upstairs to his bed. “Next time, lock the damn window. I need my sleep.”

Hansol just chuckled under his breath, his arm never leaving your shoulders as he guided you back inside—past the ghosts that still sometimes rattled your door, but couldn’t touch the sanctuary you’d both built from scratch.

*

The library was a tomb at midday—dust motes drifting through shafts of sunlight, the faint hum of an old fan the only thing keeping the heat from swallowing the narrow aisles whole. Hansol sat alone at the back desk, sleeves pushed to his elbows, ink smudged on the side of his palm from labeling the new arrivals.

Half of him was content, oddly at peace in this quiet sanctuary of forgotten books and old stories. The other half—it never slept, not really. It flickered awake the moment he tugged open the last battered cardboard box and found, nestled beneath romance paperbacks and old newspapers, a thin manila file marked in Korean:

GwFH-02 PROJECT

Hansol stared at it for a long moment. He knew better than to touch ghosts. But some things called you whether you wanted them or not.

His chair creaked as he sat down at the back table, the file spread open before him. Faint pencil notations, official stamps, the yellowed edges of old secrets. His eyes caught on a seal—simple, sharp, unmistakable.

A logo he hadn’t seen—except once, half-hidden at the bottom of your old badge, the one you’d tucked away beneath the bed back in Busan.

His heart thudded.

He turned the pages with care, his pulse a slow hammer in his ears. A list of names lined the next page, each neat row ending in a brutal red line through the middle—strikeouts like silent executions. His eyes tracked them one by one, jaw tightening, until the list stopped—two names untouched by red ink:

정Y/N — Jung Y/n

이석민 — Lee Seokmin

And there, typed beneath in faded letters: Raised in Gwangju Foster Home.

Hansol’s fingers trembled as he flipped to the last page—a photograph. Black-and-white, edges curled with time.

A group of children in mismatched clothes stood in front of a squat old building with a crooked sign: Gwangju Foster House.

Faces blurred by age—except for the ones circled in red pen.

He found you immediately. A girl, maybe nine, hair pinned back, standing shoulder to shoulder with a boy who was unmistakably Seokmin—round-cheeked but with the same sharp glint in his eyes even then.

And to the far left, nearly cut out by the edge of the photo, half-hidden by an older boy’s shoulder—was him.

Hansol.

Staring at the camera with a blank face.

He hadn’t remembered this place. Not until now.

A distant, sick hum filled his ears—like the sea roaring in a seashell pressed too hard against his head.

He snapped the file shut, breath caught somewhere in his ribs.

You, Seokmin, him. Not a coincidence. Never had been.

Dinner was quiet that night. Too quiet.

The old kitchen table creaked under the weight of three mismatched plates—steamed dumplings, stir-fried greens, and leftover rice warmed a second time because none of you had really remembered to cook.

Seokmin ate like nothing was wrong—shoulders hunched, sleeves rolled up, cracking dumb jokes about the neighbor’s runaway dog. You smiled politely, chiming in when you had to. But Hansol barely tasted the food.

His chopsticks paused halfway to his mouth more than once, the clatter of the neighborhood muffled under the roar inside his head: Your name circled in red. Seokmin’s too. And his own face—hidden in plain sight.

He heard your voice only faintly through the noise.

“Baby?”

You said it again, softer this time, a gentle nudge at the edge of his wandering mind.

“Vernon.”

His eyes snapped to you—startled, caught like a man dragged back from somewhere deep underwater.

You tilted your head, a faint wrinkle between your brows. “Where did you go just now?”

Seokmin let out a small scoff, jabbing another dumpling onto his plate. “He’s been weird since he got home. What did you read this time, professor? Another dead philosopher?”

Hansol ignored him. His eyes were only on you.

“Tell me about it,” he said suddenly, voice so low it almost didn’t sound like him.

You blinked. “About what?”

“The foster home. How they trained you. You and Seokmin.”

The room stiffened at once. Seokmin froze mid-bite. You set your chopsticks down too carefully, a small, deliberate click against the chipped ceramic.

“Baby—” you began, your tone suddenly fragile and tired all at once.

But he pressed on, needing it like a splinter needed pulling. “Tell me. I just… I need to hear it from you.”

You looked at him then—really looked. Not with fear. Not with the fragile softness he’d grown used to waking beside. But with a quiet, raw disappointment that cut deeper than any bullet ever could.

“You promised,” you whispered, voice barely above the hiss of the old kettle on the counter. “You promised me, Vernon. No past. No ghosts. That was the deal.”

Hansol swallowed. But the truth burned his throat too bitter to swallow down now.

“But I deserve to know!”

Seokmin pushed back from the table, hands raised, voice trembling. “Hey—hey—can we not do this now—”

But neither of you heard him.

You glared at Hansol, fighting to keep your voice steady while your chest wanted to break open. “If you open that door, Vernon… if you drag that hell back into our life—then you kill this. Us.”

Hansol’s lips parted—like he might say I’m sorry. Like he might lie and promise to stop digging. But the truth was right there in his eyes: he couldn’t.

*

Sleep never came easy for Hansol these days.

That night, after the argument you hadn’t really finished, he lay awake far too long—listening to your breathing, to Seokmin’s restless shuffles upstairs, to the faint hum of night insects outside the cracked window.

And when he finally drifted under, the dark did not cradle him gently.

A hallway. Dimly lit. The creak of old floorboards under his tiny feet. Seven years old, maybe eight. Too small to understand what real cruelty tasted like—but old enough to hear it.

A scream, raw and jagged, echoing from somewhere past the sleeping quarters. Not the first one—never the first.

He remembered whispering to the boy next to him, “Did you hear that?”

He remembered the boy rolling over, blank eyes, saying “Sleep, Hansol. It’s nothing.”

It was never nothing.

Tiny Hansol had pressed his ear to the splintered door, trembling, heart a rabbit in a snare.

Then courage—foolish, childish courage—pushed him to slip into the hallway. Bare feet on cold wood. The scream again. Then a groan, low and choked, like someone drowning in their own throat.

He found the room. Half-open door. A girl—in his age—pinned to a cot by rough straps, tears streaking her dirty face. A man leaned over her, syringes lined up on a metal tray. Her eyes found him through the gap—pleading, delirious.

“Help— please—”

Little Hansol backed away. The man turned. A cold look, then a smile, teeth too white. “Back to bed, It’s just a test. You dream too much.”

He ran.

Hansol sat bolt upright, breath ragged, the ghost of a scream ringing in his skull long after the room had gone silent again.

He wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of a trembling hand. Next to him, your arm lay draped loosely across his stomach, your breathing slow and steady—utterly untouched by the storm still raging behind his eyes.

A month. Maybe more. This same memory, rising from the grave he’d buried it in the moment he left that damned foster home for good. He’d told himself it was a trick of childhood fear — a boy’s overactive mind before he was rescued by Mr. Ki and forged into the thing people later called Vernon.

Except tonight, in the hush between sleep and waking, it hadn’t felt childish at all. It felt like a warning.

Hansol slid out from under your touch, careful not to rouse you. He crossed the creaking floor and pushed open the window, gulping down the wet night air like a drowning man.

Behind him, you stirred. A sleepy mumble.

“...Vernon?”

He shut the window, cutting off the sticky air, and turned.

You were sitting up now, hair a soft mess around your face, your eyes searching his in the half-dark. “Bad dream again?” you asked, voice barely more than a whisper.

Hansol let out a short laugh—rough, humorless. “You could say that.”

You reached for him, fingers brushing his wrist, grounding him to the now. To you. Not the hallway. Not the screams.

“You’re shaking,” you murmured, concern deepening the line between your brows.

He covered your hand with his own, rough palm swallowing yours completely. “Go back to sleep, love. It’s nothing.”

You frowned, but before you could press, he bent down, kissed your forehead, and let the old name slip away into the dark.

Hansol’s hands stilled over the spine of a returned book—some local student’s half-torn poetry collection—when he spotted it:

A plain envelope, cream-colored, sitting dead-center on his desk like it had grown there overnight. No postage. No fingerprints. Just his real name printed in neat, slanted ink:

Offer for Mr. Choi Hansol.

His breath caught behind his ribs. He looked around, too sharply. The library was its usual graveyard at this hour—two old women gossiping by the history shelf, a single high school boy nodding off over a math workbook. No CCTV. No staff besides him.

Careful not to crumple it, Hansol picked up the envelope and turned it over twice. Nothing else—no seal, no logo. Just him, staring at the truth of his name like a bullet meant only for his skull.

He sank into his creaky chair behind the low desk, the old wood groaning under his weight and his pulse hammering so loud he almost expected the dozing kid to hear it.

With stiff fingers, he broke the flap and slid out a single piece of thin paper.

Only a few words, typed.

Wanna know more about your parents? Do me a favor.

That was it. No signature. No instructions. Just a hook baited perfectly for a man who’d spent thirty years burying questions he’d never dared say out loud.

Hansol’s eyes flicked over the shelves—dusty stacks, uneven rows, the quiet hum of a ceiling fan. He forced himself to breathe, folding the letter once, twice, and tucking it inside the battered leather notebook where he hid receipts for overdue fees and grocery lists.

For a moment, he let his fingers rest on the cover. Choi Hansol. Not Vernon. Not the hitman. Not the runaway boy.

Just him. And somewhere out there, someone knew exactly which ghosts would break him open again.

He stood abruptly, startling the napping kid. “We’re closing in fifteen,” he called, voice steady, though inside him something old and half-dead had begun to claw its way back toward the light.

A few days passed. He tried—truly tried—to pretend the first envelope hadn’t wormed its way into his skull. He shelved books like a machine. He kissed your temple each morning as if his hands didn’t tremble the moment you turned away. He told himself the past was ash, and he was done breathing it back to flame.

But fate—or whoever was playing puppeteer—wasn’t done with him.

It was a Wednesday afternoon when he found it. Same paper. Same ink. Same neat, mocking words. No stamp, no return name. It was waiting for him on the seat of the staff break room chair this time—like a cat dropping a dead mouse right where he’d have to look.

“What do you know about your parents, Hansol?”

Just that.

He read it once. Twice. He didn’t realize how hard his knuckles had clenched until the thin paper began to tear at the fold.

Hansol scanned the empty break room. The cracked kettle. The cheap instant coffee. The tiny window rattled with winter wind. He shoved the envelope deep in his coat pocket, heart pounding. The hum of dusty fluorescent lights suddenly sounded like whispers above his head.

He pressed a palm to his mouth, forcing his pulse to calm. Then he stepped out, forcing a bland smile at the old woman asking about folk tales, guiding her kindly to aisle four.

But inside him, Vernon the hitman sharpened his knives again. Whoever they were, they weren’t playing for fun. And if they knew how to push him—

They knew how to reach you, too.

He finished his shift with the same careful face, every muscle tight as wire beneath his skin. As closing time came, he replayed the single question over and over,

What do you know about your parents, Hansol?

What did he know?

The next day, Hansol pushed open the library door, the faint creak cutting through the hush of rain tapping on the old windows. He shook off his damp hood, eyes adjusting to the dim aisle of shelves—then froze.

A man in a dark suit, sleeves immaculate, hair slicked back like he owned every step he’d ever taken. He stood casually at Hansol’s work desk, setting down a thin envelope right on top of Hansol’s old philosophy book—like he’d done it a thousand times before.

The man didn’t flinch when Hansol entered. Instead, he turned, slowly, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. Arrogant. Inviting.

Hansol’s eyes flicked to the envelope—To: Choi Hansol scrawled in tidy block letters—and back to the stranger’s face.

“Choi Hansol,” the man drawled, voice smooth as silk and twice as dangerous. “Finally, we meet properly.”

Hansol let the door close behind him. He flicked the lock shut with a click that echoed through the empty library.

“Cute trick,” Hansol said, rolling his shoulders back, hands loose at his sides. “You think paper scares me?”

The man’s grin widened. “No. But truth does.”

They stared at each other—two animals testing the cage. Rain pattered the windows, the only witness.

Hansol’s smile turned feral. “Last chance. Who sent you?”

The man didn’t answer. Instead, he stepped forward—and Hansol’s body moved before his mind caught up.

The first punch came fast, the stranger’s fist grazing Hansol’s jaw. He twisted with it, absorbed the pain, then slammed his elbow into the man’s ribs. Wood creaked under their boots as they crashed into a shelf—books thudded to the floor like muffled applause.

The man swung again—Hansol ducked, caught him by the coat lapel, and drove him backward into the stacks. Shelves rattled. A dictionary split open at their feet.

“You think you know me?” Hansol snarled through clenched teeth, knuckles burying into the man’s stomach—once, twice—each hit a wordless curse for every envelope, every lie.

The man wheezed but laughed through bloodied lips. “Oh, I know you, Vernon. Or should I say—Hansol.”

Hansol grabbed a fistful of hair, yanked the man’s head back, eyes burning. “Keep talking.”

The man’s grin was red now, teeth stained. “I’m just the first. You want your past—fight for it.”

Hansol’s vision tunneled—red, white, then cold clarity. He slammed the man against the window so hard it rattled in its frame.

“Say that again,” Hansol growled, voice a blade of ice.

“You were adopted before your training…” the man hissed, spit and blood flecking his grin, “but life brings you back again, doesn’t it? Funny, ain’t it?”

Hansol’s knee drove up into his gut, cutting off the words in a choking gasp. He didn’t let him crumple—he hauled him back up by the collar, nose to nose.

“I’m free enough to bury you here if you don’t start making sense.”

The man choked on a laugh, then spit blood at Hansol’s boot. “They want you back. All of you. The old ghosts—they’re not done—”

Hansol felt it—a shift in muscle. He dropped instinctively just as the man swung the hidden knife, steel singing past his ear.

Hansol caught the wrist mid-swing, twisted—crack—the knife clattered to the floor. With a roar born of every lie he’d ever swallowed, Hansol drove the man back into the shelves, books exploding around them.

When it was done, the man lay half-buried under an avalanche of hardcovers, groaning, one arm bent at a sick angle.

Hansol’s chest heaved, blood dripping from the shallow slice on his forearm. He stared at the man—this messenger, this threat wrapped in a suit—and saw no more answers in him than in those cursed envelopes.

Quietly, almost gently, Hansol crouched, fisted a handful of the man’s shirt, and hissed against his ear,

“Tell your puppets I’m done running. They want me? They can come themselves.”

*

Hansol stood at the doorway for a beat, the envelope heavy in his hand, before stepping into Seokmin’s room. The floor creaked under his weight, but he didn’t care. He didn’t even knock. The door swung open with the kind of casual finality that made Seokmin’s head snap up from his seat by the window.

“Hansol?” he blinked, caught off guard. “What’s going on?”

He immediately noticed the tension radiating off Hansol’s frame—his shallow breaths, the twitch in his jaw. But what Seokmin didn’t see, at least not yet, was the faint purpling bruise hidden at the corner of Hansol’s mouth.

Hansol didn’t answer at first. He simply walked into the room, shutting the door behind him. Then he held up the envelope—creased, slightly blood-smeared at the edge from a cut across his knuckle.

Seokmin’s brows drew together. “What’s that?”

Hansol didn’t speak. He pulled out the photograph, unfolded it carefully, as if it might explode in his hand.

There, frozen in grainy color, were three couples. Young. Dressed in uniform. All smiling like the world hadn’t yet asked them to die for it.

He pointed to the couple in the middle. “These are my parents.”

Seokmin leaned forward, squinting. His expression faltered—recognition flickering like static in his gaze.

Hansol pulled out another sheet—documents with the stamp and insignia he’d seen before.

GwFH-01. National Intelligence. Strategic Human Asset Division. Special Forces.

Two other names were highlighted beneath his parents: Jung and Lee.

Hansol didn’t need to ask.

“How did your parents die?” he asked quietly, too quietly.

Seokmin flinched. “What kind of question is that?”

“Just answer me.”

“I was six.” Seokmin’s voice turned sharp. “Why does it matter?”

“Mine died in a car crash,” Hansol said, stepping closer, eyes dark. “Off a beach highway. No other vehicle. I woke up in the hospital with a concussion and no parents. They told me it was an accident. That I was lucky. Then I was sent to Gwangju Foster Home.”

Seokmin’s blood drained from his face. “You… you too?”

Hansol gave a mirthless smile, paper trembling slightly between his fingers. “They planned to move me into the same program. GwFH-02. I was supposed to be trained alongside you. And her.”

He didn’t need to say your name.

Seokmin slowly stood up. “How… how do you know about the project name?”

Hansol let the envelope fall to the floor, his voice a low growl.

“Because someone sent me this. With all the information about our past and our parents.”

Seokmin stared at the document, then back at Hansol—expression somewhere between horror and disbelief.

Seokmin stood still, barely blinking, as Hansol’s words settled in the space between them like ash.

Hansol ran a hand through his hair, fingers trembling with something between rage and disbelief. Then, in a quiet voice too steady for the fire burning in his chest, he spoke again.

“They offered me a deal,” he said.

Hansol looked up at him, and something about the hollowness in his gaze made Seokmin take a step back.

“They want me to kill you,” Hansol said, then paused—his throat dry. “And her.”

Seokmin’s jaw tightened. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not.” Hansol exhaled slowly, forcing the venom out with the air. “They said if I did it—if I ended what’s left of GwFH-02—I’d be rewarded. Recruited as a mentor for the next batch.”

Seokmin’s fists clenched at his sides. “So that’s their plan now? Make you their new monster?”

Hansol gave a dry, hollow laugh. “That’s always been the plan, Seokmin. We’re not people to them. We’re blueprints. Test groups. And our parents too.”

He took a step forward, the fire in his voice rising. “I’m telling you, these people—they’re not just corrupt. They’re evil. And there’s no safe space for us. Not here. Not in China. Not anywhere.”

Seokmin’s chest rose and fell, his pulse thundering in his ears. “Why are you telling me this?”

Hansol’s answer came without hesitation.

“Because I’m not going to do it. I couldn’t kill her even when I didn’t know the truth. And I’m sure as hell not killing the only people left who know what we went through.”

The silence that followed was thick with something unspoken—shared trauma, trust half-formed, a desperate need to believe they weren’t truly alone in this fight.

Hansol turned to the door. “We need to get ahead of this.”

Seokmin’s voice stopped him. “You didn’t tell her, did you?”

Hansol shook his head. “Not yet.”

The small dining table creaked as you set down the last plastic container, the steam curling up between you in lazy ribbons. You dropped the chopsticks beside the plates with a sigh, wiping your hands on your apron.

“I accept no complaints,” you declared, flopping into the chair opposite Hansol. “Because these are made by Minghao and I’m too tired to fix the taste.”

Seokmin chuckled, but there was a twitch in the corner of his mouth—something uneasy. “Oh no, Minghao’s food is sacred. Wouldn’t dare.”

Hansol gave a half-smile, eyes lowered as he opened a container of mapo tofu. “Wouldn’t dream of criticizing the chef. Especially not when she has a kitchen knife collection bigger than mine.”

You smirked and pointed your chopsticks at him. “Damn right. Eat fast. There’s a war tomorrow.”

The table fell into a comfortable rhythm—quiet chewing, the soft clink of chopsticks against ceramic. But you weren’t stupid.

You noticed the glances.

Quick ones. Fleeting. The kind that carried meaning.

Between Hansol and Seokmin.

You caught one exchange mid-bite and raised a brow. “Okay. What’s with the looks? Did one of you break something? Or are you two communicating telepathically now?”

Seokmin coughed into his tea, looking away. Hansol, ever the calmer liar, shrugged and shoveled more rice into his mouth.

“Nothing,” he said. Too quickly.

You leaned back in your chair, narrowing your eyes. “I may be tired, but I’m not blind.”

“Really, it’s nothing,” Seokmin added, trying to sound casual. “Just something… we were talking about earlier.”

“Uh-huh.”

You let the moment go—for now. But you saw the way Hansol’s chopsticks paused mid-air when you looked at him a little too long. The way his eyes didn’t quite meet yours when you smiled.

Something was unraveling. You could feel it.

But you were too tired to tug the thread tonight.

So instead, you ate your dumplings in silence.

And Hansol, across from you, forced himself to do the same—while the truth burned a hole through the lining of his gut.

Then, the floor trembled.

It was so slight you almost mistook it for a passing truck—but Seokmin’s head snapped up. Hansol froze mid-bite. The silence that followed was loud. Too loud.

Then—

BOOM.

The window nearest the kitchen exploded inward, shards of glass raining across the tile like ice shrapnel. You didn’t scream—you couldn’t. Instinct slammed into your chest like a switch flipped on.

Hansol was already on his feet, toppling the table to its side just as bullets ripped through the dining room wall.

“Go! Go!” he shouted, grabbing you by the elbow.

Seokmin was behind the pantry door in seconds, yanking it open to reveal the hidden trapdoor beneath. A storage crawlspace that, to most, looked like a forgotten floorboard—inside it: three duffel bags, one metal crate, and enough weaponry to start a riot.

You dove in, heart in your throat, hands moving without thought. Seokmin tossed you your pistol while grabbing the loaded AR.

Hansol pulled out his favorite — compact, silenced, perfect for indoor retaliation.

“We’re boxed in,” he growled, listening as footsteps approached the front porch.

You popped the mag, checked the rounds, slammed it back in. “I haven't touched the dumpling!”

Hansol met your eyes, and even through the rising smoke, there was something calm there. Cold. Focused.

“You take back. Seokmin, right. I’ll hold center.”

You nodded, breath short.

The door blew open before you moved.

Black figures poured in, tactical gear and masks, rifles drawn. You rolled behind the broken couch as Hansol fired first, two clean shots dropping the first man to enter. Another tried to flank, but Seokmin was already sweeping the hallway with ruthless precision.

The war was today.

*

“They’re still tailing?” Seokmin’s knuckles were white on the steering wheel, eyes cutting between the dark road ahead and the side mirror as the ruined town faded behind them.

Hansol, in the passenger seat, didn’t answer right away. His jaw was tight, his bruised lip cracked open again, the taste of blood metallic on his tongue. He’d seen it coming—just not this fast.

You sat in the middle of the backseat, hair messy, a cut just above your brow, chest still rising and falling too quickly from the ambush. Your voice cut through the suffocating silence.

“Somebody want to tell me what the hell just happened?”

Seokmin didn’t respond, not right away. His glance toward the rear view was brief but loaded—then toward Hansol, who exhaled sharply. The weight of the truth finally became too heavy to dodge.

“We’re running again,” Hansol said, voice low and cold. “They found us.” he turned to you.

Your blood ran cold. “What?”

Hansol shifted in his seat, facing forward again. The light from passing road lamps flickered across his bruised features, casting shadows like ghosts over the truth he was about to release.

“I got a message,” he began, voice rough. “Anonymous. At first, just words. Then photos. Then files. Things no one else could’ve known—not unless they were part of it.”

You leaned forward slightly, hands braced on the back of his seat, your breath still uneven.

“What kind of files?”

Hansol’s jaw clenched. “A project name. GWFH-03. My parents’ names… with red stamps across their profiles. Deceased. Labeled ‘eliminated.’ Then yours. Seokmin’s. GwFH projects. Both still marked active. That’s how I knew. We weren’t just orphans. We were curated.”

Seokmin’s hands tightened even further on the wheel, veins bulging beneath his skin. His mouth was shut tight, but his eyes—through the rearview—were locked on Hansol.

“They staged our parents’ accident,” Hansol continued, a cold edge in his voice now. “Said it was a rainy cliffside crash. I remembered the ocean. The blood. But I never questioned why I survived. Why I had no relatives, no trail to follow. They wiped it all.”

He paused, hand drifting to the envelope wedged in his coat pocket, thumb brushing its frayed corner.

“I was supposed to be part of GwFH-02. But I got intercepted. Someone else got to me first. A hitman. He took me. Raised me.”

You inhaled sharply, not daring to interrupt.

“He trained me to kill, but not for them. For his own reasons. Which means—” Hansol looked over his shoulder at you again, eyes now burning with clarity, “—I was the only one from the project who slipped through the cracks.”

Seokmin finally spoke, voice low and stunned. “You’re telling me… you were supposed to be one of us. But someone stole you from the system?”

Hansol gave a grim nod. “And now they want to pull me back in. Not as an agent—” he scoffed, bitter— “as a mentor. They offered me the job. Said if I did one thing—eliminate both of you—they’d let me in.”

Your blood turned to ice.

He turned fully now, his body tense, eyes unreadable. “And I didn’t. Because you’re the only people I’ve ever really had. And I’m done being someone’s weapon.”

Silence stretched, tense and uncertain. The hum of tires on the highway underscored the weight between you all. Seokmin didn’t say a word.

You slowly leaned back, your hand unconsciously brushing the healing cut on your brow. When you finally spoke, your voice was softer than before.

“So now what?”

Hansol looked ahead, eyes narrowing as the black road carved deeper into the unknown.

*

The car rolled through the backroads of Gyeonggi-do under a gray, tired sky. The silence inside was heavier than the fog outside — thicker than the tension Seokmin wore on his face after leaving Seungcheol’s place.

He was gripping the steering wheel like it owed him an answer. Hansol, next to him, kept an eye on the side mirrors, his gun tucked at his hip, resting but never forgotten. You sat in the back, hoodie up, headphones in, not listening to anything — just needing the quiet, just needing space.

“He’s scared,” Seokmin muttered finally, voice gravel-thin. “Can’t blame him. Regional office or not, helping us puts a target on his entire department.”

Hansol exhaled slowly, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “We didn’t ask him to burn the building down. Just help validate the evidence. Point a press contact. Something.”

You leaned forward, unplugging the dead headphones. “He didn’t even look at us after the video.”

The video.

It had been live for forty-eight hours.

Posted under an anonymous name, with no edits, no filters, no masks.

GwFH: NIS Strategic Human Assets Division

— a title dry enough to sound like nothing, but heavy enough to break the country apart.

The video opened with old footage—news clips of three seemingly unrelated car accidents over decades ago. One in Incheon, one in Busan, one on the coast near Mokpo. Each accident had no surviving adult. But each had one child.

Each child ended up in the same foster home.

Gwangju Foster Home.

And then came the interviews.

You and Seokmin—on camera, faces shown, voices steady—speaking of the drills. The beatings. The surveillance. The drugs. The way they turned a trauma-bonded family into machines.

Hansol was last to speak, and his voice cracked mid-way through his segment when he said:

“This wasn’t fate. This was designed. Curated. Our lives were manufactured in grief so they could be sharpened into weapons. Even our parents—agents of GwFH-01—were removed to clear the path. And now it’s happening again. A new project. A new batch. This video is a last stand.”

The public reaction? Loud. Divided. Explosive.

Some cried conspiracy. Others saw the truth too clearly.

But the NIS?

They responded with silence.

And then with shadows.

“This is not over,” you muttered as you checked your phone, notifications coming in too fast to process. “Our faces are out. Our story is viral. And that bastard—Kim Jong-il—is finally being pulled out of his nest.”

Seokmin snorted humorlessly. “He won’t go down easy. If we don’t finish this, he’ll erase us before morning.”

Hansol’s voice was calm. Too calm.

“Then we don’t give him until morning.”

You all went quiet for a beat.

The apartment Mingyu rented under a fake name was hidden between a bookstore and a defunct bar in the maze of Mapo’s older alleyways. From the outside, it looked like nothing—just another sun-bleached door and a flickering hallway light. But inside, it was wired.

A monitor lit the room with a sickly glow. Phones, routers, portable hard drives, and at least two stolen signal jammers littered the floor. Mingyu had always been reckless in a way that worked. Chaotic, loyal, and brilliant.

“You’re late,” he said the moment you walked in, without looking up.

Hansol shut the door and immediately went to the window to check the alley again. Seokmin dropped into the nearest chair, wincing from a healing wound on his side, bandaged fresh the night before.

You stepped closer to the table, where Mingyu tapped his fingers against a keyboard with one hand and held a half-eaten gimbap with the other.

“Is the journalist in?” you asked.

Mingyu didn’t answer for a moment, too focused on encrypting the newest drive you handed him. Then he said, “Yeah. They’re in. Got connections at JTBC, but I told them to go independent first. We don’t need censors this early.”

“Do they believe us?”

He shrugged. “You’re trending in five countries. Half of Seoul wants you canonized, the other half thinks you’re traitors. But the journalist? She believes you. And she’s mad.”

You raised a brow.

Mingyu finally looked up at you and grinned.

“She’s an orphan too. Grew up in a similar home, though not military-grade. She’s running this piece like it’s war. Asked if she could meet you before the next release.”

Hansol moved closer to the table, his jaw clenched but his voice even. “It’s not safe.”

“No shit,” Mingyu said, standing. “That’s why we’re doing it my way.”

He stepped into the back room and came out with three burner phones and a bag of wires.

“We’re splitting the next part into three clips. One with the black site locations. One with a live audio recording from the last year’s training session—courtesy of our boy Seokmin—” he pointed with his gimbap, “—and one video that Seokmin gave me. From Gwangju.”

Seokmin stiffened.

You blinked. “Wait—what video?”

Mingyu’s expression sobered. “The basement tapes. From the home. Footage of the injections. The training drills. The... the punishments.”

A cold swept through the room. Hansol stopped breathing.

“How did you—” you tried to ask.

“I’ve been saving them,” Mingyu interrupted, softly. “Back when you and Seokmin disappeared. I knew someday... someday you'd need to burn it all down.”

Silence.

Then Hansol said, voice tight: “When’s the journalist meeting us?”

Mingyu looked up at the clock. “Tonight. 2 a.m. On the bridge near Dongjak station. Quiet place. Just one hour.”

You nodded, eyes meeting Hansol’s.

“Then let’s make sure we survive until 2 a.m.”

*

The wind under Dongjak Bridge was sharp at this hour. It bit through your coat like truth cutting through the fog of lies you’d lived in. The journalist, Lee Haeun, sat across from you on the concrete step, recorder set between you both. Her eyes were steady. Angry. Hungry for justice.

You'd been speaking for thirty minutes—laying it all bare. The indoctrination. The surgeries. The names they made you forget and the pain they taught you to carry like a medal. Seokmin sat not far, eyes scanning the dark river. Hansol was on edge, pacing in small loops like a panther caged by memory. Mingyu leaned against the support beam, trying to look casual, but you could tell by the way he tapped his lighter that he was counting heartbeats.

Then Hansol stopped walking.

His gaze fixed on the road above.

The sound came next. Tires.

Five cars.

Black. Silent. Boxed in.

You saw it in Hansol’s face first. A twitch of the eye. A barely there nod to Seokmin, who immediately slid his hand under his coat. Mingyu tensed, already moving toward Haeun.

The journalist didn’t stop recording. Not yet.

Hansol spoke first. “We’re boxed.”

You grabbed the journalist’s wrist, fingers firm. “Stay close. Don’t run. Do you understand me?”

She looked like she might argue, but something in your eyes stopped her.

Seokmin murmured, “Two exits. Gone. We fight or disappear.”

“No disappearing,” Hansol said, his tone edged in finality. “We end this tonight.”

From the nearest car, the back door opened.

Boots hit pavement. And then you saw him. Kim Jong-il. The head of the division. He wasn’t wearing a suit anymore. He didn’t need to. Power wrapped itself around him like smoke. But something in his face was... worn. Maybe it was age. Maybe it was guilt. Or maybe it was just arrogance finally curdling into fear.

“You’ve caused quite the storm,” he said casually as he stepped into the circle of weak orange light. “I figured you’d go underground. Instead, you go viral. Cute.”

You pushed the journalist behind you, slowly drawing your gun and letting the barrel rest against your thigh, low and ready.

Hansol spoke without emotion. “We told the truth. That’s all.”

Kim smiled. “Truth, huh? You think people care about truth? They want stories. Villains. Redemption arcs. You gave them a fairy tale. But fairy tales end.”

You took a step forward. “So do tyrannies.”

He tilted his head, mocking. “Still the mouth on you, Agent Jung.”

The air thickened.

Behind Kim, a small unit of armed men formed a half-circle. Not uniforms. But you recognized the way they stood. The way they breathed.

They were raised like you.

The next thing, the gunshot cracked through the plaza—sharp, violent, and unmistakable.

Seokmin jerked violently, his body folding mid-step as the bullet struck him high in the chest. He hit the pavement with a dull, sickening thud, limbs tangled beneath him.

“Seokmin!” you shouted, instinct kicking in as your hand reached for your weapon— But too late.

The second shot found you.

It slammed into your torso like a battering ram, sending you sprawling backward. The world tilted, your lungs seized, and for a split second, all you could hear was the roar of your own heartbeat. It wasn’t pain—it was pressure. Blunt force trauma. You crashed to your knees, hands scrambling for balance as air fled your lungs.

Hansol was there before your body hit the concrete. He caught you, arms strong around your waist, dragging you behind the low wall that lined the plaza’s garden. His heart thundered against your shoulder. He pressed his hand to your side, fingers checking for wetness, for blood.

Nothing.

His chest rose sharply. “The vest,” he muttered, voice strained with disbelief.

You barely managed a nod, coughing as you tried to find your breath. “Vest,” you rasped.

Hansol gave a tight, humorless chuckle, more relief than mirth. “Yeah. No kidding.”

Across the lot, Seokmin groaned and rolled onto his side, spitting blood but still alive. The bullet had knocked him down—but hadn’t punched through. The Kevlar held. He lifted one arm with effort, giving a thumbs-up like a man half-drunk on adrenaline.

The plaza had erupted in chaos. Civilians scattered—some screaming, others frozen in shock. But one person didn’t move.

Kim Jong-il.

He stood where he had fired the shots, pistol still smoking in his hand, unmoved by the wreckage he caused. His face was blank—eerily calm, like pulling the trigger had been as routine as breathing.

The journalist was frozen behind her camera, lips trembling but hands steady. Mingyu yanked her behind a pillar, hissing, “Keep filming. Don’t stop. You stop, we die.”

Your pulse thundered. Your limbs trembled as you pushed yourself up from the ground, Hansol’s hand still steadying you. You emerged from cover, chest heaving, eyes locked on the man who had spent years turning children into weapons—then discarding them like broken tools.

Hansol stood at your side, weapon still drawn but held low. His eyes never left Kim.

Kim raised his voice, calm and calculated. “Turn off the camera,” he ordered, gesturing toward the journalist.

Mingyu stepped out from behind the pillar, defiant. “No.”

Kim’s expression flickered—only slightly. His voice dropped low, meant only for you. “You’re making a mistake.”

Your reply was ice. “We made that mistake when we didn’t put a bullet in you sooner.”

And then the sirens came.

Fast. Loud. Unmistakable.

Unmarked black sedans skidded to a halt on either side of the plaza. Riot vans flanked the street entrance. Doors flew open and uniformed officers, one of them was Choi Seungcheol, spilled out like water from a burst dam—tactical gear on, rifles raised, shouts tearing through the tension.

“DROP YOUR WEAPONS!”

You didn’t move.

Hansol turned to you, silently asking. You nodded once, steady despite the pounding in your ears. His gun hit the pavement with a sharp clatter.

Kim didn’t resist. He turned, slowly, his fingers lifting in surrender. But Hansol saw it—the micro-expression. The twitch in his mouth. The smallest crack in the mask.

He knew.

It was over.

Hands raised, Kim opened his mouth—but no words came.

There was nothing left to say.

Hansol felt the tension drain from his muscles like a fever breaking. Cold sweat coated his back. His knees ached from crouching. His arms ached from holding you, like if he let go, the truth might disappear.

From the ground, Seokmin lifted a shaky arm and waved. “Just so we’re clear…” he coughed, “we’re the good guys.”

Laughter nearly broke from your throat—frayed, raw, and unhinged.

Hansol turned to you, his hand brushing your back without thinking.

You leaned into him—burned out, sore, aching in places you hadn’t even noticed were wounded. But alive.

Above you, the camera was still rolling. The world watching. And for the first time in years… you were no longer running.

You were fighting back.

*

The hall buzzed with the low hum of conversation, camera shutters, and rustling pages. Banners flanked the stage, displaying the matte-black cover of “GwFH: No Escape”—Seokmin’s book that had taken the country by storm.

The subtitle was small but powerful: A Survivor’s Chronicle of the NIS Strategic Human Assets Project.

Now reformed and forced under constant government supervision, the NIS had become a symbol of accountability. And much of that began with the three of you.

Seokmin sat behind the table, signature pen clicking between his fingers, face lit with a smile that never once dimmed. His hand moved fast—signing book after book, sometimes with short notes, sometimes with a high five, a nod, or a joke.

He had become that guy. The one people wanted to talk to. Not just because he’d survived something unthinkable—but because he’d turned that survival into purpose.

Seokmin now wrote full-time. His books were hybrids of memory and method—insights into criminal profiling, the dark logic of systemized violence, and how institutions manipulate trauma for control. Part memoir, part analytical guide, his writing didn’t just educate—it warned.

And today, he was beaming.

Then his gaze caught a small figure in line—a little girl bouncing on her mother’s hip, waving her book up and down with uncontainable glee.

“June!” Seokmin called out, straightening in his chair. “You came to see me?”

June, now three, squealed. “UNCLE SEOKKIE!” Her voice was loud enough to make the woman behind you laugh as you stepped forward.

“You came alone?” Seokmin asked with a knowing smile. “Hansol still lecturing today?”

You nodded, hitching June up higher on your hip. “He got cadets running obstacle courses until sunset. He’ll join later.”

Seokmin reached out, and June practically dove into his arms.

“She missed her favorite uncle,” you said with a smirk, watching your daughter snuggle into his chest.

“Really? I missed you too, baby June.” He kissed her temple. “Let’s get dinner tonight. My treat. Ice cream after. Don’t tell your dad.”

“She’s already spoiled,” you laughed.

And you meant it. June was raised not in fear, but in healing. By people who had once seen the worst the world had to offer—and chose to fight for better.

Hansol—Vernon, as he finally went by publicly—had built a small academy on the outskirts of Seoul. Mostly, it was training for students preparing to enter the police or military academies, a program that emphasized not just physical defense, but critical thinking, trauma management, and ethics.

He never talked about the past unless asked. But every lesson he taught carried the weight of what he’d lived through.

You had returned to your roots—quietly consulting, occasionally teaching, and now… raising a child in peace.

A year after the fall of Kim Jong-il, after the footage, the trials, and the national apology—you and Hansol stood in a tiny mountaintop registry office, exchanging rings with only Seokmin and Mingyu as witnesses.

There were no fireworks. Just promises.

And now, here you were—watching Seokmin hold your daughter, a copy of his story in one hand, a hopeful glint in his eye.

You’d run far. Fought hard.

The world had stopped spinning.

Or maybe… it just slowed down long enough for you to catch your breath.

It was a small night, months after the trials, after the streaming, after the names and faces were exposed to the public and the machine that nearly swallowed you all was forced into the light.

You and Hansol were sitting on the rooftop of your temporary safe house in Busan. A blanket draped over both your shoulders, the sea wind brushing your skin, the stars above you hazy from city lights but still visible if you looked hard enough.

He was beside you, legs stretched out, hands warm around a chipped mug of tea. Quiet. A rare kind of quiet that didn’t feel like tension—it felt like peace finally had a seat at the table.

You glanced at him. His profile soft in the moonlight, lashes low, jaw relaxed. And still, you could feel it.

Something held in. Something waiting.

“What?” you asked gently, nudging him with your knee.

He didn’t answer right away. Just set the mug down, the ceramic clinking against concrete.

Then he looked at you.

Really looked.

He drew in a breath, like he needed to summon it from somewhere deeper than lungs.

“I’m Hansol,” he said. “Choi Hansol.”

Your eyes didn’t widen—but your chest tightened in the way it does when you’ve been waiting for something you didn’t realize mattered this much.

“I figured,” you murmured. “Somehow.”

His lips quirked—barely a smile, more like the release of a held breath. “I wanted you to know before anyone else did. Before the world labels me again.”

“Why now?” you asked, searching his expression.

Hansol leaned closer, resting his arm behind you, thumb brushing the edge of the blanket.

“Because the only name that ever felt like mine… was the one I didn’t have to hide when I was with you.”

Your fingers found his, slow and certain. “Choi Hansol,” you repeated softly.

He nodded.

And then you kissed him—not like a first kiss, not like a goodbye kiss—but the kind that seals something. Like truth. Like beginnings.

That night, you fell asleep on that rooftop, cheek against his chest, name whispered between heartbeats.

Choi Hansol.

No more running. No more hiding. Just him. Finally, a safe place.

Your safe place.

The End.

[thedensworld]

This hairstyle is too Joshua, i thought it was you mr. Hong!