enhaboon

[enhaboon]

stay on the line | yjw

pairing: idol boyfriend!jungwon x uni fem!reader

genres: angst, hurt/comfort, fluff

wc: 1.1k

warnings: mentions of skipping meals, fainting, academic stress/burnout, crying, emotional breakdown

synopsis: being halfway across the world on tour doesn’t stop jungwon from catching the first flight home after noticing signs that you’re falling apart. what follows is a quiet, emotional breakdown—and the kind of love that doesn’t wait to be asked.

notes: yay my first jungwon fic! this was sososo self-indulgent LOL hope yall will enjoy reading this as much as i enjoyed writing this!

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁

the facetime ring echoed through y/n’s dark room, bouncing off unfinished textbooks and cold coffee cups.

she answered like always, voice thin but trying to sound cheerful. “hi, wonnie.”

jungwon’s face lit up on the screen, even though he looked tired — hoodie pulled up, eye bags from back-to-back concerts barely hidden by the glow of hotel lighting.

but he smiled. just for her.

“hi, baby,” he said, soft. “you okay?”

she nodded too quickly. “just tired. long day.”

that was always her excuse. long day. just tired. just stressed.

y/n looked tired in a way that sleep couldn’t fix.

her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. her voice lagged a little behind her words. she kept humming instead of answering, zoning out while he spoke. but she kept insisting she was fine.

jungwon didn’t push. not yet. he let her talk about school in fragments and reassured her that he’d be back soon. that he missed her.

y/n hummed again, rubbing her temple like she had a headache.

the call ended when y/n said she needed to rest. but jungwon kept staring at the blank screen long after she hung up.

something wasn’t right.

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁

it got worse over the next few days.

her texts became more distant. shorter. “just studying” or “can’t talk right now.” her voice on the phone was quiet, sometimes barely above a whisper and her camera was always off now.

y/n was slipping. and jungwon knew it.

he noticed the way she’d pause too long before answering. how she’d stop mid-sentence like she forgot what she was saying. how her voice trembled when she thought he wouldn’t notice.

he wanted to believe her when she said it was just stress.

but her eyes told him otherwise.

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁

the day after enhypen’s last show in singapore, their managers reminded them they had a four-day break before the next stop.

“go sleep, rest up,” they said. “recharge.”

but all jungwon could think about was y/n — alone in her apartment, telling him not to worry, while looking like she was barely holding on.

he didn’t tell anyone. he packed a small bag, put on a mask and cap, and caught the earliest flight back to seoul.

he didn’t text her he was coming.

he didn’t even think twice.

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁

when jungwon got to y/n’s apartment, he let himself in using the spare key she’d given him.

inside, it was quiet. too quiet.

there was no music playing. no lights on. just a laptop blinking in sleep mode and a mess of papers on the floor.

her mug sat untouched on the coffee table. the air was cold.

“y/n?” he called out. “it’s me. it’s jungwon.”

no answer.

his heart dropped.

he checked the bedroom. empty.

then the bathroom.

y/n was on the floor. slumped against the wall, her skin was too pale, her hoodie drenched in sweat. her lips were chapped, her hands trembling slightly where they clutched her phone like she’d tried to reach out but didn’t make it in time.

“y/n-” jungwon dropped to his knees beside her. “hey-hey, open your eyes.”

she stirred faintly, eyes fluttering. “...wonnie?”

his chest cracked open. “i’m here, baby. you’re okay. i’ve got you.”

her breathing was shallow. she tried to push herself up, but her body wasn’t listening.

“i’m sorry,” y/n whispered, dazed. “i didn’t mean to… i just-my head hurt, and i…”

“shh.” jungwon lifted her gently into his arms, like she was made of glass. “don’t talk. just rest. i’ve got you.”

he carried her to the bed, wrapped her in a blanket and ran around the apartment gathering water, a cold towel and paracetamol.

his hands were steady the whole time. his face calm.

but inside, he was breaking.

he placed the cool cloth against her forehead and stroked her hair back. he didn’t say anything else. he just sat there beside her. watching. making sure her chest kept rising and falling. making sure she stayed.

ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁

y/n woke up hours later. her throat was dry and her whole body ached. but her first thought wasn’t the pain. it was the boy asleep at the edge of her bed.

jungwon’s head was resting on her pillow, still in his hoodie, one hand loosely tangled in hers.

“wonnie?”

he startled awake immediately. his eyes met hers. and for a second, she saw something break.

relief. anger. sadness.

“you’re awake,” he said, voice low.

y/n nodded weakly. “what are you doing here…?”

“i flew back last night,” he said. “i couldn’t… i couldn’t not.”

her brows pulled together. “you had a break. you were supposed to rest.”

jungwon’s jaw tightened. “i wasn’t going to rest knowing you were like this.”

she looked down, guilt swelling in her chest. “i didn’t want to bother you.”

he let out a shaky breath and sat beside her.

“you didn’t even tell me how bad it was,” he said softly. “you could’ve passed out alone. you did pass out alone.”

“i didn’t mean to,” she whispered. “i thought i could handle it.”

“by skipping meals? by studying until you collapsed?” his voice cracked, just slightly. “i knew something was wrong, but i didn’t think it was this bad.”

y/n blinked fast, but the tears came anyway.

“i missed you,” she choked. “so much. but i didn’t want to ruin your tour. i didn’t want to be selfish.”

jungwon stared at her. and then he said the softest, most heartbreaking words:

“you don’t have to be okay for me.”

y/n broke then.

the tears came in full. hot and silent at first. then messy and shaking and real.

“i felt like i was falling apart and i didn’t know how to say it,” she sobbed. “i didn’t want to be the reason you worried. i didn’t want to ruin anything for you.”

jungwon pulled her into his arms.

he didn’t say “you’re not a burden.” he didn’t say “it’s okay.” he just held her. pressed his forehead to hers and let her cry into the collar of his hoodie.

he didn’t cry.

not then.

he waited until she finally slept, warm and safe in his arms, her breath evening out and the fever fading from her skin.

only then, when she was safe, when he knew she’d be okay, did jungwon let himself break.

he sat on the floor beside her bed, hands covering his face and cried quietly into the silence.

because love wasn’t loud.

it wasn’t always beautiful.

sometimes, it was holding someone who didn’t know how to ask for help.

and sometimes, it was flying across countries just to make sure the person you loved didn’t have to fall alone.

end.

[enhaboon]

something soft stayed here | lhs

pairing: single dad?heeseung x fem!reader

genres: angst, hurt/comfort, fluff

wc: 1.2k

warnings: mentions of pregnancy, slight miscommunication

synopsis: after months of quiet love and shared routines, a misunderstanding pulls heeseung away—until a single flower brings him back to the garden where everything began. because some love doesn’t need grand declarations. just soft soil, steady hands and time to bloom.

notes: thank you soso much for all the support on my first fic! i really didn’t expect it to be so well received—800 notes in less than a week is crazy… as requested, here’s part 2 of something soft grew here, hope y’all will like it just as much!

𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘

it started in spring, but it didn’t feel sudden.

things with heeseung never did. not anymore.

it had been months since the first flower his daughter had plucked. since the apologies, the shared dinners, the nights where he stayed a little longer than necessary, just to sit with her under the porch light and breathe.

and then one day, he didn’t go home at all.

he stayed.

not in a rushed or decided way. he just… didn’t leave. one evening melted into morning, and neither of them brought it up like it needed a label.

his toothbrush ended up beside hers. yuri started calling it ‘our garden’. he began packing yuri’s lunch in her kitchen, sipping coffee from her mismatched mug set, humming under his breath in a way that sounded like settling in.

and still, he kept showing up with flowers.

not always grand.

sometimes just one tucked behind her ear as she watered the roses. sometimes it was a pressed daisy in her book, or a sprig of lavender by her windowsill.

once, y/n found a tiny note taped to a hydrangea stem.

there’s peace in this home i never thought i’d feel again.

it wasn’t signed. he didn’t need to.

𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘

a neighbour passed by one afternoon, catching y/n kneeling with her gloves on and her hair pinned up. they paused at the gate with a teasing smile.

“are you three a little family now?”

y/n looked up, startled, then laughed softly. “no… it’s nothing like that.”

the neighbour tilted their head. “oh?”

she dusted her hands off on her jeans, still smiling. “they’re just part of my routine.”

it was meant kindly. lighthearted. y/n didn’t think anything of it.

but what she didn’t see was heeseung, halfway up the path, pausing with yuri’s schoolbag slung over his shoulder, just in time to hear it.

“just part of my routine.”

he didn’t approach. just stood there for a moment.

then turned and walked away.

𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘

the change was immediate.

no more text updates from him about dinner. no more flowers left on the porch. no more yuri running into her arms after school.

it was quiet.

and it hurt.

y/n didn’t understand it at first. she replayed every conversation, every interaction, wondering what had changed, what line she’d crossed.

but nothing came to mind. nothing except that one afternoon. that one sentence.

and when it hit her, her heart sank.

𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘

the next morning, y/n left a single flower on his porch — a pink bleeding heart.

wrapped around its stem was a note.

i should’ve chosen my words better. you were never just part of my routine. you were the part i looked forward to.

y/n didn’t wait for a reply. she didn’t know if there would even be one.

𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘

that evening, there was a knock on her door.

when she opened it, heeseung stood there, windblown and uncertain, holding the same flower in his hand.

“i’m sorry,” he said quietly. “i overheard. i jumped to conclusions.”

y/n didn’t speak. she just stepped aside as he entered slowly.

“i’ve spent a lot of time assuming people leave,” he continued, voice tight. “and i guess it was easier to believe i didn’t matter than to hope i did.”

y/n’s heart ached.

she walked over to him, took the bleeding heart from his hand and gently laid it on the table.

then, without a word, she gave him a gentle kiss on his cheek.

“you matter.”

heeseung’s breath hitched.

“you both do.”

𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘

from that moment, things didn’t just return — they deepened.

heeseung brought yuri over for dinner more often. he kissed y/n’s cheek when he arrived, her lips when he left. yuri started calling the garden ‘ours’ again.

and one quiet evening, as golden hour spilled over the porch, heeseung asked if he could plant something in the garden.

y/n nodded, watching him kneel beside the soil.

“i want something to grow here that i planted myself,” he said.

“and what would that be?” y/n asked, crouching beside him.

he pulled a small pot from behind him. inside: another bleeding heart.

pink. delicate. just starting to bloom.

“seems fitting,” heeseung murmured.

she leaned her shoulder against his. “it does.”

𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘

the closer spring got to summer, the more heeseung started fussing.

he tried new dishes he knew y/n liked. he and yuri tidied up her old shed together, though neither of them liked bugs. he even fixed the back gate, though it had squeaked for years and never bothered her.

it was different this time.

heeseung seemed nervous. the kind of quiet, restless energy y/n noticed most in the moments between the moments.

like when he watched her laugh with yuri. or when he stood in her garden at dusk, running his fingers over the bleeding heart stems, his lips moving like he was rehearsing something.

but he never said anything. not yet.

until that sunday.

𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘

the proposal wasn’t dramatic.

one morning, after yuri had left for school and the garden shimmered with dew, heeseung took y/n’s hand as they stepped outside.

he pointed to where the bleeding heart now bloomed. beside it, tucked just underneath the petals, was a small velvet box.

y/n gasped.

when she turned to him, he was already watching her — nervous but hopeful

“i don’t have a speech,” heeseung said softly. “i just know that something soft started growing in me the day we met, and it stayed.”

tears filled her eyes.

“will you stay? with me? with us?”

y/n kissed him in answer.

the three of them were building a life together. one petal at a time.

𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘

and then one day, something changed.

it was small at first. y/n forgot her tea on the stove. her appetite shifted. the smell of coffee, which she usually loved, made her stomach turn.

yuri said her face looked sleepy, even when she wasn’t tired. heeseung said she’d been staring off into space more than usual.

y/n just smiled quietly, fingers brushing over her middle when no one was looking.

she knew.

𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘

it took two days before y/n said anything.

that night, the three of them were curled up on the couch, some cartoon playing in the background. yuri was half-asleep across her lap and heeseung had one arm draped around her shoulders.

“you’re thinking hard again,” he whispered.

she glanced at him, then back down at yuri’s sleeping face.

“i think…” she began softly, “we might be planting something new in the garden soon.”

he blinked. “like tulips or-?”

she slid her hand over her stomach.

“something a little more permanent.”

for a moment, everything stilled.

then his eyes widened, the words settling into his chest like seeds taking root.

“you’re-?” he breathed.

y/n nodded.

heeseung let out a quiet, trembling laugh, the kind filled with awe, and pulled her into him, pressing a kiss to her hair, her temple, her hand.

“a new flower,” he murmured. “we’re planting a new flower.”

she leaned into him, heart full.

“already loved,” she whispered. “even before it blooms.”

outside, the garden swayed gently in the breeze.

another season. another beginning.

and something soft would grow again.

end.

[enhaboon]

something soft grew here | lhs

pairing: single dad!heeseung x fem!reader

genres: angst, hurt/comfort, slow burn

wc: 3.3k

warnings: mentions of past grief (deceased wife/sibling), child illness (fever)

synopsis: when heeseung moves into a quiet neighbourhood with his daughter after losing his wife, not expecting love to bloom again—until it did.

notes: my first fic! i was trying to find something with a similar storyline but i couldn’t so i just wrote my own LOL english is my first language but i lowkey still suck at it haha… hope y’all enjoy it!

𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘

heeseung didn’t mean to move in during spring, but the season didn’t ask for permission.

it was the kind of weather that made the world look deceptively alive. branches tipping open into bloom, skies bright but gentle, the smell of soil clinging to the air like it wanted to be remembered.

he hadn’t noticed at first.

not when he was hauling boxes alone from the car to the small house with the creaky porch. not when yuri stood in the driveway beside him, hugging a plush bunny she no longer spoke to. not even when he stepped into the quiet space they were supposed to make feel like home and thought: it’ll never be hers.

grief has its way of hardening you. pulling everything soft in you inwards and convincing it not to come back out.

heeseung used to be warmer. he thinks.

maybe.

but that was a different version of himself — a version that still laughed easily, that held her hand in grocery stores, that braided his daughter’s hair without trembling fingers.

that man was buried with her.

and now he was just this.

a man trying to build a life out of rubble, one unpacked box at a time.

𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘

yuri didn’t talk much in those first few days. she nodded when he asked if she was hungry, followed him without protest, sat cross-legged in her little pink room while he arranged furniture half-heartedly. sometimes she stared out the window, toward the neighbour’s house — the one with the white picket fence and the flowers blooming wild across the front yard. they were mostly pink. some tall and reaching, others low and curled. the kind that makes you pause for no reason other than beauty.

he hadn’t noticed them at first.

but yuri had.

𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘

it happened on a morning like any other. sunlight slicing through half-closed blinds, cereal bowls barely touched. he’d been sweeping leaves from the front step when he looked up and realised yuri wasn’t in the yard anymore.

his chest tightened.

but then he saw her. small. crouched near the fence. her hands full of freshly picked flowers.

panic pushed his steps forward. “yuri!”

she jumped, startled and turned around.

the woman whose garden it was stepped outside at the same moment, barefoot on the stone path, a watering can in her hand and a soft expression on her face.

“i’m sorry,” yuri said quickly, clutching the blooms. “i just wanted to take some for appa. he always brings flowers to mommy.”

heeseung’s mouth went dry. the woman’s expression shifted. something gentler settling behind her eyes.

“it’s okay,” she said quietly, crouching down to meet yuri’s height. “you can take them. that’s a very kind reason.”

heeseung reached them, placing a hand lightly on yuri’s shoulder. “i’m so sorry,” he said, this time more firmly. “she shouldn’t be here.”

“it’s alright. really.”

he shook his head. “she didn’t ask. that’s not okay.”

“i didn’t mean to steal,” yuri whispered.

“i know,” heeseung said, softer now, but still tugging her gently back toward their side of the fence.

“let’s go.”

she didn’t argue, only looked over her shoulder once.

the woman gave her a small smile and a wave.

heeseung didn’t return either.

but later that night, while yuri slept curled on her side and the house exhaled into its new silence, heeseung sat at the table, staring at the crumpled flowers his daughter had picked.

a part of him ached at how much they reminded him of the bouquets he used to leave at the cemetery. how little hands still tried to comfort when they themselves needed so much.

𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘

the next morning, he left a single flower on the woman’s porch.

he didn’t leave a note. didn’t knock. just placed it on the step, looked once at the blossoms still swaying in her front yard and walked home.

it became a quiet ritual after that.

a flower each morning. fresh. carefully chosen. sometimes wrapped in brown paper. sometimes left bare.

she never mentioned it. never came to the door. but the flowers kept appearing.

so she began placing them in a narrow glass vase on her windowsill.

sometimes two. sometimes three. always displayed where he could see them when he passed.

he didn’t mean for it to mean anything. but there was something oddly grounding about it.

the stillness of it. the silent exchange.

and somehow, he kept going back.

𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘

yuri didn’t ask questions at first. maybe she knew not to. maybe grief had taught her which silences to honour. she stayed close, never strayed again.

until one afternoon, when he found her sitting by the garden gate, hands resting on the edge of the wood, eyes focused on the woman’s house.

“she said i could help her water the plants,” yuri murmured. “only if you say yes.”

heeseung froze.

“she’s nice,” yuri added. “she said the plants like when you talk to them.”

his chest pulled tight. he looked across the path to where the woman stood among the peonies, hair tied back, sunlight touching her cheeks.

“i don’t know her,” he said quietly.

“i like her,” yuri whispered.

he didn’t answer right away. just stared at the fence between them.

eventually, he nodded. once.

yuri lit up. ran across barefoot.

he watched them — his daughter, laughing again. the woman kneeling beside her, guiding her hands to the soil.

something about the sight felt dangerous.

like hope.

like the beginning of something he wasn’t ready for.

𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘

heeseung kept his distance.

at first, he told himself it was for safety. for caution. he didn’t know her. not really. just a name scribbled on a mailbox and a presence that always seemed soft around the edges. but kindness, he’d learned, wasn’t always permanent. and warm people could disappear too.

so he watched from afar.

he stood near the sidewalk while yuri helped water the beds. watched her brush soil from her knees and point at the lavender stems like she was discovering a new world. sometimes he stayed just long enough to hear their voices drift back — low and contented, the kind of conversation where no one was in a rush to leave.

heeseung didn’t say anything. just nodded when y/n offered him a polite smile. folded his arms. waited until yuri looked up and waved her goodbye.

she always waved goodbye.

𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘

the house didn’t feel as quiet after that. not in the usual way. yuri began humming again — soft, off-tune, usually something she picked up from the garden. she started talking about soil and bugs and “companion planting,” which she explained like it was magic. heeseung listened, half-amused, half-wary.

“she said flowers like friends,” yuri told him one night at dinner. “some grow better next to each other.”

he didn’t know what to say to that. but she smiled anyway.

y/n had a gentle kind of presence. soothing, without needing to fill silence. heeseung noticed how she never asked questions that reached too far, how she didn’t pry. she just listened, offered yuri a second set of gloves, explained things in a way that didn’t talk down. it was the first time since the funeral he’d seen his daughter light up like that.

he knew he should be grateful.

but instead, he felt the dull edge of fear pressing into his ribs again.

because this, whatever this was, was something yuri could get used to. and he couldn’t promise it would last.

he never wanted her to know the weight of losing someone twice.

that fear stayed quiet for a while, buried beneath summer air and the sound of yuri laughing as she chased a butterfly between rows of cosmos. heeseung kept his guard up, even as the mornings blurred into routine. even as he found himself lingering longer at the gate. even as his fingers stopped trembling when he packed yuri’s snacks and told her, “you can go over after school, if she says it’s okay.”

𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘

one afternoon, as yuri dug beside a row of marigolds, she asked without looking up, “y/n, what’s your favourite flower?”

y/n leaned back on her palms, squinting at the sky. “that’s hard,” she said. “but maybe… pink bleeding hearts.”

yuri giggled. “why?”

“they’re delicate,” y/n said after a pause. “they only bloom when the conditions are just right. and they don’t last long. but when they show up-” she reached forward, brushing a petal with her thumb. “-they’re unforgettable. they remind me of people i’ve loved.”

yuri was quiet for a beat. then she glanced toward the sidewalk.

heeseung had come earlier than usual. he stood just beyond the gate, one hand in his pocket, watching them with that unreadable expression.

he said nothing. but he heard.

𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘

that night, heeseung sat alone in the living room long after yuri had gone to bed, a cup of untouched tea resting on his knee.

pink bleeding hearts.

he’d never heard of them before.

he looked it up. learned they were rare in their climate, especially outside of peak season. found a nursery an hour and a half away that might still have one in bloom.

he bookmarked the page.

didn’t place the order.

not yet.

𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘

it rained before anyone expected it.

the sky had been overcast all afternoon, but the clouds didn’t seem angry, just heavy, thick with a quiet tension. y/n had just stepped out to take in her laundry when she noticed the wind shifting, cooler and quick, carrying the scent of something wet and inevitable.

the downpour came suddenly. thunder low. then louder. rain fell in sheets, drumming against the roof.

she had barely gotten back inside when a knock sounded on the door.

urgent.

she opened it to find yuri standing on the porch, soaked from head to toe, curls stuck to her cheeks, her little fists balled at her sides.

“my umbrella broke,” she sniffled. “appa told me to wait, but i got scared so i ran here.”

y/n pulled her in without hesitation. “you did the right thing, sweetheart. you’re safe.”

she wrapped her in a blanket, toweled her hair gently. made hot chocolate, even though yuri didn’t drink much of it. the girl clung to her like a second skin, eyes wide every time thunder cracked outside.

fifteen minutes later, the door opened again — this time without knocking.

heeseung stood in the entryway, soaked clean through, eyes scanning the room until they landed on yuri, tucked against y/n’s side on the couch.

“you ran off,” he said quietly.

“i’m sorry,” yuri mumbled, eyes flicking to her lap.

heeseung looked at y/n next. “i didn’t mean to barge in. i just- she wasn’t there- i panicked.”

“it’s alright,” y/n said. “she’s fine. cold, but safe.”

heeseung exhaled slowly. he stepped farther into the room, rain dripping from his sleeves. he looked like he didn’t quite know what to do with himself, whether to scold, to thank, or to disappear.

but y/n stood and handed him a towel.

he blinked at it before taking it wordlessly.

“do you want to sit?” she asked gently.

“i shouldn’t stay.”

“it’s raining.”

heeseung hesitated, then lowered himself slowly onto the edge of the armchair. he sat like someone who wasn’t used to resting anymore.

for a while, there was only the soft roar of rain, the quiet clink of a spoon against a mug, yuri’s head resting heavier against y/n’s side as she began to nod off.

“she talks about you,” heeseung said suddenly, voice low.

y/n looked up.

“yuri. she… she talks about you when she’s not here.”

“i hope that’s a good thing.”

he let out something that might’ve been a laugh. barely there, but real.

“she calls you the flower lady,” he said. “says your hands are like her mom’s.”

that made y/n freeze for a moment.

“i didn’t mean to let it go that far,” heeseung said. “i didn’t expect her to get this close. i just thought… it’d be temporary.”

y/n didn’t look away. “and now?”

he looked at the window. rain streaked down like melted glass.

“i don’t know,” he admitted. “but i’m scared of her needing people i can’t promise she’ll get to keep.”

y/n swallowed.

“i get that,” she said. “but you don’t have to disappear just because it might end.”

his gaze met hers. dark. raw.

“i already did once,” he murmured. “and it ruined her.”

the silence that followed wasn’t empty. it was full of things unsaid. shared grief. loneliness neither had named out loud yet.

“maybe it didn’t ruin her,” y/n said finally. “maybe she’s just... growing through it.”

he looked back at yuri, asleep now, her tiny fists unclenched for once.

maybe, he thought, she is.

𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘

yuri started coughing on thursday.

just a little at first. dry and tucked behind her sleeve, like she didn’t want anyone to notice. she still asked to visit y/n after school, still tugged on her boots and insisted on helping dig up weeds between the marigolds.

but by the weekend, the cough had a wheeze. her forehead was warmer. her laughter came slower.

heeseung noticed immediately. took her to the clinic, filled the prescriptions, canceled her garden time. told her firmly, “rest first. you can go when you’re better.”

yuri had nodded, but her eyes went glassy in disappointment.

the nights grew restless. she tossed and turned, whimpered in her sleep, called out once for her mother in a voice that broke something in heeseung’s chest.

but what cut deeper was the name she said next.

“y/n…”

it was almost a whisper. almost not there.

heeseung sat in the hallway, back against the doorframe, palms pressed to his eyes.

by midnight, she was burning up. and when he couldn’t get the fever down, when her cheeks flushed too red and her breath came in short bursts, he did something he hadn’t done in years: he knocked on someone’s door for help.

y/n opened her door in a hoodie and mismatched socks, hair slightly messy from sleep.

he didn’t wait for pleasantries.

“she’s really sick. she kept asking for you.”

y/n blinked once. then stepped aside without a word.

inside, the lights stayed low. y/n moved with practiced ease — cool cloths, lukewarm tea, whispered reassurances. yuri clung to her, weak and sleepy, but calm for the first time in hours.

heeseung sat silently in the corner, watching it all.

“how did you know what to do?” he asked after a while, voice hoarse.

y/n looked over her shoulder. “i’ve had long nights too.”

he didn’t ask what she meant. didn’t need to.

he could see it now. that quiet echo in her, the same one in him. loss didn’t always scream. sometimes it just lingered.

when yuri finally drifted off, curled between a blanket and y/n’s arm, heeseung didn’t move.

“she never asks for anyone,” he said quietly. “not even family.”

“she doesn’t see me as a stranger anymore,” y/n said, just as softly.

he looked at her, really looked.

“i don’t think i do either.”

𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘

the next few days passed gently. yuri recovered slowly, her laughter growing stronger again. her visits to the garden resumed in small doses. first half an hour, then longer, her hands back in the dirt like they never left.

and heeseung began to stay.

not every time. but more often than not. sometimes with a book in hand. sometimes helping. awkwardly at first, like he didn’t quite know how to hold a trowel. but his hands were steady. and he listened.

𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘

one evening, y/n handed him a mug of chamomile tea and sat beside him on the porch. yuri had gone home early to rest. the sun dipped low, painting the sky in faint pink and gold.

“you asked me once how i knew what to do,” she said.

he glanced at her.

“i lost someone too. a brother. years ago.”

he said nothing. just waited.

“he was older. the kind of person everyone leaned on. when he died, i didn’t know how to hold anything anymore. so I started planting things. watching things grow gave me back some kind of balance.”

heeseung’s fingers tightened slightly around the mug.

“i kept telling myself if i could help something grow, maybe i wasn’t breaking,” she said.

he looked down at his lap. then said, barely audible, “i started bringing flowers to the grave because i didn’t know how else to talk to her.”

y/n didn’t reply. just reached out, let her fingers graze his lightly.

“maybe you’re still talking to her,” she said. “in your own way.”

the silence after that didn’t feel heavy. just quiet.

settled.

𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘

heeseung showed up one morning with dirt on his sleeves.

y/n had just stepped out to water the daisies when she saw him standing by the gate, holding a small terra-cotta pot in both hands. he looked awkward. like he didn’t know how to hold it properly. like it might break if he shifted too much.

inside the pot: a young pink bleeding heart plant, its delicate arch already blooming into soft, heart-shaped blossoms.

y/n froze. “you found one.”

“i remembered what you said. about how they only bloom when the conditions are right.” he glanced down. “it wasn’t easy. the guy at the nursery said they’re out of season. but there was one left.”

her voice was barely a whisper. “you didn’t have to.”

“i know.”

he stepped forward, handing it to her. his fingers brushed hers. and this time, neither of them pulled away.

“i used to think letting anyone close again was a mistake,” he said. “that if I stayed quiet long enough, the pain would keep its distance.”

her eyes softened.

“but then my daughter started bringing home soil under her nails and stories i didn’t know how to finish.”

y/n smiled, lips trembling.

“she brought me to you,” he added. “and i guess... something soft grew here too. even in me.”

there was no grand confession. no sudden kiss. just the bloom between them. real, living, held in her hands.

they planted the bleeding heart just inside the gate.

together.

it stood there quietly, its fragile blossoms nodding in the breeze like it understood the way grief and love could grow in the same space.

𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘

time didn’t rush after that. it unfolded gently.

yuri returned each day after school, dirt smudged on her cheeks, asking if they could plant “one more thing” before sunset. heeseung started helping without being asked, started staying without needing a reason.

sometimes they all sat on the porch with tea and silence. sometimes he brought groceries without being told what to get. sometimes he let his hand rest lightly on y/n’s knee, just enough to say: i’m here.

𖤣.𖥧.𖡼.⚘

one morning, as she trimmed back the overgrown mint, y/n looked up to find a bloom resting on her doorstep again.

just like before.

but this time, heeseung stood behind it.

she arched a brow.

he gave a small, sheepish shrug. “didn’t know how else to say i missed you yesterday.”

y/n laughed. “you were literally here last night.”

“still,” he said, stepping forward, voice quieter now. “i used to leave flowers because i felt like i owed you something.”

“and now?”

he reached up, tucking the bloom behind her ear.

“now i just want to.”

she didn’t answer right away. just leaned into his hand slightly, heart fluttering in rhythm with the wind.

as they stood together near the bleeding heart —now in full bloom, more vibrant than either of them thought possible— heeseung looked at her for a long, soft moment.

then said, “maybe i’ll just keep showing up.”

a pause.

“with flowers.”

end.