tacoguacamole

[tacoguacamole]

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[tacoguacamole]

I LOVE YOU MORE | JJK

New house, no bed frame, and too much love to wait. You and Jeongguk christen your home the only way you both know how—through teasing, tender chaos, and a whole lot of love poured between unpacked boxes and breathless confessions.

ANOTHER TIME DRABBLE #2

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

[Theme: Marriage AU. BF2L2S]

[Warnings: Explicit Mature Content, Excessive Sap (Handle with Caution), Bed Frame Not Included, Loud, Yapper Jeongguk, Minor Risk of Dehydration (They’re that in love).]

[Note: This drabble lives somewhere in their early married years—when the Seoul house was still half-empty, the future was still half-planned, but the love was full and overflowing. Something soft, spicy, and a little chaotic. Just them, too in love to wait for curtains or bed frames. Lover boy Jeongguk is loud, in every way, and you matching him beat for beat. Just a little something and thank you for patiently sticking around for the series. Thank you for reading, always.💜]

ANOTHER TIME INDEX: Part 1. Part 2. Part 3. Part 4.Part 5. Part 6. Part 7. Part 8. Part 9. Part 10.

[Drabble Word Count: 2K]

[MINORS DNI! 18+]

The house is too quiet tonight. But it’s not the kind of quiet that unnerves.

It’s the kind that settles in your bones. Soft and still.

The windows are cracked open, letting in night air that smells like pavement and fresh starts. The curtain rods are still bare, a folded sheet draped over one like a makeshift veil, rustling faintly with the breeze.

Somewhere in the middle of the living room—half-unpacked, half-furnished—Jeongguk is staring up at the ceiling like it’s a sky he’s never seen.

You watch him from the kitchen entryway, sleeves pushed up, knees sore from squatting over boxes. Your whole body aches, but the smile on his face makes something else ache too.

He doesn’t look at you. Just grins. “I think I’m still in love.”

You snort. “You think?”

“I’m debating if I’m in love with you… or with that dumb little corner by the stairs where we said we’d put the shoe rack.”

Your eyes narrow. “I will throw this dishrag at you.”

He walks over, all mismatched socks and cocky steps, oversized hoodie, one sleeve up exposing those damn tattoos, the other down, like it’s always been your favorite look on him. When he’s close enough, he tugs the rag out of your hands and tosses it somewhere behind him.

“Can’t believe this is ours,” he murmurs, eyes on your face now. “No parents. No landlords. Just you, me, and a fuckton of drywall.”

“Don’t forget the faulty bathroom light.”

“I’m emotionally attached to it already.”

You laugh, and he lights up like he wants to live in that sound. Then, with zero warning, he lifts you by the hips and sets you on the counter, sliding between your knees like he belongs there.

“You’re gonna dent my countertop.”

“Our countertop,” he corrects, leaning in. “And I’ll fix it tomorrow.”

“You’re not that handy.”

“Oh, I’m very handy,” he says, voice dipping low.

And there it is—that spark. That shift in the air.

You tilt your head. “Are we really doing this in a house that doesn’t even have curtains yet?”

“I’ve waited three months to see you in this kitchen,” he says, crowding close. “You think I’m waiting another night to fuck you in it?”

Your breath stumbles. But your hands find his hoodie anyway, fingers curling in the fabric.

“You’re getting cocky.”

“Confident,” he corrects again, brushing his lips just beneath your ear. “And I think I earned it.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” he says, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes. “Because I love you more.”

You tug his hoodie strings. “You’re still on that?”

“I’ll never be off that,” he whispers, right before his lips crash into yours.

It starts slow. Familiar. But then his hands slide beneath your shirt like he needs proof. Like he can’t believe you’re here, legs open for him, in this kitchen you picked together.

“You know what’s hot?” he mutters, tugging your shirt upward.

“What?”

“That you picked this house with me.”

“Is that your idea of foreplay?”

“It is now.”

Your shirt hits the floor. His hoodie follows. He groans as you trace your fingers up his bare chest, and you kiss him, sloppy and grinning.

“Fuck,” he pants. “I love you.”

“You always say that when you’re hard.”

“No, I say that because I’m in love with you. The hard-on’s just enthusiastic agreement.”

By the time you make it to the bedroom—just a mattress on the floor and unopened boxes in the corner. The air smells faintly of fresh wood and Jeongguk’s cologne. The rest of your clothes disappear with no grace at all—just messy tugging, stolen laughs, his mouth trailing heat down your collarbone as he pins you to the sheets with his weight.

“I’m gonna say it now,” he murmurs, breath hot on your skin. “So you can’t argue later. I love you more. You can try to fight it, but you’re gonna lose.”

“Pretty confident for someone who can’t even build a bed.”

“You want a bed or an orgasm?”

You bite your lip, eyes dark with challenge. “Both.”

“Then guess I better impress you twice.”

He kneels between your legs like you’re something sacred. Hands glide up your thighs, mouth following slow.

“You’re perfect,” he whispers. “This—this is mine.”

“Stop yapping and do your thing.”

“Admit it first,” he smirks, gripping your thighs, kissing them with teasing slowness. “Admit that I love you more.”

“J-Jeongguk—”

He chuckles darkly. “Wrong answer baby.”

You whimper, hips lifting, surprise him—hands fisting in his hair, thighs clamped tight around his head like you could keep him right where he belongs.

He groans into you like it’s a reward. "Fuck, baby—missed me?”

You snap, breathless, “Shut up. You’re too slow.”

He grins like the devil. “I was trying to devour my wife.” Then he lifts your thighs higher. “But hey, if you want to be ruined—”

Hands locking over your hips, he drags you back down to the mattress and proves it—proves how much more he loves you with every slow, thorough motion of his mouth. Lazily. Reverently. Over and over until your thighs are trembling and your cries are punched into your own hand. Every lick, every curl of his fingers is deliberate. Focused. He watches your face like he’s memorizing it.

“Gguk—”

He kisses the inside of your knee, voice dark and low. “You’re so needy for me tonight. Don’t hold back. Let me hear all of it.”

And you do. You give him everything—every gasp, every desperate roll of your hips, every raw sound his name pulls from you. Your body arches off the bed and he groans like your pleasure's carved into his own bones.

You’re shaking. Sobbing his name. Thighs trembling around his head.

Jeongguk doesn’t stop. But he does slow down—tongue teasing, fingers curling just right—until you’re clawing at the pillows, cursing his name like a prayer.

“Funny way to show how much more you love me when you can’t finish the deed, babe.”

“Mm. You really need me that bad?” he taunts, voice hoarse. “You’re fucking soaked.”

“You gonna do something about it?”

He grins, filthy. Then dives back in—no warning, no mercy. Just love poured into every inch of you.

You sob, eyes rolling. “Holy shit–”

When he finally rises, his lips glisten, chest heaving. His eyes are wrecked and ravenous.

“You’re a menace,” you breathe. “Get up here.”

He smiles shyly—like something soft just slipped through the cracks. He shifts upward, gentler now, palm smoothing along your side. “You okay?” he whispers, brushing strands of hair from your face.

“I’d be better if you were inside me.”

He groans—a desperate, pained sound—kisses you deep, slow, breath still heavy with need. He climbs over you, worship written all over his face. When he finally sinks into you—slow, deep, stretching you perfectly—you both moan in unison.

“Don’t say shit like that unless you’re ready to deal with what it does to me.”

You wrap your legs around his waist and pull him in deeper. “Then stop talking and fuck me.”

And he does. Not just like he needs you—like he loves you, more than anything that’s ever come before.

Your head tilts back at the stretch, at the heat of him.

He groans like it’s killing him to be inside you. Like your body’s the one thing in this world that never stops undoing him.

You breathe his name, fingernails curling into his back.

He thrusts deep. Again. And again. His voice stutters through every word.

“I swear—” His forehead falls to yours. “—swear I’ll never love anyone like I love you.”

“I know.”

“I don’t even care if the bed frame breaks when we put it together. We’ll just fuck on the floor.”

You want to laugh. But all you can do is hold him tighter. Your arms wrap around his neck like they belong there. Like this moment could stretch forever and still not be enough.

“You babble too much.”

“You love it.”

You do. You always do.

Because it’s not just the way he moves, it’s the way he means everything. The way he calls you baby in the same breath as cursing under it. The way he needs you like air.

You roll him onto his back, straddling him without losing rhythm.

“Fuck—fuck, look at you—” His eyes flutter. His grip on your hips tightens.

“Guess I’m winning huh?”

He whines, hands sliding up your sides. “You’re so hot when you think you’re in charge. My wife.”

“You gonna take it back?”

“Damn right I am.”

He bucks up into you hard enough to knock your breath out.

“You’re such a talker,” you gasp, clenching around him.

“You love when I talk,” he says, rolling his hips slow. “You clench every time I tell you how good you are.”

So you do it again. Just to prove him right. Just to make him suffer.

Jeongguk chokes. “Dirty fucking move.”

“You asked for it.”

He kisses you deep, hips never faltering. Every thrust sends heat coiling through your spine. Sweat pools between your bodies. His hair’s stuck to his forehead, but his eyes never leave yours.

And in them, you see everything—his awe, his hunger, his heart. He looks at you like he still can’t believe he gets to love you like this. Like you’re the most real thing he’s ever touched.

“I love you,” he breathes, “God, I love you so much. Please look at me.”

You whimper, nails raking down his chest. “I love you – fuck, I love you too.”

“That’s it.” He kisses your jaw, your temple, your mouth. “Say it again.”

Just as you were about to, Jeongguk shifts—hitting something inside you that makes your toes curl.

You cry out, back arching. “There,” you gasp. “Don’t stop—there—”

He slams back into you, hard and deep. “You’re gonna come for me, baby?”

You nod helplessly, legs trembling, let out a pathetic, “Mhm.”

His hand finds yours, lacing fingers tight. “Then do it. I’ve got you. Want to feel you, baby. You’re home with me.”

You fall apart—shuddering, writhing, mouth open in a moan that barely makes it out. The pleasure crashes through you, raw and consuming, leaving your limbs trembling and mind blank.

He follows later with a groan torn from deep in his chest, a final thrust so deep it sends the world blurring out around you. His breath stutters against your cheek as he spills inside you, clutching you like he never wants to let go.

“Holy shit,” he breathes. “I fucking love you.”

You cling to him—one arm thrown across his back, the other tangled in his damp hair. You feel the soft drag of his lips at your temple, and all you can do is breathe him in. Heart still racing. Mind still lost somewhere in the way he held you through it all.

Your voice is barely a whisper. “You’re insane.”

He smiles against your skin. “Only for you.”

Later, tangled in a sheet that still smell like cardboard, fresh linen, something that barely cover either of you properly, Jeongguk pulls you onto his chest.

“You think the house heard us?”

You nuzzle into his neck. “Hope it took notes.”

He chuckles, thumb drawing lazy circles on your spine. “Wonder if the balcony railings are as strong as they look.”

You yawn. “Think I’m gonna need a few days, babe. You proved your point.”

He feigns a dramatic pout, eyes gleaming soft and mischievous. “Promise we’ll go again in every room?”

“Sure, Gguk,” you mumble. “Just let me sleep. Still gotta fix the shelf tomorrow for your Iron Man dolls.”

He laughs, kisses you again—soft, slow, like he’s smoothing time down to this one perfect second. His palm cradles your cheek, fingers brushing hair from your eyes.

“Love you.”

Your voice is a whisper against his skin. “Love you too.”

And when your breathing finally evens, his voice finds you again—quiet, smug, and achingly tender:

“I love you more.”

[tacoguacamole]

ANOTHER TIME | JJK - 10

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

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

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

[Theme: Marriage AU. BF2L2S]

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

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

[Status: Ongoing]

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

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

[MINORS DNI! 18+]

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

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

Like everything was holding its breath.

And maybe you were, too.

You’d been floating for who knows how long.

Not metaphorically — though that would’ve fit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Baby.”

“You’re still you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I was just thinking.”

“In the pool. In your pajamas.”

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

“It’s eleven degrees.”

You shrug. “Felt warmer.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It only takes two rings.

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

“I’m leaving,” you mutter.

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

“I swear to god—”

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

“It was barely a dip.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Silence. A bird chirps somewhere in the hedge.

Hobi blinks. “You—?”

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

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

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

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

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

Your brows knit. “Every time?”

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

Your head snaps up. “Chim.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hobi’s eyebrow arches, but he stays silent.

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

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

“Oh,” Jimin murmurs, eyes gentling.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hobi pauses mid-step. “What the fu—”

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

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

“Hobi—” you hiss, panicked.

Too late.

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

You snap your eyes shut. “You traitor.”

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

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

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

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

You whirl around. “No, you don’t.”

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

“Hobi—”

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

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

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

“Can I—help?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Nope.” You don’t explain further.

He doesn’t push.

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

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

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

He nods.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He doesn't argue.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You reach for your seatbelt.

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

You nod. “Yeah.”

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

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

He doesn’t say anything else.

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

Just walks beside you, like always.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A moment later, footsteps approach around the corner.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You freeze for a heartbeat.

Then—instinctively—you glance at Jeongguk.

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

Your fingers tighten around the donation bag.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then—

“Unnie!”

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

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

“But we missed you!”

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

“Noona!”

“She’s here!”

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

A ripple of curiosity spreads.

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

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

“Does he bring you flowers?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Come see our room!”

“We drew pictures last week! Wanna see?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fast and magical,” the boy decides instantly.

Jeongguk chuckles. “Best kind.”

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

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

Your distraction costs you.

A giggle. Then—

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

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

She grins wide. “You already are.”

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

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

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

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

The kids dissolve into laughter.

And so do you.

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

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

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

Your breath catches.

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

You grin, taking it. “Hold still.”

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

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

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

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

“You okay?” Jeongguk asks behind you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The nurse arches a brow. “You sure?”

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

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

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

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

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

The baby hiccups, waving his arms.

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

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

“You still got it,” you murmur.

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

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

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

“She was wrong about the diaper fold.”

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

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

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

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

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

“I’ll hold her.”

You look at him. “Is that okay?”

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

You rub your arms as the chill hits your skin.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t answer. Don’t have to.

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

And still, he stays.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Something like a quiet ache wrapped in fondness.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He nods, pulling the car back onto the road.

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

Then, you notice the turn he takes.

The bend of the street.

The familiar lamppost that still flickers near the crosswalk.

The university gates, now worn with time.

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

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

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

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

Maybe you both need this.

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

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

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

You glance over. “Thanks… for today.”

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

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

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

“I didn’t think you remembered how.”

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

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

Then—

“Can I ask you something?”

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

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

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

“Since…?”

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

Jeongguk doesn’t interrupt. Just waits.

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

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

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

“I didn’t know,” he murmurs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You glance down briefly, then lift your gaze again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Less about what you lost.

More about what never left.

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

Campus hasn’t changed much.

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

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

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

Jeongguk raises a brow. “Doubt it.”

You start walking faster.

“Wait—” he says, already catching on.

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

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

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

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

“You’ve gotten faster since uni.”

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

“We’re the same age!”

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

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

“Wow,” he murmurs.

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

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

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

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

His grin stretches. “I did.”

“You hit the janitor’s cart.”

“That’s called creative aiming.”

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

“I was distracting the crowd with my charisma.”

“There was no crowd, Gguk.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’ve seen mine, right?”

You nod. Quiet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He gasps. “Bland?”

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

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

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

Your breath catches.

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

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

There’s no waver. No doubt.

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

You say nothing. Just listen.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I have,” he says. “For a while now.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He doesn’t flinch.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[tacoguacamole]

SEROTONIN SKY | MYG - ONE SHOT

Summary: In Serotonin Sky, Min Yoongi reunites with you—his former creative partner and lost love—amidst the backdrop of a music festival in LA. A spontaneous trip to Joshua Tree reawakens old feelings and long-buried truths, forcing Yoongi to confront the cost of chasing dreams without you. A tender, bittersweet story of love, timing, and second chances under starlit skies.

[Pairing: Idol/Producer!Min Yoongi x Producer!Female Reader]

[Theme: L2E/Angst]

[Status: Completed One Shot inspired off a track.]

The hotel room is too quiet.

Min Yoongi lies awake on his back, eyes tracing the dark ceiling, while Los Angeles hums distantly beneath the high-rise windows. The digital clock on the nightstand blinks a sterile blue: 3:47 a.m.

He hasn’t slept in 36 hours—not since rehearsals started, not since the lights and smoke machines drowned out the crowd, not since he saw you again for the first time in nearly a year.

He squeezes his eyes shut. Presses his palms to his face like he can undo the memory of you with pressure and breath alone.

You weren’t supposed to be there.

But of course you were. You’d always said you’d climb your way to the top, whether or not the world was ready. And he believed you. You weren’t chasing the spotlight—but when it came to you, it came naturally. Headphones slung around your neck, coffee in hand, that sharp glint in your eye that could slice through the thickest creative haze.

And just like that—just a glimpse of you on that rooftop studio—Yoongi lost every reasoned thought he’d spent the last year stacking like bricks.

He should have nodded. Said congratulations. Maybe even smiled.

But then you smiled first.

And that was the end of that.

~ ♬ ~~ ♬ ~~ ♬ ~~ ♬ ~~ ♬ ~~ ♬ ~~ ♬ ~~ ♬ ~~ ♬ ~~ ♬ ~

The next day, he runs into you again. He’ll call it an accident, but that’s a lie he tells himself to make the spiral feel less deliberate.

You're beside a mixing booth, sleeves pushed up, listening with your full body like you always do—head tilted, jaw tense, one hand tapping your thigh to the rhythm of a half-finished beat. You haven’t changed, not really. He watches from the doorway too long.

Then you turn.

And you see him.

And you don’t look away.

You approach like you’re not holding a year of silence between your fingers. “Hey, Min.”

His name, in your voice, still sounds like the hook of a song he never finished.

“Didn’t know you’d be here,” he lies.

You arch a brow, unimpressed. “Liar.”

He almost smiles.

He wants—desperately—to say something important. Something brave. I need you in my life, I’m not lying. But the thrum of the bass from the monitors swallows the words, and so does his pride.

So he says nothing.

And watches you walk away again.

That night, he writes like he’s bleeding.

Later, after most of the crew has cleared out and the last cables are coiled, you’re leaning against your car in the lot, arms crossed like you're waiting for him.

“You still drive aimlessly when your head’s too loud?” you ask.

He doesn't answer. Just unlocks his rental and tosses you the keys.

The playlist is yours.

Old songs. Unfinished demos. Your voice humming along to a melody he forgot he sent you. The city falls away in the rearview mirror, swallowed by a desert that stretches endlessly ahead.

You roll the window down and stretch your hand out into the wind. “You ever been to Joshua Tree?”

He glances at you. “Once. Years ago.”

You turn your head, voice softer now. “Then take me again.”

At 1:04 a.m., you're barefoot on the hood of the car beneath a sky scattered with stars. You draw your knees to your chest and rest your chin on them. You don’t speak. You don’t have to.

Yoongi watches you instead of the constellations.

The curve of your cheek, illuminated faintly in moonlight. The way the night seems to hush itself around you.

“She’s a supernova, I’m a casualty,” he murmurs, more to himself than anyone.

You turn to him. “What?”

“Nothing,” he mutters. “Just… working lyrics.”

You nod. You understand. You always did.

A few minutes pass.

Then you ask, quietly, “Why’d you leave?”

His breath fogs in the night air.

“Timing. Fame. Fear. Thought I had to follow the dream or lose it forever. And I didn’t think I could be what you needed.”

You don’t move. Just stare out at the sky like you’re trying to find the version of him you once believed in.

“I never asked you to be anything,” you say. “Just honest.”

Yoongi’s throat tightens. Because honesty is the one thing he buried. The one thing he wrote around, but never into.

“I still love you,” he says, voice raw.

You blink. But you don’t look away.

And maybe that’s how he knows you still love him too.

On the drive back, you fall asleep somewhere past Palm Springs. Your seat is reclined, your hand resting between the seats, close enough to touch.

He glances at you in the quiet. The world blurs by in streaks of red taillights and desert shadows. Music hums low.

Fine like a wine, she’s my type, call her wifey.

He closes his eyes at a red light. Breathes you in.

I’ll rest my eyes, live my life in the backseat, he thinks, before the light turns green.

~ ♬ ~~ ♬ ~~ ♬ ~~ ♬ ~~ ♬ ~~ ♬ ~~ ♬ ~~ ♬ ~~ ♬ ~~ ♬ ~

Back in Seoul, weeks later, when the silence returns, when he’s alone again, Yoongi plays the track he wrote that night. The one he never released.

It starts with desert wind. A faint laugh caught on tape. His voice, unpolished and human.

Serotonin sky… Got her bringing out the best in me. Every constellation over Joshua Tree…

And when he closes his eyes, he sees you again.

Back on that hood.

Still by his side.

[tacoguacamole]

ANOTHER TIME | JJK - 9

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

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

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

[Theme: Marriage AU. BF2L2S]

[Warnings: Major Angst, Multiple Flashbacks and Time Jumps, Mature Theme, Smut, Mature/Explicit Language, A lot of fluff, Romance, Slowburn, Splice of Life]

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

[Status: Ongoing]

[Part 1. Part 2. Part 3. Part 4.Part 5. Part 6. Part 7. Part 8. Part 9. Chapter Word Count: 9.5k+]

[Chapter Summary: There was a kind of farewell threaded through everything—spoken without drama, carried in glances and gestures, in the way hands didn’t linger but didn’t let go. You didn’t expect the weight of it, or the way comfort found you in the smallest places: in old shoes, in the soft edge of his voice, in silence that didn’t ask for more.]

[MINORS DNI! 18+]

The house breathes around you. Not in silence, but in that particular hush of well-tended spaces—alive with rhythm, yet never loud.

You hear the soft shuffle of slippers on polished floors, the gentle thud of distant doors closing with care. Somewhere upstairs, someone is vacuuming, the sound muffled like it’s been politely turned down just for you.

You don’t have to look to know someone is dusting the stair rail again, same as they do every morning. The chandelier lets out a soft mechanical sigh as the air shifts. You listen to it all like it means something—because it does.

This kind of quiet isn’t empty. It’s full of other people’s motions, of intention, of care. Of life, still moving, even when yours feels like it’s pausing to catch its breath.

Your mother is already in the kitchen by the time you step in, sleeves rolled to her elbows, her movements practiced and unhurried. She stands over the stove, stirring something slow and fragrant in a wide pot, steam curling up to kiss her face. The rice cooker hums beside her, its lid covered with a neatly folded cloth she must’ve placed there out of habit.

She doesn’t startle when you enter – just shifts slightly to make room for your silence, then adjusts the flame, wipes a splash from the counter with the back of her hand.

It’s a kind of quiet choreography, the kind you grew up watching. Everything she does is muscle memory by now, but there’s care in it too. A softness.

“Made too much,” she says, without turning around, already expecting you’d be joining her with the day that awaits.

“You always do,” you settle into your usual seat at the counter, the wood smooth and cool beneath your palms.

She doesn’t answer right away—just lifts the lid from the pot and stirs with a gentle hand. “Do you want me to pack some for him?”

You blink, amused. “Change of heart, Eomma?”

“Those flowers looked like it could grow in our garden,” she tries to hide the smile slipping out but her eyes already betray her. “Guess he could get a point for that. Just for now.”

There’s an ache in your chest – the good kind – to hear the slightest warmth in her voice. “He spoils me.”

“He owes you,” though she’s back to her motherly protection, you’re thankful to see the slight change.

The silence that settles between you isn’t sharp. It lingers the way shared understanding does—unspoken, but unmistakably there. You watch steam rise in ribbons from the bowl as she sets it aside and rinses the ladle under a thin stream of water.

“You’ve been quieter lately,” she says after a while. “Is it work?”

You shake your head. “No. Not really.”

“Then what is it?”

“I’ve just been thinking,” you say, your voice softer than before, “about where I want to be. Later.”

She dries her hands slowly on the towel hanging by the sink, then turns to face you. The light catches on her skin—sharp at the collarbone, soft at her jaw. Even in the stillness, she holds herself with the kind of strength that doesn’t ask for attention.

“You were always gentler than me,” she says. “I built my life on noise. You… you always found your peace in the quiet.”

You rest your chin in your hand, eyes drifting toward the window. “Busan was always the quiet, wasn’t it?”

Your mother is silent for a moment. Then, “Your father proposed to me in Busan. We were still striving then. He didn’t even have a ring.” There’s a faint smile on her lips. “We were staying in this rental room by the port. You could hear the foghorn at night. I was going to tell you that story one day.”

“Why didn’t you?”

She hesitates. Then says, “Because it always felt like yours. That city. The way you lit up when we went. The way you listened to the sea like it was speaking just to you. Even back then, I think I knew—if you were ever going to heal, or start over, or fall in love… it would be there.”

You look at her more closely now, something stirring low in your chest.

She takes a slow breath and adds, quieter – “Maybe I built everything in Seoul… but I started everything there, too.” She steps closer and places a hand on your wrist. Not firm, not demanding—just there. A quiet tether. “If that’s where you want to be… I’ll make sure it’s yours. Make sure it feels like home again.”

 “That sounds dangerously close to you giving me your blessing to quit everything and disappear.”

“Disappearing is dramatic,” she deadpans. “I’m imagining something more peaceful. Like an early retirement. Or a very long vacation.”

You huff out a laugh, the tension unspools just a little. “You always did know how to rebrand my crises.”

“I’m excellent at it,” she returns to the stove. “Should’ve gone into PR.” She slides the rice container into a cloth bag and folds the towel over the top with practiced care.

You drift toward the window, fingers brushing the curtain aside as morning light filters in—gentle and calming.

Outside, the sky still wears the last of dawn’s haze, soft and silver at the edges. The chill lingers on the breeze, not sharp, just enough to wake your skin.

Jeongguk’s already there—like he always is now—leaning against the driver’s side of his car with one hand tucked in his coat pocket, the other holding a bouquet of purple tulips.

Smaller than yesterday’s. Still lovely. Still him.

You smile faintly. “He’s here.”

Your mother simply closes the bag, sets it gently in front of you. “Tell him to eat properly,” she murmurs. “He looks thinner these days.”

You glance at her. “He’s the same.”

“He isn’t.” Placing a gentle kiss on your cheek, she walks away, off to get ready for the day that awaits ahead. Doesn’t say anything else. Knows she’ll see you later.

Reaching for your scarf, you take the bag in hand, slip on your shoes by the door, breathing in the morning air that greets you outside like an old friend – brisk, clean, edged with something familiar. The scent of tulips fades in quickly – sweet, earthy, familiar, carried in on the wind.

Jeongguk holds them out as you approach, a little tentative, like he’s still learning how much is too much—and what’s just enough.

“These look suspiciously normal-sized,” lifting a brow, you take the bouquet. “No wild field this morning?”

Tucking his hand back into his coat pocket, a quiet smile slips on his lips. “Thought I’d save you the trouble today.”

Ignoring the flutter in your chest, you follow him toward the car, walk in sync, routine, old habits. He opens the passenger door for you, waits until you’re settled, then rounds to the driver’s side and climbs in. His fingers tap once against the steering wheel before he starts the engine.

“That your mom’s cooking?”

You lift the cloth bag slightly. “She says you’re getting thinner.”

“Thinner?” He scoffs. “I’ve added the eight ab back recently. That’s premium real estate.”

You blink. “You’re counting now?”

He nods. “I monitor growth. We’re talking micro-sculpting at this point.”

“Didn’t you call me last week, interrupted my meeting, because you got stuck halfway through a sit-up?”

“That was a tactical pause,” he says flatly. “Part of the method.”

You reach over, and poke his stomach. “Too bad. Kinda miss the flabs. That version was more huggable.”

He softens instantly. “I’m suddenly feeling donuts and samgyeopsal. You know that 24-hour one by Uni? Maybe your mom was right, I am getting skinny.”

You laugh, head falling back against the seat. The kind of laugh that surprises you with how easy it is. “As long as you have those for later. I’m not really in the mood for a big breakfast.”

“Breakfast might be your favorite meal, but I know you never eat much in the morning. Don’t worry – just the usual café for now.” He smiles, eyes fixed on the road—the way they always are when he’s trying to keep things light, careful not to let the moment sink too deep.

Morning unfolds around you in quiet layers – storefronts stirring to life, café windows fogging over with warmth, a delivery truck double-parked beneath the weight of crates and chatter. The city doesn’t rush. It stretches, exhales.

And beside you, Jeongguk drives like he’s not part of it. Like this—his hand steady on the wheel, the other folded into yours over the console—is the only version of morning that exists. His thumb brushes over your knuckles now, lingering longer on your wedding ring, absentminded but constant. Like a promise he doesn’t say out loud.

The café is tucked between an old bookstore and a laundromat, easy to miss if you’re not looking for it. Its wooden sign is weathered, the paint at the corners flaking like it gave up trying to be noticed.

It’s ritual by now, somewhere between the second morning and the seventh, the place just stuck, but you always look forward to this. It’s more than you ever got in the past three years.

Inside, the air carries the warmth of toasted bread and cinnamon, soft enough to feel like memory. A low jazz melody winds through the space, mellow and unbothered. Plates clink gently. The espresso machine hisses, not with urgency, but with rhythm. Conversations murmur around you, blurred at the edges. No one looks too long. No one moves too fast.

It’s the kind of morning that doesn’t take anything from you. That lets you arrive without shape. That lets you stay.

Jeongguk returns with a tray balanced in one hand, the collar of his coat still turned up from the wind outside. Barley tea for you, his usual black, two soft-boiled eggs, cinnamon sugar toast, and your mother’s rice rolls—still warm through the paper wrapping, like they’ve carried a piece of home with them.

He sets everything down with a practiced kind of ease, sliding into the seat across from you like this is how it’s always been.

“You’re getting predictable,” you murmur, wrapping your fingers around the warm tea. “Same order. Same seat. Same scowl.”

“It’s your favorites,” he says, “And, maybe I just wanted to get something right for once,” tears a piece of toast in half. “Anyway, just happy you didn’t bail this morning. Was ready to eat your share out of spite.”

You snort. “So noble of you.”

“Yeah, well. I’m complicated like that,” he mutters, tries keeping a straight face, but you notice the crinkle in the corner of his eyes. Tries to shrug it off by handing you the bigger piece. “Bread based revenge and all.”

You both eat without rush, letting the moment stretch. Time feels like it’s favoring you today – soft around the edges, unbothered by urgency. He peels the eggs with deliberate care, and as always, sets one gently into your bowl without a word.

It’s nothing. But it’s also everything.

You glance at him. He meets your eyes just long enough to offer a small, almost shy smile — the kind that seems like he’s grateful for this rhythm between you, like it never left.

A breeze filters through the cracked window beside you, carrying in the faintest scent of roasted beans from next door.

You wrap your fingers around the tea cup, letting the warmth sink into your palms. “No calls? No emergencies?”

He shakes his head, easy. “Took a leave.”

It catches you off guard—not in a dramatic way, but just enough to stir your thoughts.

Jeongguk’s never been one to slow down, at least not in the past few years. Sure, there were days he slacked off or get burned out, but the ones where he chased perfection always carried more weight.

He’d worked late into the night, refining pitches and brand decks no one had asked for yet. That was just how he was—quietly driven, unable to rest until everything met or surpassed expectations.

You want to ask what changed. Why now. What he plans to do with the time he’s carved out of a life that never really slowed down.

But the questions stay lodged in your throat — too close to overstepping, and you’ve worked too hard to keep this peace. This fragment of normalcy.

Instead, you offer a softer one, “You sure your team can survive without you till then?”

“They’ll thank me for the silence,” he says with a quiet chuckle. “Taehyung’s probably halfway to Daegu. I know he misses his family.”

You smile behind your cup. “Look at you, being all selfless and mysterious.”

The morning drifts gently between you — sunlight pooling across the window, the low murmur of jazz curling through the air, the scrape of a ceramic plate as he divides the last of the toast.

Outside, a car hums past, tires hissing softly on damp pavement. You lean back a little, letting the quiet settle into your bones.

“Haven’t seen that in a while.” Jeongguk breaks the silence, eyes flicking toward your blouse.

You glance down. “What?”

“You wore that once in Jeju. The hotel with no heating. The umbrella incident.”

You blink, caught off guard. “That’s a very specific memory.”

“Hard to forget when you babbled for forty-eight hours straight and threatened to file a class-action suit.”

“It was forty-eight minutes,” you huff, folding your arms. “And it was a bad hotel. Was going to close my first big client and they gave me a shitty conference room. Had to use the umbrella nearby for the pipes that bursted that day.”

“Pretty blouse though. Think it brought you luck. Got to close that deal after all.”

You look at him. His gaze is soft but steady — not lingering, not loaded. Just... noticing. Like it matters to him that he remembers, and that you’re wearing it now.

Your eyes drop again. Smoothing out the fabric at your wrist, unsure what to do with the way his attention settles — warm, familiar, and too much all at once. “I’m skipping dinner tonight.”

“Again?” His tone lifts, borderline betrayed. “Was breakfast supposed to be compensation?”

You should’ve seen the dramatics coming. Still, you roll your eyes. “Go find something to do. Bother someone else.”

“I wanna bother you,” Jeongguk blurts out, pouty and reckless, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. The kind of thing he used to say when he’d drape himself over your arm and call it his “emotional support limb.”

You turn to your tea, lifting the cup just high enough to hide the smile threatening at your lips. “Well, you can’t. It’s Jin’s anniversary dinner. I’ll be out late.”

He groans like you’ve personally betrayed him. “And I can’t tag along?”

“Nope. Go away.”

“Will you be wearing a pretty dress?”

The question catches you off guard, soft and sudden. You try to brush it off, toss the crumpled receipt at his chest. “Nothing new. But I guess it’s… decent enough.”

“That’s your way of saying pretty,” he mutters, still pouting. “This sucks.”

“You’ll live.”

He slouches deeper into the seat, dramatically defeated. “Debatable.”

But he’s smiling again. And so are you — not wide, not showy. Just enough to carry the rest of the day.

Breakfast had to end at some point. You didn’t want to, never wanted to. Jeongguk doesn’t seem like he didn’t either. You’re not sure. Just noticed the way he kept ordering almost like he was trying to stretch out the morning.

You follow him to the car. He moves with his usual ease—opens the door for you, then, this time, leans over to fasten your seatbelt, his hand brushing lightly against the side of your waist.

Your heart skips a beat, but you quickly look down at your phone, pretending to check a message, allowing him to settle in after.

The drive settles into a comfortable quiet, the kind of silence that’s familiar and easy between you. No need for words or music — just the soft hum of the road beneath you. His hand reaches over, finding yours across the console, fingers intertwining naturally.

You don’t speak, but the small pressure of his thumb moving over your knuckles says everything.

When Jeongguk pulls up outside Seora, you fix the strap of your bag and glance toward the glass entrance.

The morning air feels sharper here. Realer. Breakfast already feels like it happened hours ago — soft, slow, somewhere else entirely. This part of the day had to come eventually, but that doesn’t make it easier.

Beside you, Jeongguk watches. He doesn’t press, doesn’t ask, just sees — like he always has.

And even though you try to keep your hands tucked beneath the cuffs of your sleeves, the slight tremble gives you away.

Silently, he reaches across the console. Takes your hands in his — warm, certain — and presses a soft kiss to your knuckles, to your ring. It’s so gentle you almost miss it. But your eyes lift on instinct.

He doesn’t know what you’re walking into. Doesn’t ask. Just says, “You’ll do good. Whatever it is, you’ll kill it. You always do.”

And for a moment, it’s enough. Just that quiet certainty in his voice — like the past hasn’t touched it.

The boardroom looks smaller than you remember.

Not physically — the walls haven’t moved, the polished glass table still stretches from end to end, and the minimalist light fixture overhead still hums with its usual low thrum.

But there’s something about the air today. Something quieter. Weightier. Like the room itself knows what this is.

There’s a version of you here — younger, stiffer, barely holding it together in heels that didn’t quite fit and a blazer you borrowed from your mother’s closet. Her voice had echoed in your ears that morning, “Straight spine. Firm grip. You’re not asking to be here — you belong here.”

You’d nodded, heart pounding, your palms already slick.

You remember that first day clearly. The door had felt heavier when you pushed it open. The eyes that lifted to meet you weren’t cruel — just… expectant. Measuring. Curious to see if the daughter of the legend would crumble or crown herself.

Seora was already powerful then. The kind of brand that didn’t just follow trends — it forecasted them. Your mother had built it with unapologetic vision, sharpened by years of instinct. And now, she was stepping back — not entirely, but enough — and all of it was landing on your shoulders.

The transition wasn’t gentle.

You’d barely sat in the CEO seat when the board began circling. Whispers of delay. Dips in projected growth. A shift in market behavior.

And you — too young, too soft, too untested — were an easy place to point the uncertainty.

“I want to go back to fabric-first,” you said, voice even despite the tremor in your fingers. “Not silhouettes. Not celebrity faces. I want to build a collection that moves like memory. Not trend.”

They looked at you like you’d spoken in poetry instead of numbers. Someone coughed. Another asked, “And the investors? What will you tell them when this doesn’t land?”

You answered, “I’ll tell them I bet on the long game. And then I’ll show them why I was right.”

Your mother hadn’t said a word that meeting. She hadn’t stepped in to save you — hadn’t looked your way once, in fact.

But afterward, when you passed her in the hallway, she’d paused, adjusted the cuff of your borrowed blazer, and said quietly, “Next time, wear your own clothes.”

It had been her way of saying you’ve earned it now.

The first collection came out seven months later. Sparse. Intentional. Textures and seams hand-picked by you. Critics had called it a risk. Then a revival. Then a reminder that art, when done honestly, outlasts algorithms.

You didn’t cry when the glowing reviews came in – praise flooding your inbox, critics calling your work a quiet masterpiece. Not until you were alone in your office, shoes kicked off, heels blistered, watching the light fade through the tall windows as silence folded around you like a long exhale.

That was the moment you finally belonged.

And now, standing in this room again — years later, steadier, softer in different ways — you feel the full circle of it press gently behind your chest.

Maybe it’s the light — filtered in through the sheer blinds, diffused and quiet — or maybe it’s just the way empty chairs always feel a little more final than full ones. The room smells faintly of fresh paper, polished wood, and someone’s morning espresso coming from the hallways.

There’s a rhythm to this place that lives in your body; the creak of the leather chair you always pulled back too quickly, the slight buzz in the overhead light above the third seat to the left, the exact spot your heels used to click when you were late and trying not to show it.

You run a hand over the table's edge as you pass. It's smoother than it used to be — or maybe you're just noticing it now.

For a moment, you pause at your usual seat.

You don’t sit. Not yet.

The door clicks open behind you, and Mark steps in, coffee in one hand, tablet in the other, shoulders a little too relaxed for a morning like this.

“You trying to win the punctuality award now?” he says lightly, setting his cup down beside you. “Little late for that legacy grab.”

You smile without turning. “There are worse reputations to leave with.”

“Mm.” Mark glances around the quiet room. “Always thought you’d go out in chaos. Yelling into your phone, throwing last-minute notes at interns, maybe flipping a chair for dramatic effect.”

You raise a brow without turning. “I’m not that chaotic, Tuan.”

He leans against the table, elbow brushing the edge of your sleeve. “That’s ‘cause I’m always around to keep you steady.”

You huff a soft breath. “Should I say thank you?”

He pretends to consider it. “Nah. Just promise you’ll actually enjoy that vacation, yeah? At least one of us gets an early retirement.”

You glance at him then, smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. “You know, I can always talk to your parents about it. They love me.”

Mark grins — but it’s quieter than usual. “That they do.”

A pause stretches between you. He nudges the seat beside yours gently with his knee but doesn’t sit yet. His voice stays light, but his eyes don’t quite follow.

There’s something there. Not pressing. Just present.

And he doesn’t say anything more.

The others file in not long after — a few from legal, two from international, your lead brand strategist, and finally, your mother.

She doesn’t say much at first. Just offers you a quiet nod as she takes her seat. She doesn’t sit at the head — not yet. Waits until you do.

You let the room settle before speaking — not because you need the silence, but because you want to remember it. The way it holds people you’ve trusted. Grown with. Fought beside.

Your fingers rest lightly on the table. You don’t grip. Don’t fidget.

Just breathe in. And begin.

“I won’t pretend I’m not emotional. Most of you have seen me cry over less — like that one logistics error that turned into a two-hundred-piece embroidery delay and a minor existential crisis.”

Laughter bubbles — soft, genuine. Even your mother smiles behind her cup of tea.

“But this… this isn’t panic. It’s not pressure. It’s something else. This is full-circle.”

Your eyes flick to your mother, seated quietly across from you. Not the woman who raised you — not just — but the woman who handed you a world and asked, without saying the words, what will you do with it?

“Seora didn’t start with me. It started with her. Her dream. Her name. Her fight. And years ago, she gave it to me — not as a gift, but as a responsibility. One I wasn’t sure I was ready for at the time.”

A few heads nod. Mark’s gaze doesn’t waver.

“But I tried. And I kept trying. And together — with all of you — we grew it into something that didn’t just hold her story, but carried mine, too. Yours. Everyone who touched this place. We didn’t just expand the brand. We expanded its voice. Its heart.”

You pause for a sip of water. Not because your throat’s dry — but because your chest is tight in that very specific way that happens when something is about to end.

“I’ve loved every version of this chapter. Even the ugly ones. The long nights. The near-disasters. The off-white debates. But I know when a season has done its work.”

You look around the room. The people who made your dream theirs. The ones who trusted you even when you weren’t always certain how to lead.

“So I’m stepping back. Not out of defeat. Not because I’ve lost love for this place. But because I believe in the shape of what’s next. And I believe in the people sitting at this table to carry it forward.”

A glance toward your mother softens your expression, a small smile tugging at your mouth. “Especially her.”

The words hang — not like an ending, but like a thread waiting to be carried forward. “She won’t ask for help. Not in the way I did. But she’ll need it, just the same. So keep building with her. Push forward with her. She knows this company in her bones — but you’ve all become part of its heartbeat.”

You pause, voice softer now. “Keep fighting for the version of Seora that makes space. That dares. That tells stories.”

Another silence — but this one feels full, not heavy. Like breath held, not grief swallowed.

And just as it threatens to linger too long, “Also… if any of you email me past midnight, I will block you. With affection, obviously.”

Laughter rolls in, catching on the edges of something bigger.

The applause fades slowly, giving way to the soft scrape of chairs and the low murmur of voices. One by one, they rise — not in a rush, but with the kind of pause that means something.

Minjae is the first to approach. “You proved every single one of us wrong,” he says, not unkindly. His handshake is firm, his smile quieter than usual. “Take care of yourself kiddo.”

Next is Hana, always pragmatic. “I still think your spring silhouettes in ‘16 were too ambitious,” she teases, then adds, “but they sold out in a week. You were right.”

Iseul, pulls you into a quick, careful hug. “Call if you get bored,” she says against your shoulder. “Or if you miss arguing.”

Others follow — brief nods, murmured thank-yous, the kind of glances that carry entire seasons of shared pressure and persistence. You take each one in without needing to hold on.

Someone from logistics leaves a neatly wrapped sketch on the table beside you — a rendering of one of your earliest Seora designs. Inked carefully. Labeled with the original file name only you would remember.

You press your hand over it for a moment. Not to take it. Just to feel the paper beneath your palm.

Your mother is last to stand. She offers a small, steady smile — the kind that carries both pride and relief. Her eyes meet yours for a heartbeat. “You did well. I’ll see you in a bit.”

Mark lingers near the door, shoulder propped lazily against the frame like he’s been waiting for this part all along.

Only silence remains with just the two of you in the room now. He moves toward you – not with fanfare, just his usual quiet weight.

“You gonna cry now?” he says, voice low.

You smile faintly. “Not here.”

“Good,” he murmurs. “I wouldn’t know what to do.” He helps you gather a few loose folders, but you don’t rush. The moment doesn’t want to be rushed. “You want me to help pack your things?”

“Not yet,” you say. “I want to do it slowly.”

He nods. Doesn’t question it.

There’s a box half-packed beside the window, the edges already taped but not sealed. Some things you’ve scattered around the boardroom, just enough to ease the coldness that once filled the space. The rest can wait. You want the quiet of the room by yourself — just once more.

“You’ll still answer my calls, right?” he says, glancing over his shoulder. “Or are you ghosting the whole company now?”

“I’ll screen you creatively.”

“Bold of you to assume I don’t know how to guilt-trip your mother.”

You smile again — softer this time.

He stands at the edge of the room like he’s about to leave. “I’ll be back, you know.”

You glance up. “To visit?”

He shrugs — but this time, it feels heavier. Surer.

“To get you.”

You blink. “Get me?”

He doesn’t look away. “Seora’s not Seora without you.”

You try to answer, but nothing comes.

So instead, you move toward the box and brush your hand across the top. He tapes it gently, just once, but doesn’t seal it. Just presses his palm over the center like he’s holding something still.

“You’ll let me know when you need someone to show up,” he says — voice barely above a whisper. “Doesn’t matter where, right?”

You nod. Don’t say anything more.

Because it’s already understood.

The house greets you in silence.

Not the kind that feels hollow or abandoned—but the kind that folds around you gently, like a long-held breath. It wraps around your shoulders as you step inside, steady and full, as if the walls themselves know how much space you need right now.

You climb the stairs slower than usual—not from tiredness, but something quieter. Like your body knows this moment holds weight. Like something is waiting to unfold.

The late afternoon light bathes your bedroom, golden and soft against the floorboards.

A framed photo sits on your dresser—taken after your first international runway show, years ago. You’re barefoot on a cobblestone street, gown gathered in one hand, laughing as your mother stands beside you with her arm linked through yours.

The glass catches the sunlight now, washing both your faces in gold, like the past hasn’t quite let go.

You set your bag down with care. Sit on the edge of the bed without really thinking. Your heels click once against the floor—sharp, then soft. You let the sound fade.

The door eases open behind you, quiet and deliberate.

You don’t look up. Know it’s your mother the moment she steps into the room—trailing the familiar scent of vanilla, her presence soft and steady, like it always has been.

Draped over her arm is an ivory shawl, its hand-stitched edges delicate with age. You recognize it instantly.

“You wore this to your first board dinner,” she says softly, almost like she’s remembering it aloud to herself.

A quiet laugh slips out of you, weary around the edges. “You made me take it off halfway through because I spilled wine on it.”

A small smile touches her lips. “Yes. But for the first half, you looked beautiful.”

She crosses the room and lays it beside you, smoothing the fabric with practiced hands. “It’s warmer than it looks,” she adds. “And lighter than you remember.”

You look up at her then. The corner of her mouth lifts—not quite a smile, more like something held back.

“Just in case the evening gets long,” She stays for a moment longer than expected, hesitating—then, almost like it’s an afterthought, she pulls something small from her pocket. A square box. Carefully wrapped. No ribbon. No tag.

“This was delivered earlier.” her voice is quiet, measured. “It was left for you.”

You take it from her slowly, the weight of it strange in your hands. She doesn’t explain further. Just reaches up, brushes a strand of hair behind your ear like she used to when you were little, and leaves you with your silence.

And then you’re alone.

But not really. Not with the box still in your lap. Not with the weight of it already pressing gently into your thighs like it knows what it’s carrying.

You run your fingers along the edge—once, then twice. The wrapping is simple. No name. No flourish. But it’s careful, the way it’s been folded. Deliberate in a quiet way, like someone thought about this. Like someone meant it.

You peel the paper back slowly, each motion softer than it needs to be. As if rushing might ruin whatever’s inside.

And then you see it.

A bracelet.

Silver. Clean-lined. Minimalist, but not plain. The kind of thing you might have picked for yourself in another lifetime. But it’s the charm that holds you still—small, barely larger than a fingernail, shaped like a tulip just starting to bloom.

Your breath stops.

Because it’s not just any charm. And this isn’t just any bracelet.

Tucked beneath it, pressed against the velvet like a secret, is a worn piece of black cardstock. There’s a faded gold foil stamp in the corner. A tulip icon.

You’ve seen it before—peeking out from the folds of Jeongguk’s wallet, half-slipped inside his camera case, once forgotten in the crease of his coat pocket when you helped him pack for a trip.

You never asked about it. But it had always been there. Like background noise. Like something he couldn’t quite throw away.

You stare at it now. At the bracelet. At the charm.

Because you know this shape.

You’ve seen its twin for years, just beneath the edge of his sleeve. On his wrist, always. When he reached for your hand. When he leaned forward to pour your tea. When he held your ankle on his lap to rub the soreness out after a long day in heels.

“This one’s just always felt right on me,” he’d said once, half-laughing, when you asked why he never took it off.

You’d only been teasing—asking if it had magical powers or if it was secretly tracking him. He hadn’t offered anything else, just that simple shrug and that quiet look he always gave you when he meant more than he was saying.

You never thought much of it. Just figured it was something he liked. A piece of his personal style. A little Jeongguk-ism that made sense in a quiet, steady way.

But now—now there’s a second one.

You don’t know exactly when he bought it, or how long he’s had it tucked away. But the cardstock suggests it’s been a few years.

You’re not sure if he meant to give it to you when things were still whole, or if he held onto it through the mess because some part of him still remembered what it was supposed to mean.

There’s no note. No name.  And yet… this is him.

Undeniably him.

You reach out and touch the charm with your thumb. It’s cool. Smooth. Familiar in a way that hurts.

Because how many times did you see it on him? How many times did you trace that edge with your eyes without realizing you were memorizing it?

A sound escapes you—half laugh, half breath. Fragile. Almost embarrassed by its own tenderness. “Jeon Jeongguk, you cheeky little shit.”

You lift the bracelet, wrap it slowly around your wrist. The clasp closes with a soft click. Effortless. Like it belonged there all along.

You sit still for a long moment, eyes on your hand. The charm settles right above your pulse. And somehow, just feeling it there—solid, quiet, real—it brings back the ghost of something you thought you’d lost completely. Something simple. Something good. Something yours.

You close your eyes.

And for the first time in a while, you let yourself remember. Not the fights. Not the silence. Not the years of distance.

But Jeongguk.

The way he used to look at you when he thought you weren’t paying attention. Like you were the softest part of his life.

The way he kissed you when you were half asleep, muttering that you’d never know how much he loved you. The way tulips meant something—something only the two of you ever understood.

He’s not here now. But the bracelet is. And maybe that’s his way of saying he didn’t forget.

That not everything slipped away. Not everything was abandoned.

Some things—just a few—still choose you back.

Soirée sat tucked away on a quiet street in Gangnam, its dark wooden door framed by climbing ivy and tiny flickers of candlelight. Garden light spills through tall windows, falling across crystal and candles.

Everything smells like lemon water and wax. Inside, the soft murmur of well-dressed guests mingled with the clink of glasses and the distant trill of a violin.

Guests move easily, familiar with one another but never close enough to pry. You catch glimpses of faces you recognize — people who’ve been part of Jin’s life in pieces; friends from charity events, family acquaintances, names you only heard in passing. Their smiles are polite, edged with just enough warmth to feel genuine without crossing the distance.

You make your way inside, pausing only when you catch a familiar laugh echo from the far end of the room.

It’s Jin’s.

You spot him easily — tall and polished in a navy suit, one arm draped casually around his wife’s shoulders. He’s talking to an elderly couple you vaguely remember from his wedding photos, his smile soft and something older than it used to be.

When his wife leans in to adjust the boutonnière on his lapel, he doesn’t flinch or laugh it off. He just lets her.

And for a second, something settles low in your chest. Not quite envy — more like a memory brushing past your chest.

You think of the bracelet still tucked under your sleeve. Jeongguk’s bracelet. Yours now too.

You step away before you can feel too much all at once.

Dinner is polite. Elegant. You nod at old friends and pretend to remember names. The room glows with soft laughter and candlelight, the kind of warmth that clings to skin and memory.

Halfway through dessert, someone taps a fork against a glass.

Jin rises slowly from his seat near the head of the table. His jacket is slightly askew, his tie loosened at the throat — like he’s already halfway into the part of the evening where he can be himself again.

He doesn’t raise his voice. Just looks at his wife — that same look you remember from when you were young, witnessing the couple in their early phases, when Jin thought love meant grand gestures and handwritten poems.

Now he just smiles.

“This time last year, she told me to stop being dramatic,” he says, nodding toward his wife. “So this year I promised I’d keep it short.”

A soft ripple of laughter moves through the room.

Jin’s fingers tighten slightly on his glass. “I used to think loving someone meant saying everything all the time — every thought, every moment, every word that could possibly matter. But she taught me that love doesn’t always need volume.”

He pauses. Lets the quiet stretch just enough.

“Sometimes, it’s just… staying. Even when it’s not easy. Especially when it’s not easy.”

His wife blinks quickly, the tears she’s holding back catching the light from above.

Jin raises his glass. “To the quiet things. And to the people who make them feel loud anyway.”

Glasses clink. A few people laugh again — one of those soft, emotional kinds, too full to be casual. Jin sits down and wipes at his nose like he’s blaming the wine.

Speeches come one after the other – from Jin’s wife, their closest friends, more toasts take up the evening.  

You linger near the window a little longer than needed, sipping some sparkling wine and a delicate slice of raspberry cake you don’t remember picking – long enough to pretend you’re just admiring the garden. Long enough to ignore the quiet way Jin steps beside you.

“Didn’t think you’d make it,” he says.

You don’t glance over. Just hum. “Couldn’t miss you getting sentimental. You did promise that.”

“I was going to say more,” he admits, lips tugging into a crooked smile. “But I figured you’d heckle me.”

You turn, brows raised. “You think I’d heckle you during your anniversary dinner with the missus?”

“I know you would.”

You sigh — exaggerated, dramatic. “I’m not bitter, you know.”

“No?”

“I was never bitter. Just… stuck.”

“And now?” he asks, quieter.

You don’t answer. Not really because you don’t want to — more because you’re still figuring it out yourself. So you shrug. Let it hang in the air.

“Are we here to talk about my emotional development,” you say, “or are we finally getting down to business?”

Jin lets out that ridiculous windshield-wiper laugh — one you’ve grown used to over the years, but it still manages to embarrass you every time it draws unwanted attention.

“On the one night I’m supposed to be celebrating love and domestic bliss,” he says between chuckles, “you really want to drag me into logistics?”

“Come on. I know you’re itching to know.”

“Well, your mother already sent a draft.” He raises a brow. “I skimmed.”

You scoff. “You’re annoying.”

“And you’re impatient.”

“You gonna help me or not?”

His expression softens. “Always, Sunshine. You know that.”

A quiet pause settles between you — not awkward, just full.

Outside, the lights in the garden flicker back on. Warm gold against shadow. Somewhere across the room, cutlery clinks against porcelain. The violinist resumes something soft and barely there.

You let out a breath, low. “I…” The words struggle to get out of your throat but still needed to. “I want to do it right. I’m not trying to rewrite anything. He’s always going to be part of her — I know that. I’m not taking that away.”

“No one said you were.”

“I’m just— I’m the one who kept it going. Made sure she still had love. Warmth. That her space stayed hers even when everything else felt like it wasn’t.”

He nods slowly. “You’ve always done that for her.”

“I don’t… I don’t want to mess this up.”

“You won’t.”

You look at him then. He’s not being diplomatic. He means it.

“She should be somewhere that belongs to her. Not borrowed.”

“She will be,” he says gently. “She’ll be home. In the way that matters.”

You swallow hard. Blink up at the ceiling once.

“It’s not going to be easy,” he adds after a moment. “But it’s not impossible. You’ve already done so much. I should be able to handle the rest.”

“Promise?���

“I promise, Sunshine.” His voice is steady. “We’ll make this work. I’ll be with you until then.”

The air outside bites gentle at your skin once you’re left alone.

You slip out through a side door, away from laughter and linen, away from polite smiles that mean well but ask too much. The garden is mostly empty — just the soft hush of the fountain, the clink of distant glass, the violin’s song muffled by walls.

You wrap your shawl tighter around your shoulders, fingers brushing the silver at your wrist. It’s not cold enough to hurt. Just enough to feel.

You pull your phone out without thinking. His name is already there. As if some part of you knew, before you even stepped into the night. You press it.

He picks up on the first ring. “Hey.”

Your throat tightens at the sound. “Are you busy?”

There’s silence. Not hesitation — just a moment held between breath and heartbeat. “No.”

You look out at the garden pond, where the lights ripple like a memory you haven’t named yet. “I’m tired.”

He’s quiet for half a second. You hear some rustle in the background, things dropping. Don’t question him. Let him speak. “Still at Jin Hyung’s anniversary dinner?”

You nod before you answer. “Soirée.” Even though he can’t see it. “Can you come get me?”

This time, he doesn’t wait. “Already on my way.”

You don’t reply. Just close your eyes and let the night settle. The bracelet is cool against your skin. Your heels ache. Your heart less so.

Somewhere, inside, someone laughs too loud.

But out here, you wait — for headlights, for footsteps, for something that feels like home again.

You don’t wait at the curb. Too many eyes inside. Too many questions.

So you slip through the side garden, past the candlelight and music, until you reach the far lot near the service gate — where the concrete turns to gravel and the air finally feels like yours.

Jeongguk’s car pulls up before you even call again. Headlights low. Windows tinted. Familiar in the way his voice has been lately; quieter, but still sure.

He gets out the moment he sees you.

Neither of you say anything at first.

But when he opens the passenger door, you catch the way he lingers by the seat — like he’s bracing himself, like he’s been waiting for this moment without knowing what it’s supposed to be.

“I brought these,” he finally says, reaching back into the car. “You told me to find something to do. Was cleaning the house. Found them.”

He pulls out a pair of worn canvas shoes — your old chucks, still intact, still marked with the tulip doodles he once scrawled across the fabric. The colors have faded, but they’re still there. Soft and stubborn.

Your breath hitches. “Thought I lost these in the move. These were my lifesavers back then.”

He nods. “Didn’t think you’d want to spend the rest of the night in those heels. These always got you through, didn’t they?”

Jeongguk opens the passenger door fully, gestures for you to sit. You blink — surprised — but sink into the seat anyway. He helps you tuck the shawl closer around your shoulders, his hand brushing over your arm for just a second too long. You don’t pull away.

Then – without a sound – he kneels. Right there, in the gravel, without hesitation.

“Gguk—”

“Let me.” He’s gentle when he unbuckles the first strap. Careful with the second. His hands never rush, even when your breath catches as his thumb brushes your ankle.

You watch him — quiet, stunned — as he slides the old shoe onto your foot like it never left you. And then the next.

When he stands again, he doesn’t ask how you’re feeling. Already knows with the way your feet swings happily. “Ready?”

You nod. Not because you are — but because he makes it easier to be.

Silence becomes both your comfort along the way. The city falls behind you, buildings turning into memories, until the road grows quieter.

Until the tram tracks start to appear — crooked and rusted, swallowed by weeds and time. The fairground behind them is closed now, just a skeleton of what it used to be.

The old tram creaks as it settles around you. Still and quiet. A place that shouldn't feel safe, but somehow does — maybe because it's been touched by memory too many times to stay cold.

Jeongguk follows your lead, head ducked slightly, careful not to bump against the rusting arch. Puts his hand over your head when you nearly bump yours into one of the hanging light fixtures. He says nothing as you both slide into the side bench. The air is cooler in here, still, like time held its breath.

Outside, the fairground slumbers — all overgrown grass and empty stalls, the ghosts of laughter clinging to rusted poles. It should feel eerie. Forgotten. A little too quiet.

But it doesn’t. Not with him beside you.

“You remember the fireworks?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper.

Jeongguk leans back against the glass, gaze lifting toward the dark stretch of sky. “Ah,” he says, “the sparklers you made me sneak into your bag.”

“They weren’t illegal.”

“They were still banned from park grounds.” His mouth twitches. “You made me light five in a row and nearly set your sleeve on fire.”

You laugh — soft, real — and press your hands between your knees, like the sound surprised even you. “Still worth it.”

He turns to you with the kind of glance that lingers. That doesn’t need a smile to be gentle.

You look down at your shoes. The canvas worn soft over time, tulips still faintly blooming where his pen once touched.

“I forgot how this place sounded at night,” you murmur. “Everything else fades. Everything’s peaceful.”

“Just like us before,” he says, quieter now. He shifts slightly, thigh brushing yours as he leans forward, forearms resting on his knees, fingers loosely laced. “Thank you for letting me come.”

“Thank you,” you meet his eyes in the low glow of the tram’s single flickering bulb. The stillness wraps around you both like breath. “For not hesitating when I called. You sounded like you were in the middle of something.”

“Cleaning the house can wait,” Jeongguk lets out a breath, as if he was holding it the entire time. “You? You come first.” The silence returns, but it’s full of something now. Not heavy. Not light. Just… there.

You pull your shawl a little tighter around your shoulders, like it could somehow fold you small. Like it might be enough to hide your face too — but fabric only stretches so far.

And Jeongguk… doesn’t look away. Doesn’t tease. Doesn’t fill the quiet.

Quietly, he shrugs off his jacket and drapes it over you in one fluid motion. Not dramatic. Not even something he thinks about. Just instinct. Like routine.

Like him.

The fabric settles over your arms. Warm from his body, heavier than it looks. His fingers skim your shoulders — brief, unintentional — and it’s not the chill that raises goosebumps.

You shift beneath it, not sure what to do with your hands.

So you do what you always do when the air gets too thick — drift to another subject. “Besides cleaning the house, what else did you do today?”

“Cleaned the studio in the basement,” Jeongguk leans back again, this time more relaxed, his head tipping lazily to the side as he watches you under hooded eyes “Found your Chucks.”

You glance down — at the tulips still faintly etched into the canvas, stubborn as ever. “What else?” you ask, eyes flicking back toward him.

He smiles, a little sheepish. “Experimented with some new recipes. One might’ve involved pickled radish and maple syrup.”

You groan. “Jeon Jeongguk.”

“I’m serious! The sweet-salty combo? Kind of genius.”

“You know I love your cooking,” you mutter, trying not to smile. “But the hot sauce in the fruit salad was enough. Can’t you just be normal and feed me?”

“Just say when. What. I’ll cook you anything you want.” His laugh fades into something quieter, something softer.

You don’t say anything for a while, just let the silence settle again. It wraps around the two of you like the dusk outside — pale and tender, not quite dark yet.

Eventually, you shift. Lean just slightly until your shoulder finds his, the familiar press of him warm beneath his jacket. He doesn’t flinch. Just lets you settle. One breath, then another.

“Long day?” he asks, looking ahead the tracks in the open.

You nod once against him. “Felt like it never really ended.”

He hums — low, understanding. “One of those?”

“Mmh.” Your fingers curl lightly into the fabric of his sleeve. “One of those where everything feels… bigger than it should be.”

He doesn’t push. Just lets the silence stretch again, this time with your breath syncing up to his.

“I think I’m just… tired,” you add, quieter now. “The kind that sits in your bones.”

Jeongguk shifts slightly, just enough to tilt his head against yours. Not pressing, not prying — just there, like he always used to be.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he murmurs. “You can just sit here. I’ll be here.”

For a second, you don’t know how to take it.

But then — his hand shifts, just barely. Fingers brushing down, then resting gently near yours. Not touching. Not asking. Just there, close enough for you to find if you want to.

Like he used to.

His shoulder stays steady beneath you, not stiff, not uncertain. He leans into the moment without saying a word more, gaze fixed somewhere outside the tram — like he’s giving you space even while anchoring you.

And just like that, something in your chest eases.

You believe him. Maybe not with your whole heart. Maybe not in the way you once did. But in this quiet, flickering moment — with rusted tracks beneath you and time standing still — you believe him enough.

Your hand shifts beneath the fabric draped over your shoulders, brushing faintly against the inside of his jacket — where his warmth still lingers. You don’t reach for him. Just stay close enough to feel the outline of where he was, where he is. It steadies you more than it should.

“…Thank you,” you whisper, after a moment. “Thank you for being with me.”

Jeongguk doesn’t say anything. Instead, his hand lifts slowly, carefully, and tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear. His knuckles linger just a second longer than they need to. Like muscle memory.

You should look away, say something dumb, laugh it off — but you don’t. The air feels different now. Charged and quiet.

And for a moment, all the noise inside you stills.

You draw in a breath. “Would you be mad if I asked you something?”

He shakes his head. Voice soft. “No. Please…”

The night outside hums low. A moth flutters near the broken tram light. The smell of old metal and wood, the hush of memory — it all folds in around you.

You glance at your knees instead, at the way your shoes nudge against his. Then up, to his face in profile. He’s looking at you now, really looking — eyes gentle, unreadable.

You know the question will change everything.

But you ask anyway. “Can I kiss you?”

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t breathe. The silence that falls breaks your heart.

You should’ve seen it coming. Already regretting the stupid words that came out. Already regretting the sparkling wine that lingers in your stomach. How can a stupid sparkling wine make you say stupid things? You’ll never know.

But then Jeongguk breaks the quiet. “You don’t have to ask.”

And with that, you close the space between you.

The kiss starts soft – the kind you lean into with caution, not certainty. A quiet press, uncertain but real. But it deepens quickly, like breath you didn’t realize you were holding, like memory flooding back in motion.

His lips part against yours, and you feel it — the slow burn he’s been holding back since the moment you settled into his car or maybe even before that.

Your hand rises instinctively — fingertips brushing the edge of his jaw before sliding up, threading gently into his hair.

He’s warm. Too warm. And under your palm, you feel it — the slight tremble when you grip just a little harder.

He exhales into the kiss. Like it’s killing him to stay gentle. Like it’s killing him not to.

“Fuck,” he breathes against your lips. “You’re still you.”

You don’t answer. Just kiss him again — deeper this time. A silent confession.

Jeongguk pulls you closer, hand settling at your waist — not desperate. Just grounding. Just wanting to memorize the way you still fit.

When your thumb strokes the earring dangling on his lobe, you hear it — soft, involuntary.

“Baby.” It slips out. Like it never left his vocabulary. Like maybe it never could.

Your grip tightens in his hair, a breath caught between want and heartbreak.

“Wait,” his forehead drops to yours, breath uneven and warm. “God, you’re making this hard for me to stop.”

You don’t pull away. Just hold him there, eyes still closed, like maybe if you don’t move, the moment won’t end. You hate how small your voice comes out when you ask, “Do you want to stop?”

Jeongguk’s hands tremble where they rest on your waist, like he’s afraid even this fragile hold might break you both. He pauses — not because he doesn’t know the answer, but because saying it out loud might unravel him.

“Baby, no…damn it, no,” his voice comes low, threaded with restraint. His fingers brush your face, wipes the corner of your eyes where you don’t realize the little tears had started to build. “But we still have so much to talk about. I have so much to say to you.”

Your chest tightens at the name — not because it’s unfamiliar, but because it used to be yours. Maybe it still is. You don’t know anymore.

“Let’s just stay here for a bit, breathe.” he says gently, like a promise. “Then let me take you home after. We’ll figure this out, okay?”

You nod — not because you’re ready, but because you trust him to mean it.

Just for now.

He presses one last kiss to your forehead — slow, steady, reverent.

And then you both just sit there.

Fingers still tangled. Hearts still racing. The silence between you no longer sharp, but soft. Settling.

Outside, the rusted tram tracks stretch into the dark, curving toward somewhere that used to feel like the future.

But for now, you let yourself stay here — between what was, and whatever comes next.

[tacoguacamole]

ANOTHER TIME | JJK - 8

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

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

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

[Theme: Marriage AU. BF2L2S]

[Warnings: Major Angst, Multiple Flashbacks and Time Jumps, Mature Theme, Smut, Mature/Explicit Language, A lot of fluff, Romance, Slowburn, Splice of Life]

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

[Status: Ongoing]

[Part 1. Part 2. Part 3. Part 4.Part 5. Part 6. Part 7. Part 8. Chapter Word Count: 7.9k+]

[Chapter Summary: It started with a name—spoken softly, like a memory asking to be heard. Then a place. Then a past neither of you meant to revisit, but somehow did. You weren’t looking for closure. Just something kind, something true. And maybe that’s what this was: remembering not just where it broke, but where it once began.]

[MINORS DNI! 18+]

The city hadn’t even stretched itself awake when you slipped through the doors. No voices down the hall yet, no click of heels against the concrete floors - the low thrum of air vents and your own footsteps weaving past half-sealed trunks and hanging garment bags.

Somewhere, a coffee machine sputtered to life on a timer, too early even for Mark. Normally, this hour belonged to someone else—slow mornings, routines back to familiarity, the quiet before the day’s storm.

But today, you came in first. Not because you had to. Just... because you wanted to be here. To catch the calm before everything scattered.

“You trying to put me out of a job?” Mark’s voice carries in with the soft squeak of the door, followed by the telltale shuffle of him juggling too many things — coffee tray, folders, a tablet under one arm. He stops when he sees you already pacing near the open trunks, brow arched.

“Just making sure you don’t misplace passports again or send the team to Thailand instead of France.” You grin, moving toward the open trunks.

Mark gasps, loud and dramatic. “That happened once. And I fixed it.”

“By sobbing at the gate agent.”

“I did not sob.”

“Oh, so it was more of a weep?”

“Rude,” he says, scandalized. “I’ll have you know I’m a very composed, grown ass man.”

“Ah, so you’re admitting you’re old.”

He groans, setting the coffees down. “You’re insufferable.”

“You love me.”

He snorts, doesn’t argue, just shrugs, sets the coffee down. “No breakfast with him today?”

“Eggs and toast can wait.”

“You skipped your list? That’s new. What’d Jeongguk say?”

“Flooded me with voicemails. Had to listen to at least seven versions of ‘Why?’ even after I told him I’d be here for the pack-ups – right before my phone died.”

Mark laughs, shaking his head. “No way he’s extra like that.”

“He hasn’t been – not for a while. Kind of weird to have my phone crash and burn again because of his dramatic ass.”

Mark doesn’t say anything. Just gives you a look — unreadable, steady, with a flicker of something thoughtful behind the curve of his grin. You clock it, but let it pass.

The day rolls on like it always does before a big departure – too loud, too fast, and never enough hands.

Someone’s yelling across the hallway about adapter plugs, two interns are bubble-wrapping show shoes like they’re glass heirlooms, and the printer’s already jammed twice. Mark’s playlist, a chaotic blend of Parisian jazz and 2000s R&B, blares from someone’s open laptop in the corner.

You find yourself floating between rooms, checking tags, nodding at garment bags zipped too tight, pretending you don’t notice the way your limbs tire faster than they used to. The interns still come to you for sign-offs. The stylists still panics for second opinions. And you still offer them, clipboard balanced against your hip like nothing’s changed.

It’s nice, in a strange way. Just how normal it feels. The way time moves—hour after hour, slipping into each other without rush—makes it feel like it still belongs to you. Like today could’ve been any day, part of the usual rhythm of everything that came before and everything still ahead. A moment you just want to stay in.

But of course, there’s work to do.

“Okay, scoot,” you reach for one of the team’s duffel bags, tugging at a corner of the zipper. “I’ll take the accessories box. You never know how to layer the feathered ones.”

“Don’t even think about it,” Mark swats your hand away with a horrified gasp. “Last time you touched those, we had glitter in customs for three days.”

“That was an artistic choice.”

“That was a biohazard.”

You laugh, easing onto the nearby chair as he returns to another half-packed trunk.

The room feels fuller now – buzzing with tape guns, double-checks, voices in half a dozen languages. Still, there’s a quiet thrum beneath it. One only he seems to notice.

“You okay?” Mark doesn’t look at you when he asks. Just keeps folding the last of the statement pieces with careful hands. “Spaced out for a minute.”

You hesitate, then let the words slip out. “Been thinking when we started planning for the first show a few years ago – the excitement, the late-night calls, the endless what-ifs. Was really looking forward to being there this year. Wish I still could.”

Mark pauses, his expression softening. “Hey, you’ve done so much already. More than enough.”

“Would’ve been better if I was there to do more,” you force a small smile, rubbing the back of your neck. “But I know you all will be okay. You will be okay, right?”

“It’s always better when it’s with you,” there’s a steady calm in his voice. “But we’ll be fine. You’ve already left so much of yourself in this – in us. That doesn’t go away just because you won’t be there this time.” He adds with a faint smile, “Besides, I know you’ll find a way to tweak the line up from here.”

You let a quiet laugh. Knows he’s not wrong. And maybe that’s the comfort in all of this – that even now, with everything shifting, Mark remains your constant. Your partner. Your friend. Someone who’s always been easy to lean on, from the very beginning. Someone you trust to be there, no matter what.

The hours pass quietly — soft footsteps, the sound of tissue paper crinkling, the smooth pull of a zipper. slips off the table and falls to the floor. Mark glances down, smirks, and shakes his head. You let out a small laugh, and the moment moves on, light and easy, like a breeze passing through.

Tapping the clipboard lightly against your palm, you break the moment. “Hey, did we ever finalize the medical clearance forms for the team?”

Mark doesn’t look up from the garment rack. “Pretty sure Jae handled that with the travel coordinator last week.”

“Then why didn’t I see it with the rest of the emails?”

He hums, still adjusting the shoulder line of a blazer. “Could’ve been sent directly to the coordinator. Jae mentioned something about looping in their assistant.”

You nod, but your pen still hovers over the clipboard. “I’ll just go to the hospital, check anything else we might need for any last-minute documentation to be cleared.”

That gets a glance from him. “Since when do you run health paperwork?”

“Since one of the team members got held up last year when we forgot their vaccination attestation. We nearly missed the flight. Almost rebooked with the entire quarter's budget.”

Mark winces a little, remembering. “Fair. Want me to come with?”

“It’s fine,” you’re already tucking the clipboard under your arm, reaching for your bag from the corner stool—halfway out the door before he can offer again. “Hold the fort here.”

The hospital feels quieter than usual as you step inside, the familiar hum of activity muted by the early hour.

At the front desk, you offer a polite nod and slide the folder of team’s forms across the counter, the receptionist flipping through them with practiced ease.

This part is routine – a formality, really. Follow-ups, final stamps, the kind of thing you’ve done a dozen times before each major trip. You settle into the waiting area, glancing around at familiar faces and the soft buzz of footsteps nearby.

Before long, a familiar voice calls your name. Yoongi steps into view, wearing that small, knowing smile you’ve come to know better than most.

“Still testing foundations that could double as poison,” he says dryly, “or have you finally switched to something less… flammable?”

You chuckle, shaking your head. “Nope. I’m trying to keep it rain-friendly this time. Took your advice, promise.”

He lets out a brief, amused sigh, the corner of his mouth tugging up. “Well, that’s a relief. Come on in.”

The office is still, the muted buzz of fluorescent lights blending with the faint scent of antiseptic. Afternoon light filters in, softening the usual clinical quiet of the hospital. You take a breath, steadying yourself as a quiet calm settles over the edges of the day.

He gestures toward the chair by his desk. “How’s the team holding up with all the prep chaos?”

You settle in, managing a small smile. “They’re hanging on – Mark’s got it together but I know that old man’s hanging on caffeine and his last strand of hair.”

Yoongi chuckles softly. “Sounds about right. You, though? You look like you could use a break.”

You shrug, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “One last stretch before I take a long ass vacation. Years of pouring myself into Seora, think I deserve it yeah?”

He nods, knowingly. “You deserve it more than anyone, Sunshine.”

You reach into your bag, pulling out a small, neat folder with a faint logo stamped on the corner. The paper inside looks official but worn from being handled.

Yoongi glances at the folder, then back at you. “Everything in order for the team’s clearance?”

You give a quick nod, “Thanks for the contacts,” then slide the folder toward him. “There’s this one form – nothing too serious. Just needed when moving certain personal effects, stuff that needs legal backing, you know.”

He flips it open, brows knitting slightly as he scans the documents. “This looks straightforward. Just some signatures?”

You nod, watching him quietly, letting the soft hush of the office settle in around you. The faintest tension slips from your shoulders as Yoongi signs the paper with his usual, deliberate care, folds it neatly, and hands it back without arguments.

“Done,” he says simply. “You’re all set on that front.”

You tuck the folder away, voice even. “Thanks, Yoongi. Means a lot.”

He offers his signature gummy smile. “You know where to find me. Just don’t bring paperwork next time, bring tangerines.”

The afternoon sunlight filters softly through the leaves of the old oak trees lining the city park. You’ve wandered here without much thought, drawn by the quiet comfort of children’s laughter in the distance and the steady rhythm of footsteps on gravel paths. For a little while, it feels like the world has given itself permission to slow down—unhurried, uncomplicated.

You settle onto a weathered bench tucked just outside the flow of the afternoon bustle. The wind threads gently through your hair, and you let it. You let it all happen without resistance—just sit there, still, pretending for a moment that the ground beneath you isn’t shifting in ways you haven’t found words for. Your shoulders ease—not entirely, but enough. Enough to stay. Enough to breathe.

Your phone buzzes in your hand – Jeongguk’s name glowing bright on the screen.

“Lunch. One hour.”

“Uh, hello to you too?” A breath of laughter slips out before you can stop it, easing something in your chest. “I’m not going to lunch with you.” You lean back against the bench, eyes tracing the slow sway of tree branches overhead. “Too late for lunch and we’ve got dinner in a few hours.”

“Consider it early plans.” His tone is light, teasing. “You missed breakfast.”

You roll your eyes, but your smile lingers. You tuck the phone closer to your ear. “Had to be at the office. Told you that.”

The line goes quiet, you think he’s dropped the call. Then, “Le Petit Jardin.”

The name stills you.

A soft wind stirs against your cheek, and the city seems to hush with it. The memory surfaces—delicate, familiar, tethered to a night you never fully unpacked. A moment left hanging between the past and the present. Something old presses behind your chest—quiet, aching.

Your voice falters. “What?”

Jeongguk exhales on the other end—measured, careful. “Please? I’ve just got somewhere to drop by real quick. Reservation’s under my name. But I promise…”

Pauses.

“…I’ll show up this time.”

Le Petit Jardin is still the same.

Tucked away on a quieter street just outside the buzz of central Seoul, the place has a quiet charm that doesn’t try too hard—brick walls, ivy climbing iron railings, and wide windows open to let in the light. The smell of herbs and butter floats through the air, mixing with soft conversation and the sound of cutlery.

You’re sitting by the window. Sunlight comes through the thin curtains, catching the dust in the air like something trying not to be noticed. Your fingers run along the edge of your water glass—once, then again. The tablecloth is cream. Neat. Familiar.

A small vase sits in the center. Fresh flowers. Pale ranunculus today—not quite the same as before, but close enough to stir something.

Outside, people walk by. Talking, laughing, just going on with their day. And under all of it, there’s a quiet pull in your chest—not sharp, not overwhelming—just the soft weight of a place time never really left.

You reach for your glass again, only to pause as a faint shift in the air catches your attention — the subtle hush that follows when someone familiar steps into a room.

He doesn’t spot you at first. Jeongguk hesitates at the entrance, eyes scanning the space. There’s a touch of uncertainty in his stance, like he’s afraid he’s too early or too late. Then his gaze brushes past you… and briefly keeps going.

Your lips twitch.

It takes a second — maybe two — before something in him stills. A blink. A furrow of his brow.

Then he sees you.

Something shifts on his face. Not quite surprise — more like a quiet recognition, something deeper. You’re not sure if it’s the light or just the way he’s standing, but he’s smiling with his whole self, and somehow, it feels warm.

And then — you see what he’s carrying.

A bouquet. No — not a bouquet. A field of purple tulips, practically spilling out of his arms, their soft heads nodding with every step he takes.

You blink. “What... is that?”

He shifts the tulips carefully, like they might tip over any second. “Your favorite?”

You stare at the flowers, then at him. “What? The usual wasn’t available?”

“It was,” He meets your eyes, a slow smile spreading across his face. “Just thought this might make you smile.”

You shake your head, lips curving despite yourself. “You’re ridiculous.”

“But?”

You glance at the tulips again. “But they’re pretty.”

His shoulders ease. Just barely. “Thank God! I was ready to cross the city for something bigger.”

You pause, not sure what to do with the sudden warmth that creeps in. Your throat tightens for a moment — quick, but enough to notice — before you roll your eyes and gesture toward the empty chair across from you.

“Sit your ass down before someone accuses us of stealing from the restaurant’s garden.”

He laughs quietly, settling into his seat, the bouquet taking up half the table like it was always meant to be there.

The menus are still sitting between you, a little worn at the edges from time or warmth, but neither of you picks them up. Sunlight stretches across the tablecloth, lighting up the side of his face — and for a moment, the silence doesn’t feel awkward. It feels comfortable, like something shared.

The words on the menu blur, making things more confusing than helpful.

You used to know every page well — not exactly by heart, but from memory. You remember the meals you and Jeongguk always ordered on anniversaries — made sure this place had them too, the wines you both liked, even though he used to joke that your choices were too pricey and that the highball you made at home was better anyway.

Your eyes stop at the dessert section, and you notice the cheesecake — the one you made sure was on the menu for the first anniversary three years ago — isn’t there anymore.

Now your fingers hover a little too long over the appetizers. Not because you’re unsure — but because you know exactly what’s there. And somehow, that knowing feels heavier than you thought it would.

Across the table, Jeongguk watches you, gaze steady, soft, like he’s trying to listen to the space between your breaths. There’s a small smile on his face — quiet, a little unsure — but it’s enough to let you know he’s here.

“Are you okay with the confit duck, with the cranberry jus? Maybe a truffle risotto and the mushroom tart with gruyère?”

You don’t mean to smile, but it slips out before you can stop it — small and quiet. The feeling in your chest picks up, steady and light, like something that’s always been there, just waiting. “It’s perfect.”

“Okay, let’s go with that.” His eyes light up, warm and round, the corners crinkling with something close to relief. “There’s a dessert place a few blocks from here. Reviews say their Biscoff cheesecake’s the most popular… if you’re up for it after?”

You tilt your head, a faint smile tugging at your lips. “Are you feeding an army? It’s just me.”

Jeongguk chuckles softly, eyes kind. “Just making sure you don’t go hungry.”

The plates come one by one, each dish a quiet reminder of flavors you’ve known for years—flavors you never had the chance to try here but always hoped you would. They settle slowly on your tongue—steady, sure. Around you, the restaurant buzzes softly, a gentle background to a moment neither of you speaks, but both feel.

Jeongguk watches you with quiet amusement, his eyes following the same stray lock of hair that’s fallen across your face for the third time.

You don’t notice at first — too wrapped up in the comfort of the meal, the calm of the afternoon, and the quiet feeling of belonging that food brings in moments like this.

But when more strands keep brushing against your lips, tickling your cheek just as you’re almost done saving your favorites, your patience starts to run out. You sigh, already annoyed you grabbed a bag today that didn’t have your usual stash.

“You know,” Jeongguk says, resting his chin on his hand, “I’ve always loved watching you lose this fight with your hair.” He pauses, a smirk playing at his lips. “But you’re about one tick away from breaking that plate in half. I’d really prefer not getting banned from this place.”

Then, silently, he reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a black hair tie—worn thin and stretched from years of use. A small sun charm swings gently from it as he sets it down and nudges it toward you.

You stop.

A faint scratch near the edge catches your eye – still there after all these years.

That blazing summer afternoon comes rushing back.  The heat was thick enough to stick to your skin. You loved summer—always had—but that heatwave that year was brutal. You thought you might actually die.

You were about to tie your hair up, your wrists slick with sweat, when Jeongguk, ever the menace, reached for the fruit salad with a bottle of hot sauce in hand.

“The fuck, Gguk! You and your weird food combos!”

Jeongguk just grinned, unfazed. “But baby….you said you wanted something different.”

“That doesn’t mean I want food poisoning!”

You lunged forward, trying to snatch the bottle from his hands, but he tugged back. In the scuffle, he caught your hair tie on his fingers and yanked it off. It flew somewhere across the kitchen.

You laughed, half annoyed, half amused. “That was my best hair tie!”

He just smirked like it was a victory.

Now, here at the table, the worn black hair tie with its tiny sun charm lies in front of you — proof that he picked it up and held onto it all this time.

You’re not sure what tugs at you more — that he brought up something he loved seeing you do, like it meant nothing, like it was natural for him to hold onto pieces of you; or the quiet way he holds back that familiar boyish grin you haven’t seen in a long time, as if hoping you won’t notice.

“You had this?” you murmur, still looking at the band.

He shrugs, casual — or trying to be. “Has a good grip, honestly. Total lifesaver when mine snaps.”

But the faint flush rising on his neck gives him away.

You don’t press. Just reach up, gathering your hair with practiced ease. The charm brushes against your skin as you twist it into place, familiar weight settling like it never left.

“I’ve probably got more of these lying around the house somewhere,” you say, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Could give you some… if you want to stock up. That poor charm looks like it’s hanging by a lifeline.”

His eyes light up far too quickly. “Yes! I mean—yeah. That’d be nice.”

You tilt your head, eyeing the way his longer hair falls just below his jaw now. “Ever thought about going short again?”

He leans back slightly, brow raised, playful. “If I’d known you were, I would’ve tagged along.”

“Long looks better on you.” You almost say more—about how you missed making little sprouts stick up on the top of his head when he’d nap on your lap—but even the thought feels too soft to say out loud.

The first few words had already slipped out before you can stop it, a quiet heat blooms across your cheek. You clear your throat, eyes darting away. “This new thing wasn’t even planned. Wasn’t even sure I’d pull it off. Didn’t think how annoying it’d be after. Stupid shit won’t stay in place.”

Jeongguk laughs, quiet and warm. “It suits you. Think you look more beautiful now than you’ve ever been.”

Your heart fumbles—just for a breath—before you recover, nudging your foot lightly against his beneath the table.

“Finish your food, Gguk,” you mutter, lips twitching. “Before I make you wear the mushroom tart as a hair accessory.”

The streets hum beneath the early evening sky, bathed in that golden lull between day and night. The city’s warmth lingers in the pavement, in the breeze, in the way your shoulders brush now and then as you walk side by side. The soft murmur of passersby, the clink of dishes from open-air cafés, and the distant notes of street music fold into the rhythm of your steps.

Jeongguk walks beside you, one arm full of the bouquet – the full-blown meadow. The petals flutter gently against his coat, catching the amber glow of storefront lights and people’s curiousness along the way.

He carries them like it’s second nature. Not as a burden or a favor, but with something close to quiet pride — like holding them is just another extension of holding space for you. Like he’s done it a hundred times before.

You glance over, lips curving. “We should’ve left that in the car. You’re struggling.”

He shifts the bouquet in his arms, sniffing a soft laugh. “Did you forget I deadlift twice this in warmups?”

You raise a brow, biting back your grin. “Okay, macho bunny. Settle down.”

He doesn’t even flinch at the nickname, has gotten used to being called your bunny since the beginning — just smirks, eyes still forward. “This bunny’s got range.”

You let yourself look — really look — for a second longer than you probably should. At the mess of stems tangled in his arms. At the tulips brushing his coat like they belong there. At the soft curve of his smile that’s lingered all evening. At how absurdly, unintentionally gentle it all feels.

And somehow, it makes the walk feel slower. Sweeter. Like you could carry the rest of the time in your pocket if you tried.

The street narrows here, the city’s noise softening into a gentle murmur. A warm glow spills from the shop’s windows, inviting shadows onto the pavement. The faint scent of sugar and vanilla drifts out as the door swings open, welcoming you into a quiet refuge from the evening bustle.

Inside, the shelves are filled with colorful slices and delicate pastries, each one a small promise of something sweet. Soft music plays in the background — something old and piano-heavy — weaving in with the quiet clink of teacups and low voices. It feels like stepping into another bubble entirely, slower, softer.

Jeongguk scans the display, then stops at a cake swirled with dark chocolate and bright green. He nudges you, grinning. “You’re really missing out.”

You wrinkle your nose. “If I wanted to brush my teeth for dessert, I’d just use toothpaste.”

“If Mint Choco had a hate club, you’d be the president.”

“Obviously.”

He laughs, eyes lingering on the cake like he’s thinking of defending it, but lets it slide. Instead, he nods toward the Biscoff slice you both noticed earlier — golden, dense, topped with just the right amount of crumbs. “Truce?”

Your lips twitch. “Only because you didn’t try to sneak that abomination into our order.”

“Small wins,” Jeongguk grins, then turns to head toward the pickup counter — shoulders loose, a little bounce in his step.

You’re tucked into a quiet bench just outside, the shop’s soft light spilling through the window behind you. The night air is gentle, brushing cool against your cheeks.

Jeongguk sets the bouquet down beside you, then carefully balances the small box between you, popping it open to reveal the single slice, two forks tucked neatly inside.

“You gonna share nicely?” you ask, elbow brushing his.

He catches your glance, a flicker of something warm — maybe even a little mischievous — in his eyes before he smiles.

“You always get first bite; I’m not even going try.” Then he leans back, arm resting casually behind you, like this is easy—like sharing space, and sweets, and silences with you still makes sense.

The quiet settles in — not heavy, just soft around the edges, like a song paused mid-melody. A breeze drifts through the alley, lifting the corners of napkins and carrying with it the scent of caramel and something faintly floral, like spring still unfolding.

You watch the way the light catches the corner of his mouth as he chews, the soft curve of a smile barely there. The easy lines of his face seem even gentler in the fading light. For a moment, everything else—the past, the ache, the waiting—feels far away.

Slowly, you reach out, your fingers brushing over his hand resting near the edge of the table. He doesn’t pull away. You curl your hand into his, a quiet touch that says enough.

Your voice breaks the silence, barely above a whisper. “Thank you for bringing me there. I never thought I’d get to try it—or see it again, really—not after all these years. It’s more than I hoped for.”

He turns his hand slightly and gives yours a gentle squeeze, then looks up — eyes holding something fragile. Hope, maybe. Or just the quiet weight of someone still trying. “I just wanted to give you a new memory – something better to hold on to.”

You squeeze his hand back, a small smile tugging at your lips. “And I’ll never forget that.”

Jeongguk’s thumb moves lightly over your knuckles, like he’s taking in the moment without needing to say more. For a while, neither of you move.

The background fades — the café noise, the passing footsteps, bits of laughter carried off by people heading somewhere else.

Then softly, with a tilt of his head and something unreadable in his eyes, “There’s one more place I want to take you. If you’re okay with it?”

You blink, brows lifting. “Is this where you tell me you booked out the carousel at Lotte World?”

He snorts, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Why would I do that when you throw up after three spins?”

You narrow your eyes. “Yet you still fed me meals good enough for a whole year.”

“That was different,” he says, trying not to laugh. “That was calculated. Was aiming for full, not motion-sick.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s a warmth in your chest now – softer, steadier.

“So... where are you taking me, then?”

Jeongguk shifts, tone quieter now. “Somewhere before either of us had titles. When you still carried your sketchpad everywhere, and I still wore dress shoes that didn’t fit right.”

Your smile fades, just slightly — not gone, just stilling.

“It’s not far,” he adds quickly. “Just... thought it might be nice to see it again. Only if you want to.”

He doesn’t rush you, doesn’t push. Just waits—like he’s offering, not asking. Like he’ll be okay no matter what you say.

You watch him for a moment, the weight of the day resting warm in your chest. Then, quietly, with a faint smile tugging at your lips, “Okay. Let’s go.”

Jeongguk smiles – nothing wide, nothing dramatic. Just something real. Something you haven’t seen in a long time – something your heart is happy to see again. And quietly, the world around you move. 

The roads stretch ahead, soft and calm in the mellow evening hush. The sun has already slipped below the horizon, leaving a faint gold glow lingering at the edges. Streetlights flicker on one by one, bathing the city in that in-between light — softer, almost like a memory’s filter.

You lean your head toward the window, watching storefronts slide by as signs flicker to life. Someone’s walking a dog in a neon raincoat. Someone else hurries past, clutching a melting popsicle. A delivery scooter zips past on the left.

He drives with one hand on the steering, the other laced with your fingers like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like it’s not some list making him do this, like he’s not even thinking about it. Or maybe he is — quietly, carefully — like he always did when he was trying not to mess things up.

You glance over at him. The light from the window catches the line of his jaw, the slight furrow in his brow as he takes a turn, and the way he still checks his mirrors twice—like he’s being extra careful.

“You still drive like you’re one mistake away from failing your test,” you say softly.

He looks over, mock-offended. “Forgetting I aced it the first time?”

“You parallel parked into a bike rack.”

He grins. “Never gonna let that go, are you?”

You smile, drop it, deciding to give him the last word for now. The light changes, and the soft rumble of the engine fills the pause that follows.

After a while, the roads narrow, shifting from wide city lanes to quieter residential streets. The buildings lean in a little closer, and the traffic thins to a soft hum. Tall, old trees line the sidewalks, making the road feel like it’s leading somewhere that matters.

You know the place before he even slows down.

The museum’s silhouette rises between the trees, hidden behind ivy-covered brick and a rusty iron fence that was once painted navy. The cracked stone path is still there out front — and the same flickering porch light by the side door.

He pulls into the gravel lot and cuts the engine.

For a second, you both stay still. Then, quietly, you murmur, “You remembered.”

Jeongguk looks over at you, his voice quiet but sure. “I did.”

A soft, familiar feeling stirs in your chest — something gentle and quiet, like it’s been waiting to come back, or hasn’t left at all.

The doors open with the familiar creak of old hinges — soft and slow, like the building is waking up after a long sleep.

Inside, the museum is quiet. Not empty—just still. Just slow.

The lighting is low and warm, pooling beneath each exhibit in deliberate halos. A soft classical score filters in from hidden speakers overhead, more felt than heard, like the architecture itself is humming.

Your footsteps echo lightly on the polished floors as you walk into the first gallery. The smell of old paper, fabric dye, and clean wood fills the air, wrapping around you like a familiar memory.

“They changed the layout,” you murmur, eyes scanning the room. “Used to be textile displays up front.”

“They moved them to the second wing,” Jeongguk says. “That rotating exhibit you liked is still here, though. The color study room.”

You feel a small smile tug at your lips as you start walking, naturally drawn to the hallway on the left. Your fingers lightly brush the wall as you pass—the plaster cool and smooth beneath your skin, something steady and familiar in the quiet space.

And then something flickers at the edge of your mind.

The lights were brighter back then. Or maybe it was just the two of you—when everything felt a little clearer, a little more alive.

You had rushed inside first, sketchbook in hand, oversized blazer slipping off one shoulder as you moved quickly from sculpture to sculpture, eyes wide and thoughts half-spoken.

“God, look at that form—look at the geometry of it. If I layered that in satin... no, organza. Maybe with a cutaway bodice—”

“You’re talking to yourself again,” Jeongguk called after you, walking behind in black slacks and a shirt that was a little tight, his hair messy from running to make the reservation.

You spun around, smiling. “I’m brainstorming. Some of us build entire empires off talking to ourselves.”

“And some of us are just trying not to get kicked out.”

You stuck your tongue out and dropped onto the nearest bench, already sketching quickly—lines curving, eyes focused, lip tucked between your teeth.

He didn’t interrupt. Just sat beside you, silent, watching.

Later, he would say it was in that moment—watching your fingers move across the page as you quietly described colors, pleats, and shapes—that he decided to pitch for Creative Director after all.

That if you could believe in beauty that strongly, maybe he could too.

Now, the bench is still there.

So is the sculpture—though it’s been re-centered beneath a glass ceiling skylight, lit from above like it’s more sacred now than it used to be.

You step a little closer to the installation, pause, let your eyes trail the clean curve of the structure, the shadows it casts against the floor like memories that never fully faded.

“You once told me this shape reminded you of possibility,” Jeongguk stands just behind you, a quiet presence. “Said it wasn’t perfect, but that’s what made it feel real.”

You glance at him over your shoulder, something flickering in your chest. “You remember that too huh?”

He nods. “I remember a lot of things.” There’s no weight in the way he says it. No edge. Just quiet truth.

You don’t answer right away. Just linger there, in front of the sculpture that somehow still makes you feel like you’re twenty something, dreaming big and everything is barely out of reach in the best way.

Then, softly—“You’re really taking me through time today.”

A small smile curves his lips, tugging gently at the edge of something unspoken. “Thought you might like the detour.”

You look back toward the installation. The moment stretches.

“I do,” you say. “I really do.”

The museum folds around you in that kind of silence again—the kind that feels full rather than empty. A hush with weight. Like the walls are holding something, not withholding it.

It’s a silence that’s known you—watched you grow up, shift and reshape. Watched you become who you are, who you were, who you’re still figuring out how to be.

You drift into the next room without speaking, your footsteps softened by the muted flooring. This wing is newer—redesigned sometime in the last few years—but the bones remain. Familiar archways. The soft hush of focused lighting. The faint click of a motion-sensor light blinking on as you pass beneath it.

Here, the walls bloom with a sequence of evolving color studies—paintings and mixed media that shift gradually from restrained monochromes to riotous saturation. A slow unraveling in hue and form, like someone learning how to feel out loud.

A plaque near the entrance reads: The Shape of Time.

You pause in front of the first canvas—washed in pale blues and muted grays. “I forgot this exhibit was here.”

Jeongguk hums beside you, eyes scanning the transitions on the wall. “It wasn’t. Not back then.”

He steps closer to a piece painted in shades of rust and amber, texture so thick it almost looks like it’s still drying. His gaze rests a moment, then drops to the artist’s note tucked just beneath the frame:

We carry color differently the longer we live.

Grief stains. Joy fades.

But memory—memory blends.

You don’t realize you’ve stepped closer until your shoulder brushes his. “I used to think time was something I could manage,” you say, barely above a whisper. “Like a collection. A project. Color-coded calendars. Five-year plans. All of it”

“You made it look easy,” he says, eyes still on the wall.

You shake your head once. “It never was.”

The silence that follows isn’t uncomfortable. Just... reflective. The kind of pause that asks nothing from either of you, but holds everything anyway.

Then Jeongguk says, quieter now, “You made it meaningful.”

Maybe it’s the lighting, or the way the artwork wraps around him, but something in his expression looks younger. Or maybe not younger. Just... closer to the boy who once trailed behind you through this very building, watching you fall in love with color and shape and the quiet magic of imagining what could be.

You don’t answer him. Don’t need to. Just let the feeling of him noticing you, of seeing you sink in for the moment.

He shifts slightly beside you. Then, silently, his hand brushes against yours—barely a graze at first. Testing, waiting.

When you don’t move away, he lets his fingers slip between yours, slow and deliberate, like he’s asking for nothing but hoping for yes.

You don’t look at him, but your hand curls back around his. Gently. Like love never left—only waited.

You make one last pass through the gallery, slower this time—like your body knows the visit’s almost over, and isn’t quite ready to let go of the stillness just yet.

There’s no need to speak. The quiet does all the holding for you.

Jeongguk walks with you in step now, his hand still lightly folded around yours, thumb brushing soft arcs across your skin like he doesn’t realize he’s doing it. The two of you move through the corridor together, past a hanging textile piece that ripples gently with the shift in the building’s air—like even the room exhales around you.

You glance back one last time before the exit comes into view.

“I used to come here looking for something new,” you murmur, almost to yourself. “Now I think I come here to remember how it used to feel.”

“Which part?”

You tilt your head slightly. “The part where everything felt possible.”

There’s a beat of silence before he says, softer, “You made it feel that way for everyone else, too.”

The quiet’s your response, giving his hand the faintest squeeze instead, as you pass through the final archway.

Outside, the evening has folded into a soft hush. Streetlights blink on like old friends. The air carries the faint scent of rain that never quite arrived.

As you cross the gravel lot together, the mood eases — not light exactly, but lighter.

“You know,” you say, glancing sideways, “this is the first time you actually kept up with a long day and didn’t complain about your feet.”

“That’s ‘cause my cardio’s better now,” Jeongguk says, feigning pride. “These legs were built for endurance.”

You snort. “Okay, calm down, Olympic hopeful.”

“I’m just saying,” he grins, opening the car door for you. “If there was a stair-climbing event, I’d podium.”

You shake your head, laughing under your breath as you slide in.

Behind you, the museum’s windows glow like distant memories.

The ride back is quieter. Not in a heavy way—just... settled.

The sky has deepened into a softer shade of indigo, and the roads are near empty now. Shop signs flicker as they wind down for the night. Somewhere in the distance, a truck rumbles through a turn. The city feels less like a machine and more like a heartbeat.

Jeongguk walks you up to the gate. He doesn’t try to follow. Just waits, hands in his pockets, as you key in the code.

“Thanks for today,” you say, glancing back at him.

“You don’t have to thank me.”

“I know,” you smile. “Just want to.”

He nods, and for a second, it seems like he might say more. Instead, he steps closer, his hand lightly brushing a stray hair from your forehead before his lips press a gentle kiss—soft, unhurried. The world seems to still for a breath. Then, without a word, he wraps you in a brief, warm hug, holding on just long enough to say everything he won’t.

When he finally steps back, the small smile on his lips feels different — quieter, sincere. He waits until you’re safely inside before turning away, leaving behind a quiet warmth that stays with you long after the door closes.

Inside, the house is dim but warm. A single hallway light hums from the corner. You toe off your shoes by the entry bench, letting the quiet wrap around your shoulders.

There’s a faint clatter from the kitchen. Your mother’s voice calls softly—“You’re back?”—and you answer, just as softly—“Yeah.”

You don’t say much more. Just place the tulips on the end table near the stairs, where the light can find them in the morning. They lean slightly in the vase. A little wild. A little soft. Still holding more than they show.

Your phone buzzes from inside your coat pocket.

| Jin 🍷: Anniversary dinner. Soirée. 7 PM. Bring your appetite and your patience. I fully intend to be insufferably sentimental.

| 🌞: You should be. It’s the one day your wife expects you to be a sap.

| Jin 🍷: I’m telling her to hide the desserts from you.

You lock the screen. Let the silence settle around you. Let the weight of the day land, not like a burden—but like something you’re allowed to carry, just for yourself.

And somewhere behind your chest, that ache you’ve kept at bay all day curls up quietly, and sleeps.

[tacoguacamole]

CHOOSING YOU | JJK

On a rainy afternoon wrapped in soft domesticity, Jeongguk surprises you with quiet confessions of love - proving that even in the ordinary, he’ll always choose you. With playful teasing, warm touches, and a vow whispered against your lips, he reminds you that his love isn’t fleeting—it’s forever.

ANOTHER TIME DRABBLE #1

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

[Theme: Marriage AU. BF2L2S]

[Note: Just a short drabble to give everyone (and our mains) a little breather. Let's go back for sappy JK. Was listening to a track and got inspired to write this soft moment between the two. Hope this brings a bit of comfort before the next chapters. Thank you to everyone who's been reading so far 💜]

ANOTHER TIME INDEX: Part 1. Part 2. Part 3. Part 4.Part 5. Part 6. Part 7.

The rain had started in the early afternoon, turning the city into a quiet, watercolor blur. Soft drops tapped against the windows in a steady rhythm, a background lullaby that made the whole apartment feel slower, warmer—like time had curled up under a blanket with them.

Jeongguk sat on the couch with his knees drawn up, hoodie sleeves covering half his hands as he nursed a mug of coffee he'd forgotten to drink. The lights were dim, the golden kind that made everything feel like a memory already in the making. And across the room, sitting cross-legged on the floor with your laptop perched on the coffee table, you were fighting a losing battle with your hair.

It kept falling into your eyes no matter how many times you pushed it back, and the faint furrow in your brow only made it more adorable.

“You know,” Jeongguk called lazily, voice honey-thick from the stillness, “you’ve been fighting that same piece of hair for the last ten minutes.”

You sighed, dramatically and without looking up. “It’s got a personal vendetta. I think it’s out to destroy my productivity and my will to live.”

Jeongguk snorted and set his mug aside. A few quiet steps brought him to you. He crouched in front of you without a word and brushed the hair gently behind your ear, fingertips grazing your cheek like he had all the time in the world.

“It just wants attention,” he said softly.

You blinked, caught off guard by the shift in his tone. He was looking at you with that face again — the one that made your heart stumble a little, like you were something rare that he still couldn’t quite believe was his.

“Where’s all this mushiness coming from?” you asked, raising an eyebrow, though your lips twitched upward. “You didn’t mess with my sketchbook again, did you? I swear Gguk—“

Jeongguk laughed — low, breathy, a sound that filled the room better than the rain ever could. “No crimes this time. Promise.” He leaned in closer. “Unless loving you too much counts.”

You groaned, falling back onto the carpet like you’d been hit. “Jeon Jeongguk, please.”

“What?” he grinned, crawling forward until he was hovering above you, arms caging you in. “Can’t a man be in love with his girl on a rainy day?”

You looked up at him, laughter fading into something gentler. “You’re not usually this sappy.”

He shrugged. “I’m just looking at you today, and… I don’t know. I love the way your hair gets in your eyes. I love that you’re so bad at lying it hurts.”

You tried to respond, but he kept going, soft and serious now.

“You’re an angel,” he said, voice like velvet, “and I still can’t believe you’re mine.”

The rain sang at the windows. You laid there beneath him, cheeks warming, your breath caught somewhere in your throat.

“You make me want to say things I don’t usually say,” he continued. “And I guess I want you to hear them.”

You reached up, brushing a finger along the edge of his jaw. “So tell me.”

Jeongguk exhaled, forehead coming to rest against yours. “I’ve been wrong about so many things in my life,” he whispered. “But you… You’re the one thing I got right.”

You didn’t say anything at first. You just held his gaze, blinking slowly like trying not to cry. “Even on the days I’m too much? Or not enough?”

“Especially then,” he said. “On easy days, on hard ones—you don’t have to be nervous. Just fall in my arms.”

You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him fully down onto you with a soft oof. He buried his face into your shoulder and melted into the hold like it was the most natural place for him to be.

“My love’s not a maybe,” he murmured. “It’s a sure thing. You’ll never lose it. No matter what life throws at us.”

Your hand slid into his hair, and you smiled into his hoodie. “You’re kind of ruining my no-romance-on-rainy-days rule.”

He grinned into your collarbone. “That’s not a real rule.”

“It wasn’t. Until now.”

“Well then,” he said, kissing your neck softly, “guess I’m a rule-breaker.”

You laughed, eyes wet, heart full.

Jeongguk pulled back just enough to see your face again, and in a voice so serious it silenced even the storm outside, he said, “I choose you.”

You reached up and cupped his cheek. “I choose you too, Gguk.”

And when he kissed you this time — slow, anchoring, meant — the thunder rumbled softly in the distance, like even the sky was giving you the moment.

“I do,” he whispered against your lips. “I do. I do.”

And he meant every word. As long as his heart kept beating, it would beat for you.

[tacoguacamole]

ANOTHER TIME | JJK - 7

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

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

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

[Theme: Marriage AU. BF2L2S]

[Warnings: Major Angst, Multiple Flashbacks and Time Jumps, Mature Theme, Smut, Mature/Explicit Language, A lot of fluff, Romance, Slowburn, Hospital Mentions, Childbirth De@th, Alcoholism]

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

[Status: Ongoing]

[Part 1. Part 2. Part 3. Part 4.Part 5. Part 6. Part 7. Chapter Word Count: 10.9k+]

[HEAVY REMINDER: This story is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to real persons, or actual events is purely coincidental. It is not intended to harm, defame, or offend any individual or group.]

[Chapter Summary: What began as an escape became a slow unraveling—a quiet erosion of the man he thought he was. Between missed glances, lost words, and too many unspoken things, he drifted further from the life he once built, until even his reflection stopped looking back. And now, with everything laid bare, he begins to understand: some distances aren’t measured in steps, but in the weight of everything left unsaid.]

[MINORS DNI! 18+]

Maybe it wasn’t love—not at first. That’s what Jeongguk told himself, back then. A quiet lie tucked inside a quieter life.

But it felt like peace. And peace was easy to mistake for love. Peace didn’t ask questions. Peace didn’t cry when he came home late. Peace didn’t carry the weight of Ha-yun’s name in every corner of the house.

Peace came in soft silences, in someone else’s apartment, in someone else’s office, in a version of himself he didn’t have to explain.

But peace was never supposed to be permanent. Especially for someone who had caused so much pain and disappointments.

And maybe that’s why the sound of your voice that night still stayed with him.

The kind of voice you remember long after the argument ends. Not because it was loud, but because it was careful. The kind of careful that came after too many cracks had already formed.

“Tomorrow’s the contract signing for the Tuan partnership. Hope you can be there. Eomma’s expecting you too.”

Your voice was soft, almost routine, from across the room—but Jeongguk noticed the tremble in your hands as you wiped off your makeup. Like mentioning the partnership had become something risky. Like you’d practiced the words, bracing for the answer you didn’t want.

When once upon a time, you never had to ask.

Jeongguk used to say yes before you even finished the sentence. No second-guessing. Just pride in the fire you carried, in the way you dreamed bigger than both of you. Now, you spoke like you were afraid to be a burden.

And that—more than anything—dug under his skin.

Jeongguk turned to the bathroom light, as if it could chase away the darkness inside him.

He meant to say, “I haven’t forgotten.” Because he hadn’t. He remembered everything—the late nights you spent drafting proposals, consulting your mother to make sure nothing was missed, the way your eyes lit up the first time Tuan Elegante called you back.

But what came out instead was clipped, distant, “It’s just a contract signing.”

He heard your breath hitch. Your home had been quiet for so long now that you could hear everything—even the things that went unsaid.

Jeongguk wanted to take it back. Tell you he planned to come. That you didn’t even have to ask. He’d even bought a tie. Deep purple to match your dress.

But the words had already landed, and the guilt settled too heavily to shake. Jeongguk knew he didn’t deserve to stand beside you tomorrow—not after where he’d been just two hours earlier, not after what he’d done.

Not after the kiss that started it all.

Jiwoo’s apartment—the quiet place where work blurred into something else after hours. It was supposed to be just a late-night wrap-up for a project due tomorrow. But then came the drinks, and after that, the confessions.

Jeongguk told her how broken he felt. How tired. How he couldn’t breathe in his own house anymore.

And then – he kissed her. In that moment, he convinced himself maybe – just maybe – this was okay.

She kissed him back.

And for a fleeting second, it felt like warmth. Like the kind of intimacy that didn’t ask anything of him. It felt like a version of love he could survive. Jiwoo didn’t expect. She didn’t look at him like he was falling apart. She just let him exist – quietly.

And it felt good to exist like that. To not be needed. To not be loved in a way that held weight.

But then she moaned his name. Another woman – who wasn’t you – had moaned his name.

And that’s when it hit him.

This wasn’t love. This wasn’t peace. This was an escape. An excuse that can never be justified.

Jeongguk had pulled away. Too slow. Too late. Muttered something about needing air. About you.

He hadn’t told you. Not about the kiss. Not about the matching tie he hid in his office drawer. Not about how he hated himself for both.

“It’s not just another event, Gguk.” Your voice cracked in that small, breaking way he hated. And when you begged, “I want you there.” It felt like a knife twisting in his chest repeatedly.

Still, he didn’t turn to you.

“And do what exactly?” he said, pulling the towel from the hook, holding it like a lifeline. “Play the perfect husband? Show off a perfect a marriage? Smile for the cameras so they have more to gossip about?”

The words came out harsher than he meant. Meaner. Jeongguk couldn’t claw them back anymore.

He’d read the online comments. He always did. Headlines with your name. Accusations that you were exploiting tragedy to climb the ladder faster. Voices calling you cold, ambitious beyond reason – someone who put career before family. Harsh whispers claiming you were indifferent to grief, that your drive was hollow, a façade to hide pain.

No one ever mentioned the baby by name. Not Ha-yun. If they did, Jeongguk knew he’d lose control—too angry to hold back, furious that anyone would use her name like that.

Jeongguk had tried to fight for you – calls made behind closed doors to people who owed him favors, people who could nudge stories off the headlines or tone down the harshness before they went live. More calls late into the night, asking for deletions, retractions – anything to keep those cruel words away from you.

But the media was relentless. No matter how hard he pushed, the stories kept multiplying, each one sharper and heavier than the last.

He wanted to protect you from it all. To be the shield you deserved.

But every headline he failed to erase echoed a deeper failure – how much he had already let you down long before the stories started.

Jeongguk’s throat burned, the words lodged somewhere between apology and anger, guilt and frustration. He wasn’t proud of how sharp he’d become, but the pressure had been building too long — the helplessness, the failures, the mounting distance between you both.

"Could've just said no," you whispered, but it was enough to break through the room. "I would've understood. No need to be such a dick about it."

“I did say no. More than once,” he threw the towel onto the floor harder than necessary, feeling the weight of everything he wished he could say but never dared. “You just never fucking listen.”

He saw the flicker of hurt in your eyes. But the damage’s already been done.

“Maybe I was hoping.” Your voice trembled with a mix of anger and pain. “Hoping that you’d still care enough to show up. That you’d still want to stand by me.”

Jeongguk let out a bitter laugh. He hadn’t meant for it to sound so cruel—but his tone always seemed to betray him first. “You really think standing next to you in a room full of strangers will fix this?”

He knew he didn’t deserve to stand beside you. Not after he’d spent the past months abandoning you when you needed him, especially not after he had looked at another woman just to feel like less of a failure.

“This isn’t about fixing anything!” Your voice cracked, raw and desperate. “This is about you showing up! Being there for once, instead of finding another excuse to stay away!”

He clenched his jaw, the anger barely masking the deeper pain twisting inside him.

“You’re not even supposed to be working yet,” his voice sharp and uneven. “Yoongi Hyung told you to rest. Told you not to push yourself. But no, you’re back at it again, throwing yourself into work like it’ll patch up everything you lost.”

The words slipped out before he could stop them—echoes of the cruel headlines he’d fought to erase. Guilt knotted in his chest. He’d failed to protect you, and now he was adding to the pain.

Your chest rose and fell with a harsh breath. “Don’t,” you whispered, voice fragile but fierce. “Don’t you dare put that on me.”

“You never knew when to stop. Even when it meant risking everything.”

Your next words hit him like a punch to the gut.

“Losing Ha-yun wasn’t on me,” she said, voice barely above a whisper. “You had a choice that night. Be a father, or stay my husband. You chose.”

Jeongguk went still, the silence rushing in like a tide. It felt like blame, like truth, like a wound pressed open—and he reached for the only thing sharp enough to throw back.

“If you had just—” he started, voice rising despite himself, then broke off, choking on the air. “If you had just looked after yourself better—”

“Say it,” you snapped, fists trembling at your sides. “Say it. Say you blame me.”

His jaw tightened, but he said nothing—because some cruel, broken part of him did, and that was the part he hated.

Your trembling words barely cut through the thick quiet. “If you regret it that much, then maybe you should have let me go that night.”

Jeongguk’s eyes darkened, and for a long, terrible moment, he stared at you, searching for something—redemption, forgiveness, a way back.

“Never said I regretted it,” he finally muttered. He wished those words could erase everything he’d shattered – all the mistakes he’d made. Jeongguk wanted to reach out, to say the words you needed to hear, the ones he truly meant – but he knew they wouldn’t change a thing.

“Yet you can’t even look at me like you love me anymore.”

Jeongguk couldn’t bear to hold your gaze after that. Because if he looked at you any longer, he was afraid you’d see it – that he did still love you.

He just didn’t know how to be the man you needed anymore.

So instead, he turned. His voice came low and flat, like gravel scraping pavement. “I’m going out.”

No warmth. No glance back. Just movement—a grab for his wallet and keys, a quiet exit.

Jeongguk drove aimlessly, the city blurring into a stream of tail lights and neon signs. The windows were up, yet he still felt cold. When he finally stopped by the river, the engine ticking softly in the quiet, he leaned forward and rested his forehead on the steering wheel.

What was he even doing anymore?

The fight replayed in his head in ugly, fractured pieces. Your voice — tired, trembling, angry — still rang in his ears.

He messaged Jiwoo. She replied right away. Told her to meet him at some late-night spot near Itaewon. When they met, she didn’t ask how he was. Didn’t even bring up the kiss. She simply let it dissolve into silence as if it had never happened.

She poured him a drink. Let him talk. About anything. Everything. She kept quiet, looked at him with soft, understanding eyes and brushed his hand when he paused too long.

It felt good. No expectations, no reminders of the hospital or the way you used to hold your stomach like you were already in love with someone you never got to meet.

Jiwoo didn’t ask him to explain. She let him forget.

When Jeongguk came home, you pretended nothing had happened. Didn’t even ask where he’d been the whole night, though he’d seen the hurt in your eyes, the questions you wanted to ask because for the first time, he didn’t return to you.

Still, you let him be.

And maybe that was the real fracture. Not the fight, not the words exchanged.

But the fact that he hadn’t waited for you to make it better.

The distance between him and you only grew—until even the silence felt like punishment. In that space, Jiwoo stayed steady. Always close. Always easy. Never demanding. Never asking.

Maybe that’s why Jeongguk started to linger a little longer in her office. Started texting her things that had nothing to do with work.

Small things like a link to a song he heard on the radio that reminded him of simpler days. A photo of the sunrise from the parking lot, captioned ‘didn’t expect the sky to look like this’. An offhand complaint about the vending machine. Sometimes, dumb memes she’d probably seen already.

Nothing serious. Nothing wrong. But it was more than Jeongguk had offered you.

One morning, he sat by the counter, laptop open, emails flooding in faster than he could delete them. Deadlines stacked, client revisions overdue, a campaign pitch moved up last-minute. His team needing direction. Jeongguk sat there, motionless – cursor blinking on a half-finished reply, mind nowhere near the screen.

Then, without a word, you’d placed a cup of coffee beside him – black, just the way he liked it. In that same mug he’d always use, the one chipped near the handle. It reminded him when you’d steal sips from his cup even though you preferred yours with almond milk. Mornings when you’d always make sure he had his cup of coffee first even though you were already running late.

You didn’t say anything else. Just turned away and moved to the sink, rinsing something quietly.

The coffee was good. Jeongguk hated that it was good. That it still tasted the same. That you still made it the same as if nothing had changed between you.

By night, Jeongguk decided to go to Jiwoo’s office. Told himself it was about work even though she had nothing to do with the projects he was currently buried with.

She looked up when he knocked. “Didn’t expect you.”

“Just needed a breather,” he said, stepping inside like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Jiwoo leaned back in her chair, studying him. “Rough day?”

He gave a tight nod, eyes flicking to her window. “Deadlines. Meetings. Nothing new.”

She didn’t offer comfort. Just silence. It made him want to stay.

“Do you prefer the day or the night?”

Jiwoo wasn’t sure where that question had come from but she answered him anyway. “Night.”

“It’s full of darkness.” Jeongguk squinted at her, trying to understand.

“That’s why I like it,” She smiled faintly, eyes drifting toward the window as if she could already see the stars blooming behind the glass. “It’s honest. The day hides everything in light – noise, movement, expectations. But the night… the night strips things down. You see what’s really there.”

Jeongguk tilted his head, listening.

She went on, softer now. “And the moon doesn’t ask to shine. It just reflects whatever light it can find. Even when it's a sliver, even when it's fading… it still tries.”

There was a quiet moment. Then, “The stars too. They’re so far away, but they still show up. Quiet and constant. I think there's something comforting in that.”

Jiwoo glanced at him, noticing the serious look settling on his face. She smirked slightly. “Let’s cut this philosophy shit. You come here to hear preachings or –?”

Jeongguk raised an eyebrow, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I literally just asked about the day and night. You’re the one who went sappy.”

“Fuck off, dude.” Jiwoo laughed, stood up, then went to the coffee machine. “Want one?”

“I’m fine,” he said, even though he was far from it.

Still, she brewed him a cup. Set it down anyway. This time, Jeongguk took it without hesitation. And for the first time that day, he didn’t feel like the air was getting sucked out of him.

It became a pattern after that.

Jeongguk would find his way to Jiwoo’s office pretending it was for a break or a file that needed a second look—anything but the truth.

She never asked. Never begged for an explanation. She just gave him her notes, brought him food when he skipped meals, and made space for him beside her desk.

All with the quiet he needed, the quiet that was enough to be an escape and the quiet that didn’t remind him of anything.

Days bled into weeks. Then more months. And before he knew it, the date crept up on him – the one circled in silence, not calendars.

Ha-yun’s first death anniversary.

The memorial hadn’t changed.

It was still the same quiet resting place, tucked away in a corner of the columbarium – a small glass-front niche lit softly by candlelight.

Inside were a few precious things you had chosen together; a tiny stuffed bunny, a folded blanket with your family name stitched in one corner, and a slender silver bracelet Jeongguk had made, engraved with your daughter’s name. Silent reminders of a life that never got to grow.

The granite plaque below bore only her name—Jeon Ha-yun—and a single date, her birth and death sharing the same line, separated by nothing but a hyphen.

You had knelt first, gently brushing away the dust and some stray flowers that had fallen from nearby. Placed the purple tulips in the empty slot on the plaque.

Jeongguk stood beside you, hands clenched deep in his coat pockets, the weight of the day pressing down heavier than he could carry. His eyes flicked to his watch again.

“I’ve got a meeting soon,” he said, not quite looking at you. “How much longer are we going to stay?”

You didn’t answer him right away. Just adjusted the flowers you had bought, your voice soft when it came. “It’s okay. You can go if you want. I can take a cab.”

He hesitated. Wanted to say I can stay—but didn’t. Couldn’t.

“Let me know when you’re done,” he said instead, already backing away.

The meeting didn’t exist. Jeongguk didn’t go to the office. Didn’t go anywhere in particular. Just kept driving past familiar streets that didn’t feel like home anymore. Past cafés where laughter spilled out, past parks full of strangers who didn’t look like they’d ever lost anything.

That night, long after the sun had set and the city was quiet, he went back to the memorial. The cold air bit at his skin, but he barely noticed. Standing before the niche, he whispered into the silence—a confession made to no one but the shadows.

“I miss you. I’m sorry.”

Time passed, the way it always did. Seasons changed and, in the space, where grief once screamed, silence took root. The kind that stayed in walls, in half-finished conversations, in the empty side of the bed left untouched.

Your birthday had arrived in the heart of summer, all sun-drenched mornings and slow, golden afternoons. The wedding anniversary, too – tied to the same day, once so full of meaning. Once a date marked by surprise breakfasts and handwritten notes, by plans you both made just to spend time, even if it was just watching old movies on the living room floor.

Jeongguk had spotted the calendar earlier in that week, on the night stand while you were asleep, turned away from him, the bedside lamp casting a pale light on you. The date wasn’t labeled with words, just enclosed in a purple heart and that was more than enough to deepen the pain he’d been carrying.

He had stared at that heart for a long time. Knew you were looking forward to that day. And he did too.

The suit you made for him – one of the many – stayed where it always did, on the left side of the closet, next to the shirts you used to button for him in the mornings. Jeongguk took it out more than once that week. Hung it out. Smoothed out the lapels. Put it back in. Repeat. Like if he had practiced enough, he’d be able to face you.

But he didn’t face you.

Instead, somewhere in his car in the middle of nowhere, he deleted the address to the place you had texted him – where he was supposed to meet you, then followed it with a text of his own, cold, empty. ‘Happy Anniversary. Happy Birthday’.

Jeongguk felt like he couldn’t celebrate the way you both used to – not when so much of him was unrecognizable. He was far too gone, weighed down by everything he’d done and everything he hadn’t said.

Showing up would only mean more lies. And with lies came pretending. Pretending he was still the man you were in love with. He just couldn’t do it.

By early evening of the day that used to mean everything, Jeongguk found himself at the bottom of a bottle he didn’t remember opening, bitter on the tongue and heavier in the chest. He welcomed the burn – let it blur the parts of himself he didn’t know what to do with.

At some point, between his second bottle of whiskey and some expired chips he’d found in his glove compartment, Jeongguk picked up his phone. Almost messaged you with a pathetic crying and pleading emoji, hundreds of them along with an apology drafted in his Notes app.

But he couldn’t send it. Couldn’t turn grief into a sentence, or guilt into a message that might sound like it was only about tonight when it was really about everything.

So he backed out of the message thread. Closed the app. Hovered over Jiwoo’s name on his contact list instead.

She answered barely five seconds in when he called her. Jeongguk sat there with the phone pressed to his temple, breathing too loud and spitting out anything that came to his mind.

“She booked a restaurant,” he slurred, barely holding the phone steady. “Sent me the address and everything. Texted me twice.”

A sharp breath came out. Then a laugh that’s more of a sob. “She must’ve picked it a month ago. Bet she made sure they had the wine we loved. Probably asked them to put a candle on the table too. Not for her birthday. Just…for the mood, you know?”

He presses the bottle to his forehead, eyes shut tight. “She always thought of everything.”

There’s a pause, thick with whatever pain’s stuck in his chest.

“I deleted the address.” The confession slips out quieter than the rest, like it hurt him to say it out loud. “Fucking erased it, like that made it easier. Thought I could pretend tonight didn’t exist.”

Jeongguk’s voice started to crack. “She probably has this pretty dress on right now,” he mumbled, voice thick with alcohol and emotion. “Knowing her, she tried on like twenty. Maybe thirty. Even asked her mom. Or Hobi Hyung. Or—hell, maybe even that saleslady at that boutique she loves. She must’ve picked a really pretty one.”

He exhales sharply, dragging a hand over his face, knocking over something in the car. The clatter echoes. “Oh fuck, her hair. She must’ve done her hair all soft and down just how I like it. Wore that necklace I gave her on our first anniversary when we were just dating. Fuck, I spent my whole first paycheck on that necklace.”

A dry chuckle escapes. Jeongguk was spiraling. “She’s probably still waiting, Jiwoo-yah. At that stupid table. Maybe already ordered for the both of us. Must be looking at the door every time it opened, thinking it’d be me. That’s so like her.”

He leans back in the seat, the headrest catching the full weight of his shame. “I used to be someone she was proud to sit across from. Now I’m the guy who texts greetings like I’m her fucking dentist.”

A sound rustled; the unmistakable creek of a bottle being lifted again. “I’m such a piece of shit,” he mumbles, barely audible now. “She deserves champagne and kisses and a man who shows up, not a failure like me.”

Another shaky breath, and then, quieter than ever, “She always gets cheesecake. On her birthday. It’s her favorite. Says it tastes like being loved.”

Jeongguk’s voice faded into a quiet whimper, then stillness. When he speaks again, it’s softer. Younger. “I hope she still got it. I hope she still let herself feel loved… she deserves that.”

Time kept moving. Jeongguk kept missing things.

Chuseok came and went. He’d sent another text – Sorry, can’t make it. A sick ritual by now. Then turned his phone off. Spent the evening in his car, parked two blocks from home, engine running but going nowhere. Watched the house where both your families had been helping you with dinner trays and folding chairs, the laughter spilling through the windows like it used to.

Jeongguk never got out of the car. Not once. Didn’t want to face your families with how horrible of a person he’d become.

Then Christmas. He left a note in the kitchen. Will be back late. Don’t wait up.

That day, he bought a gift. Picked out something small, a scarf you once mentioned in passing months ago. But he never wrapped it. Never gave it. Just left it in the backseat of Taehyung’s car. Still there. Still untouched. As if a pathetic gift could reverse everything.

New Year’s Eve came quietly.

That morning, over burnt toast and barely sipped coffee – the first breakfast you two shared in months, silence pressed like a third person in the room – when you asked.

“Just us this year,” you said softly. “Namsan Tower… if you’re up for it.”

Jeongguk didn’t plan to say yes. But the words left him anyway. Maybe it was the coffee or your awful attempt at cooking again, cutting the toasts in funny shapes like you’ve always done or how your smile was soft, hopeful.

It made him hope too. Made him wanted to try.

He got a haircut. Dyed his hair black again – washed out the silver like it would rinse the past with it.

He even had a simple bracelet made for you. Nothing flashy. Just something that matched his. A quiet gesture that maybe he could still find his way back. That maybe he could still find his way to you. Meet you.

And he went. All the way to Namsan.

Cab dropped him near the entrance. He stepped out, hands tucked in his pockets, breath curling in the cold. Watched couples link arms, hands laced, eyes lit up with warmth and beginnings.

He stood there for ten minutes.

Then twenty.

Then told himself just a little longer.

But the longer he stood, the more people he saw wrapped in happiness, the more it sank in – that whatever version of him you had been waiting for was gone.

Jeongguk never made it past the gate. Never sent a message. The weight of everything he’d lost, every unspoken apology, all his mistakes, the missed chances – kept him frozen. So, he turned around and left, the bracelet still tucked away in his coat pocket.

He should’ve gone home. Should’ve pretended that sleep would dull the pain, even if only for a few hours.

But instead, he ended up in Jiwoo’s office. He didn’t know what he was looking for – only that he needed to escape the silence, the weight, the hurt. He wanted to bury the sorry excuse of a man he’d become – the disappointment as a husband, a father he couldn’t be.

In that quiet room, something finally broke.

The door had barely clicked shut before he leaned into her, breath ragged like he’d run there. He hadn’t. But it felt that way – like he’d been racing all night, all month, all year, just to feel something that wasn’t guilt.

Jiwoo didn’t question him. She never did. Maybe she knew better. Maybe she didn’t want to know.

Fingers tangled in fabric, lips grazed skin. His suit jacket hit the floor. Hers followed. It wasn’t rushed, not entirely. Just desperate. Heavy.

When she whispered his name, he didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Not when every part of him was pretending this wasn’t what it was.

When it ended, Jeongguk sat on the edge of the couch, shirt half-buttoned, staring at the floor like it might open up and take him.

Jiwoo offered a glass of water. He didn’t take it. Just sat there, breathing through the fog.

This wasn’t love. It wasn’t even connection.

But it was escape. And escape, these days, felt easier than facing the mess he'd made.

The next morning, Jeongguk didn’t return home.

Instead, he sat in the company parking lot, not caring about the dirt on his slacks. The sky was a dull gray, and the building behind him was quiet now. He hadn’t gone far after everything. Hadn’t slept. Just sat there, trying to make sense of what he’d done.

But there was no excuse waiting in the silence—only the sickening weight of it. The guilt didn’t hit all at once. It came slowly. Empty. Hollow.

By the time he did go home, you were asleep on the couch. The T.V. had gone quiet. One of the baby books you'd never packed away was still lying open beside you, your fingers curled softly around the edge of the page.

You looked peaceful. As if you'd been waiting for something gentle to return to you, even after being left alone on a night meant to start a new year.

Jeongguk almost broke, right there. Almost dropped to his knees and confessed everything.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he knelt beside you and quietly adjusted the blanket over your shoulders. Then disappeared into the bathroom and showered twice, as if that could erase anything.

Jiwoo didn’t text him. Not the next day. Not the day after. She wasn’t like that.

She’d drawn no lines, made no promises. She was quiet, steady, professional when he passed her in the hallway. Not cruel. Not warm. Just there.

And maybe that was what made it worse—how easy she made it to pretend it never happened. How nothing about her life had shifted while his had gone completely off-axis.

But he couldn’t stay away.

He told himself it was a mistake. One night. A moment.

But the following week, he showed up at her office again. No words. No apologies. No resistance.

And she let him in.

Jeongguk doesn’t remember how it became routine. It wasn’t every night—not even often. It only happened a few times, enough to count on one hand. Still, he knew that wasn’t an excuse. It still fucking happened.

Sometimes when the weight of home pressed against his chest, Jeongguk found himself moving without thinking – texting Jiwoo nothing more than a time, a place. No hearts. No names.

And she never asked for either.

One time it was the stairwell behind their office building. The lights were dim, flickering like they knew they shouldn’t be watching.

He kissed her like he needed to forget something.

She let him. No questions, no noise. Just the rustle of coats and the sound of his breath stuttering into her neck like it was the only place left he didn’t feel like a failure.

Another time it was the back seat of his car. Rain on the windows. Jiwoo’s makeup smudged from his grip on her jaw.

He didn’t ask her if she was okay. Didn’t ask himself, either.

Because here, in this hollow space of skin and distraction, he could pretend for a moment he wasn’t a man unraveling by the hour.

At home, Jeongguk had lost count of how many times he showered. Not to wash off sins he could no longer keep track of. No.

But because the scent left on his skin wasn’t familiar. It didn’t remind him of anything. Not her shampoo. Not the house. Not you.

And somehow, that made everything easier.

Jeongguk told himself it was never about love. It was survival. Escape. A quiet place where the noise inside could dim for a while.

But sometimes, late at night, when Jiwoo’s hand found his, or her breath brushed his skin, the line between need and something more fragile began to blur.

They rarely spoke about what this was. Words felt heavy, too honest, too dangerous.

Instead, their connection lived in small gestures – the way Jiwoo’s fingers lingered just a moment longer on his hand, or how her gaze held steady when his cracked.

He found himself craving those moments – not because he loved her, but because with her, the weight seemed just a little lighter.

Between, few kisses and whispered promises that meant nothing, Jeongguk caught himself wanting more – a fleeting thought of normalcy, or maybe just a break from the storm.

There were quieter moments too.

They’d go to Jiwoo’s favorite café near the office — small, sunlit, always playing old indie songs she claimed made her feel seventeen again. She liked the lemon cake there, tangy and too sweet.

Jeongguk hated lemon anything.

She pushed the plate toward him, fork already loaded. “Come on, one bite. It tastes like chaos and cavities.”

Jeongguk raised a brow. “Sounds deadly.”

She laughed. “You’re so dramatic. Open.”

He did, reluctantly. The lemon hit fast—sharp, sweet, wrong. He winced.

Jiwoo grinned, smug. “You hate it.”

“Told you I hate lemon,” he muttered, reaching for his coffee like it might save him.

“And yet, you let me feed it to you,” she teased, chin in hand.

“Yeah,” Jeongguk stared down at the plate, voice dropped. “I did.”

The next time they went, he ordered a slice without thinking. Maybe it was the routine. Maybe it was easier to pretend he was someone else in places she had always loved. Or maybe he was just tired of being someone he doesn’t recognize anymore.

Two mornings later, while Jeongguk slipped on his coat by the door, you held something out to him.

“Found this in your pocket,” you said, voice light. Just a folded receipt. “Didn’t know you liked lemon cake.”

He hesitated for half a breath, then took it from your hand. “Thought I’d try something new,” he said, stuffing the paper into his pocket. “Didn’t finish it though.”

You smiled faintly. “Okay.” Nothing more was said. Jeongguk walked to his car, you walked to yours and the day went on just like any other.

Jeongguk started wearing a new cologne Jiwoo had mentioned offhand in passing.

They’d been sitting in his car, her legs pulled up, a coffee cup balanced on her knee, when she reached into the glove compartment to grab tissues and found the travel-sized bottle tucked in with a pile of old receipts.

“Oh,” she’d said, amused. “This one’s nice. Remember it from a client’s shoot a while back.” She sprayed it lightly on her wrist, then offered it to him without looking too hard. “Try it. Might suit you.”

He didn’t think much of it then. Just leaned forward so she could mist it across his neck. Her fingers had brushed the edge of his jaw—cold and brief. She’d gone quiet after that. Rolled the window down. Changed the subject.

But later, when he made a dumb joke and leaned in to repeat it, she’d smiled like it meant something. Like he meant something. Something other than mistakes and disappointments.

It wasn’t the kind of scent he normally liked—too warm, too heavy. Amber and cedarwood.  It clung to him like someone else's second skin.

But it made him forget the lavender that carried too much expectations and pain. And it was enough.  

Jeongguk started wearing it after that.

The first time he wore it home, you paused in the hallway, one hand bracing the wall like you’d lost your balance for a second.

“That’s strong,” you said, half-laughing. “What is that? Smells like someone lit a forest on fire.”

Jeongguk smiled faintly, tugged at his collar. “Trainees thought it smelt good. Was messing around with some samples in the shoot. Kind of stuck.”

You nodded slowly. “Looks like it did.”

“I’ll probably switch back next week,” he said, voice soft. “It’s not really me.”

You didn’t answer. Just passed by him, close enough to breathe it in again, leaving him in the silence of your home like always.

It was raining when they slipped into the planetarium.

Jiwoo said she’d always wanted to come but never had the time. Jeongguk didn’t ask why she chose a place like this or why she wanted him there. He just asked Taehyung to book the tickets under his name and followed her plans when the day came.

Inside, the seats reclined. The dome above them flickered dark before filling with stars.

She glanced sideways at him when the simulated constellations came alive — her shoulder barely grazing his. “Penny for your thoughts?”

It was the first time she ever asked him for anything. Jeongguk didn’t know why. Only that she did – after he’d been staring too long at the Sun in the simulation.

“I don’t know what this is anymore…what I am anymore,” he admitted quietly. “But I don’t know how to stop it. Don’t know how to come back.” His eyes were still fixed on the Sun — pixelated and sterile, orbiting nothing real.

Jiwoo didn’t speak right away. A comet traced across the dome in silence.

“You don’t have to name it,” she said finally. “No one’s asking you to.”

The stars faded, but the ache stayed — quieter now, like a shadow settling deeper into the edges of his days.

And somewhere beneath it all, the clock kept ticking, pulling him forward whether Jeongguk was ready or not.

The morning began quietly.

You moved softly through the kitchen, hands working without rush as you wrapped small sandwiches, cut fruit into soft wedges, and arranged snacks into a neatly packed basket. Nothing elaborate. Just enough for two. You checked the time on the oven clock once, then again, a little slower.

The house was still quiet upstairs.

Jeongguk stood halfway down the stairs, already dressed for work – pressed slacks, sleeves rolled to his forearms, his watch catching the low light. He stayed still, one hand resting gently on the banister.

Your voice drifted up from the kitchen, gentle but clear. The phone lay on speaker on the counter.

“I’ll be okay, Eomma. Just a quick visit.” You murmured.

“Jeongguk’s not going with you?” your mother had asked.

He waited for you to tell her the truth. Rat him out – call him selfish, careless, tell her how he let you down again.

Instead, you said, “Think he’s got an early shoot in Gangnam.” You reached for a napkin, folding it once, then again, before tucking it into the picnic basket.

Jeongguk didn’t move. His eyes lingered on the basket, then the slow curve of your shoulders as you stood over it.

Then, without saying a word, he turned and walked away. His shoes made no sound on the floor as he quietly slipped out the door.

Jeongguk didn’t go to the memorial.

Instead, he ended up parked outside the baby clothes store on the far side of the city. The same one you both had visited long ago, when you were full of dreams and plans. The sign’s color had changed, the windows were new – but inside, it still smelled faintly of baby powder and fresh cotton.

He drifted in slowly, like muscle memory.

Near the back, he spotted a small rack lined with tiny onesies. One in particular caught his eye — cream-colored with purple tulips and sun prints stitched into the fabric. Something about it felt soft and whole.

Jeongguk bought it without thinking.

For a brief moment, the idea flickered in his chest. Maybe he could still make it to the memorial. Maybe if he left now, brought this little onesie, maybe...

Then he saw them – a couple around his age. The woman laughed softly, holding a squirming baby girl in her arms. The man kissed her cheek, one arm slung around her shoulder. Their child was maybe two. Maybe close to what Ha-yun would’ve been. Alive. Growing.

“Say ‘Appa,’ sweetie,” the woman coaxed gently.

The baby’s tiny lips parted, forming a soft, uncertain sound— “Appa...”

The man’s eyes softened, his smile widening. “That’s right, little one. Appa.”

Jeongguk froze. Something cold gripped him from the inside. And in that moment, the weight of it all came crashing back.

He left without a word.

The day blurred after that. He threw himself into work, showed up at an offsite shoot, reviewed shots he wasn’t even scheduled to cover. His phone buzzed a few times — he didn’t check. Not even once.

Evening fell without mercy.

Down the office building, they waited for a cab. A crazy drunk stumbled past, spilling a drink right onto Jiwoo’s sleeve. “Shit, sorry!” the drunk slurred, swaying away.

She stared down at the wet fabric, annoyed. Jeongguk stepped closer, pulling off his jacket. “Here, take this.”

She hesitated but accepted it, slipping it on.

Jeongguk muttered under his breath, “Fucking assholes.”

“Don’t get worked up. Bet they smell like cheap whiskey and regret.”

He rolled his eyes, chuckled, said nothing after.  Just watched the city lights coming on, slow and soft.

“I thought you’d run away for good today,” Jiwoo breaks the quiet.

He scoffed. “I tried.”

She bumped his arm lightly. “You suck at it.”

A breath of a laugh escaped him, short and tight. He looked at her — really looked — and that was all it took.

Jiwoo leaned in first, her lips brushing his in a kiss that was quiet and careful.

Jeongguk didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. He kissed her back, like a reflex, like he didn’t want to think about what it meant.

Then it ended, just as quickly. No promises. No questions. Not asking for more, not promising anything either.

Jiwoo blinked. Looked for a second longer than usual, then smiled softly. “Come on,” she said, gently tugging at his sleeve. “I want to show you something.”

The cab ride was short. They pulled into a quiet alley where an older shop stood, its weather sign still intact, “Daehan Camera & Film.”

Jeongguk recognized it the moment they stepped out. The air around it hadn’t changed. The soft chime of the door still rang the same way it did years ago, when you dragged him here one snowy evening after you both had successfully passed your final requirements for graduation.

You were both delirious – running on caffeine, instant ramen and the kind of snacks that should’ve fucked with your brains. But you both made it.

You had bought him a camera that night, just a little something to mark the end of the chaos and the beginning of whatever came next. A secondhand Canon AE-1, barely functional flash, light meter permanently stuck on the wrong setting. Knowing how much he was a sucker for anything old and worn, always choosing charm over convenience, history over precision.

“You’re going places, Gguk. I just know it.”

Jeongguk didn’t even know what to say back then. Just stood there while you grinned, cheeks red from the cold, and told the old man behind the counter, “He’s going to be brilliant.”

You had believed in him long before he knew how to.

Jeongguk stood there again now, the memory coiling around his chest, slow and thick.

Jiwoo stepped inside first, glancing around, then nodded to the older man behind the counter who’d given her a look like she didn’t belong in his store.

She ignored it. Focused on Jeongguk. Didn’t say much. Let him take his time.

“How did you even know this place?” he asked, voice low.

She shrugged. “I asked Taehyung. He said something about how much you loved coming here.” That was all. No added explanation. No weight in her tone.

Jeongguk turned toward the glass display, hands shoved deep into his coat pockets. The cameras hadn’t changed. Dust along the edges. Faint scratches in the wood counter from years of elbows and fingerprints.

The weight in his chest didn’t lift.

It sank.

When it all ended, Jiwoo gave him a small wave from across the street before slipping into a cab. Jeongguk watched her go, then crossed to the station, not to board a train, but to sit. The bench was cold. The air sharper now. He stared into the nothing ahead, not moving, not thinking.

But his hands itched. Restless. As if the silence pressed too hard against his skin.

He didn’t know how long he sat before standing again, feeling pulled tight like a stretched thread.

The tattoo shop was just around the corner – small, almost hidden, with a faded sign and a door cracked open like an invitation.

Inside, the needle buzzed before words could form.

The artist glanced at his arm. “Covering up the old one?”

Jeongguk nodded. “Something like that.”

He barely looked at the design in the mirror, a crescent moon cradling a handful of stars.

Simple. Quiet. No noise. No movement. No expectations.

He winced as the needle bit into his skin, the pain sharp but steady, grounding him.

A punishment. A mark for running away. For choosing silence over love, again and again. A mark for guilt that made a home in him and never left. For turning his back when your hands were still reaching for him. A mark for all the mistakes he’s ever done. For everything he couldn’t face – then and now.

When the buzzing stopped, he touched the fresh ink with trembling fingers.

The moon and stars were there to stay.

The sun—yours—was gone, and he’d covered it himself.

The artist stepped away to clean up, leaving Jeongguk alone under the harsh glow of the overhead light.

He sat there a moment longer, sleeve rolled up, skin raw. His phone felt heavier than it should’ve in his palm.

No thinking. No pacing. Just a quiet inhale—then he pressed the number he’d taken from Taehyung earlier.

The line rang once. Then again. “Namjoon-ssi, can you please meet me?”

Namjoon didn’t ask why. He didn’t have to. When Taehyung had passed along the quiet request for help, and the moment Jeongguk stepped into the office – slumped shoulders, bloodshot eyes, a hollowness where pride used to sit – Namjoon already knew.

He began explaining — carefully, briefly — how things worked. What needed to be filed. What Jeongguk should expect.

But Jeongguk barely listened.

“Just want it fair,” he muttered after a long silence. “Everything we built… she deserves her half. Or more. I don’t care. Just get it done.”

Namjoon set his pen down. “You don’t have to do this angry. You should know at least what you’re walking away from.”

“I know exactly what I’m walking away from,” Jeongguk snapped. His voice cracked, then dropped. “A house that used to be a home. A bed that used to be filled with love. And a woman who still looks at me like I haven’t fucked up everything. I don’t fucking deserve that. She doesn’t deserve this version of me.”

Namjoon didn’t flinch. “And you think divorce is going to solve that?”

Jeongguk’s hands curled into fists, then loosened. The anger gave way to exhaustion. “She deserves better. I’ve already broken her. I don’t want to stay just to keep breaking her in smaller pieces.”

Namjoon tried again, voice quieter this time. “Walking away will just her hurt her more.”

“It’s a clean slate,” Jeongguk said. “Maybe for both of us. It won’t be waking up beside her and still feeling like I’m drowning. It won’t be watching her look at me like I’m someone else. And I won’t have to keep dragging her down this shithole I’ve dug for myself.”

Namjoon nodded slightly. He didn’t push more after that. Just took down the details Jeongguk gave him. The terms. The assets. The accounts. He worked in quiet rhythm, the pen moving steadily across paper.

“She’ll need to sign it too,” he said eventually.

“I know,” Jeongguk stared at the ceiling. “Just… not yet.” Silence passed. “I need to… break it to her gently. Figure out how.”

Days passed like slow echoes. Some nights, Jeongguk stayed late in the office, finishing edits no one asked for. Other evenings, he met Jiwoo for coffee or dinner, sometimes letting her distract him with things that made him laugh for a moment too long. But the weight stayed.

Then one morning, the envelope came. Sealed and clean, the final draft tucked inside.

It was waiting on his desk when he arrived—no fanfare, no message, just his name typed on the front in sterile black ink.

Jiwoo was already in the room, seated across from his desk, reviewing campaign drafts. She looked up when she heard him stop short. “That it?”

He nodded, already pulling a pen from the drawer. No pause. No ceremony.

She watched him sign. “You’re really doing it.”

Jeongguk didn’t look up. “Already did.” He capped the pen, slipped the papers into the bottom drawer of his desk and closed it quietly.

And he didn’t look at them again.

The papers stayed buried in his desk drawer, untouched and unsigned by anyone but him. Days turned over like pages—quiet, deliberate, unread. And in the hush between what was and what they couldn’t name anymore, time moved forward anyway.

The house remained the same – clean, lived-in, routine. The silence wasn’t new anymore. It had settled in long ago, worn down by time, no longer sharp or painful – just there, like faded wallpaper touched by the sun.

Conversations, when they happened, were brief and practical.

One morning, you placed the empty detergent bottle on the counter. “We’re out of detergent,” you’d said without looking at him.

“I’ll grab some tomorrow,” Jeongguk replied, barely glancing up from his phone.

Another time, while folding towels that still smelled faintly of rain, you spoke up again. “Water bill’s due Friday.”

“Okay.” He didn’t ask how much. You didn’t offer. The moment passed without ripples.

Sometimes, you left the house first. Sometimes, he did.

That morning, Jeongguk paused by the trash bin as you headed out. “Trash day’s tomorrow. Did you sort the bags?”

You stopped, rubbing your forehead. “It’s your turn to sort the trash.”

He gave a quiet, almost automatic nod.

You didn’t say goodbye. He didn’t ask for one.

You were slipping on your coat when he noticed – no keys in your hand. Just your phone, already pulled up to book a ride.

“You’re not driving?” Jeongguk asked, glancing up from the sink.

You shrugged lightly. “Car won’t start. Battery’s dead, I think.”

He wiped his hands on a dish towel. “I’ll take it to the shop after work. You can take mine.”

You mumbled a ‘thanks’. Left before he could say anything else.

There were no fights. No pointed silences. Just a kind of practiced cohabitation that neither strained nor healed. Like two people who had memorized the layout of the same house but stopped meeting in the same rooms.

It was the kind of evening that used to mean something.

The kind where candles would’ve flickered on the table, laughter echoing off the kitchen tiles, your arms looping around his neck as if the world outside your home didn’t exist. Where the scent of dinner wasn’t just food – it was love folded into small efforts.

But those days had long gone quiet. Faded slowly. Softly. Without a fight.

Jeongguk didn’t knock. Didn’t slide his key into the lock. Just stayed by the front steps, close enough to see through window, far enough that you wouldn’t notice him there.

The dining table was set for two. Silverware neatly placed; bowls of warm food left untouched on both sides. He knew the dishes right away – meals you used to make to remind him of home. Or maybe, to hold on to the hope that it still was home.

You were still dressed in something soft but presentable, like you hadn’t quite given up the idea of company. Your hair was pinned back the way you used to wear it for dinners, neat and plain, but still cared for.

Between rearranging the plates, he watched you pick up your phone, glance at it now and then, quietly waiting – not quite hopeful, but not yet giving up either.

You poured water into both glasses. Straightened the tablecloth’s edge. Sat down for a moment, then stood up again.

It was the waiting, Jeongguk realized, that undid him. Not the food or the setting or even the way you’d tried to make everything familiar – but the way you kept looking toward the door. Like maybe this would be the year he remembered. Like maybe you hadn’t stopped leaving room for him yet.

Jeongguk didn’t move. Didn’t give himself away.

And after some time, something in your posture shifted—too subtle for anyone else to notice, but not him.

You blew out the candle. Pushed in your chair. Started packing things up with the quiet, careful way you did now—like a shield around you.

No dramatic pause. No lingering. You just...let it go.

Jeongguk stayed in that moment a little longer. Let the silence draw a line between the man he was then and the one sitting here now.

He remembers the morning after the anniversary and your birthday, leaning against the headboard, the food tray with Makguksu and Samgyeopsal. He felt he didn’t deserve the small kindness and tried to ignore it, while the feeling of regret kept growing inside him.

Then there was Taehyung, the office, and the papers he’d kept hidden. Jeongguk remembers signing them without hesitation. How instead of being honest and ending things, he kept the agreement a secret. In that moment, fear and denial held him back – he had signed away his marriage, but didn’t have the courage to deal with what came next.

Jeongguk remembers the look on your face when you found them. No words, just a quiet, heavy stare—as if you finally saw everything you’d been avoiding. That look hurt him more than any fight, revealing the vulnerable man beneath his tough mask.

And when you asked him if he loved her, he was too scared to tell you the truth. That he didn’t. That it was just means of his escape. The mess he made was only a way to hide from the man he’d become.

Then Namjoon showed up with a new agreement and a list that felt more like a punishment back then. It felt like a burden. But over time, those things stopped feeling like chains and became a strange kind of guide.

Those times and the person he had turned to, used to haunt him. Sometimes it still pressed against his chest, sharp and shame-shaped. But the pain no longer ruled him. Instead, it had become a quiet reminder of how far he’d come—how much he’d survived and was now trying to find a way back to a place that once felt like home.

Jeongguk took a slow breath, trying to hold on to that fragile hope—of something better, something steadier.

Outside the car, Jiwoo waited quietly. Not rushing. Not pressing. Just waiting.

And in that moment, Jeongguk held onto the calm as best he could.

He stepped out, followed her down the street to a small café nearby. It was new, clean, quiet. Nothing fancy. Orders were placed – black coffee for him, green tea for her and some food he barely registered while she chatted with the server.

When it came, that’s when his attention dropped to the food she had ordered, a slice of lemon cake.

“Still?” Jeongguk asked with his brow raised.

Jiwoo gave a small, almost playful smile. “Moving to a new city doesn’t change my food choices.”

He doesn’t go along with the playful remark. Just jumps right in. “Do you remember when we started drifting apart?”

Jiwoo nodded. “After you got that tattoo.”

He chuckled dryly. “Funny how I got it because you said the moon and stars didn’t have expectations.”

She gave a small smile, not proud, not sad. Just knowing. “That was supposed to comfort you. Didn’t think you’d go ink it on your skin.”

“Thought it’d fix something,” Jeongguk admits. “Make it easier to carry. You know…the guilt. Everything else.”

Jiwoo fiddled with the cake. “It didn’t.”

“It didn’t,” he agreed. Silence stretched between them, then softly he asked, “Do you remember when we completely stopped?”

She nodded, looking down. “That café in Hapjeong. You told me she found the divorce papers. And the list she’s making you do.”

Jeongguk doesn’t say anything at first. His gaze drops to the rim of his coffee cup, and for a moment, the café around them fades.

To another café. To another day. Hapjeong.

“I don’t know if I’m a good person,” Jiwoo said quietly, her voice barely rising above the hum of the street outside. “Sometimes I think maybe I deserve to lose everything.”

Jeongguk looked at her then—really looked. “You didn’t make me love her less,” he said. “That’s on me. And you’re not losing anything. I’m here. I’m still here.”

Jiwoo swallowed, gaze darting to the window. “For how long?”

His gaze stayed stead, but something behind it softened. “As long as necessary,” he said. “To make sure you’re okay. To help you figure out whatever you need to do next.”

A brief silence followed, broken only by the gentle clink of a spoon from another table.

She didn’t look at him, but he caught the way her fingers curled around the hem of her sleeve.

Then, more quietly, he added, “After that, I’m going on with that list.”

The silence that followed wasn’t surprised — it was quiet. Knowing.

Jiwoo’s voice was thin when it came. “You never loved her any less, did you?”

Jeongguk’s gaze held hers, steady but distant, as if weighing a truth he’d long avoided. “Guess I didn’t.” he said quietly. “Think I just lost my way. Lost who I’d become. Changed into someone I barely recognized.”

He swallowed, voice thick. “I didn’t know how to come back.”

Jiwoo’s voice was barely above a whisper. “What made you want to find your way back?”

Jeongguk’s eyes dropped to the table. “The way she still looked at me,” he said. “Like I wasn’t lost at all. It’s been that way all these years. Was just too blinded by all the pain, all the failures, all the disappointments. Let them take hold.”

He drew in a breath, slow and quiet. “I’m done with that. No more running. No more escaping. I’m going on with this list the right way. I’m going to mean it. No more lies. No more hurting her. No more going behind her back.”

Jiwoo’s eyes stay fixed on. “You think that’s going to make her forgive you?”

Jeongguk’s thumb traced the rim of his cup. “Not doing this for forgiveness. Accepted a long time ago that nothing I do will reverse everything I’ve done.”

She sighed softly. “You said the list is a set of conditions she made before finalizing the divorce. You do know that completing it means ending everything between you, right?”

“I know.” He swallowed down the nerves. “But until then, I’m going to try to love her the right way. I’ll just love her – no ‘what ifs,’ no ‘buts.’ And if she lets me go – then that’s just the consequence of every fucked-up choice I made.”

“You’re fucked up, Jeon.” Jiwoo let out a dry, bitter laugh. “Should’ve never started that divorce agreement. Should’ve owned up to your mistakes years ago.”

“Too late for that now.” Jeongguk gave a faint chuckle, low and a little worn. “I’m sorry for dragging you into this. I know one apology won’t fix anything, but… I’ll be around. If you need help with anything moving forward, I’m here.”

“Thanks,” Jiwoo said softly. Then, after a pause, “Guess I should start looking for another company.”

“You want to leave?”

“Doesn’t feel right staying,” she said, meeting his eyes briefly. “Not if you’re going to try again with her.”

The days slipped by as Jeongguk helped Jiwoo navigate her transition. He made calls, pulled strings, even visited a couple of agencies on her behalf.

One evening, after finalizing some transfer logistics, they sat in silence at a convenience store bench.

“You look tired,” Jiwoo muttered without looking at him.

Jeongguk cracked a weak smile. “Have felt worst.”

“You don’t have to do all this.”

“Just let me help.”

She didn’t argue. Just nudged his knee with hers once—quiet thanks unspoken.

Jeongguk followed through with the Chuncheon firm. Quiet team, flexible direction—room for Jiwoo to breathe. He drove her up for the meeting, vouched for her, stepped out when needed. They made her an offer the same day.

On the ride back, Jiwoo turned to him, “You did more than I expected.”

“Good luck out there.” Jeongguk kept his eyes ahead as the city lights faded behind them.

Steam hissed softly nearby, mingling with murmurs and the occasional metallic clink. The rich aroma of fresh coffee wrapped around him, pulling Jeongguk back to the moment.

Jiwoo’s calm gaze met his across the café’s warm light. “You didn’t ask me to meet you to reminisce our era.”

“Don’t make it sound like some concert tour we’ve headlined.”

“Not me. Just you. Would’ve been a great idol.”

Jeongguk smirked. “What would my stage name be? ‘DJ Regret’?”

Jiwoo chuckled, shaking her head. “More like ‘The King of Sorrys.’ Your fan club would be huge.”

His smile faded, eyes narrowing just slightly. “Why’d you do it?”

“Not gonna ask when I did it?” Jiwoo shot back, a teasing edge in her voice.

“If you were gonna go through my phone, at least mess with the archive too,” he said calmly.

What happened next wasn’t a question of if, but when.

In the days that followed, Jeongguk had settled into a new rhythm—balancing work, the list, and the slow rebuilding of what was once lost. Meanwhile, Jiwoo adjusted to life in Chuncheon, facing fresh challenges with a quieter pace.

It was during a late afternoon in the office, sifting through the cabinet, making space for a new team’s mock-up, that Jeongguk stumbled across it – clean layout, pinned swatches, slipped sketches, a familiar signature on the corner. It was Jiwoo’s.

He tore out a notepad page, scribbled her name and phone number, taped it on the corner. Then sent out a text before returning to the rest of his day filled with back-to-back meetings.

Jeon: Found your old board. Front desk if you need it. Swamped.

Later that evening, Jiwoo stepped into the lobby. The receptionist, mid-call and juggling a delivery form, waved her through. “It’s in the corner, go ahead. Got to deal with a mix-up.”

She spotted the board exactly where she was told. Her name and number marked clearly on a note stuck at the top. As she peeled it off, another paper came loose beneath it – same notepad, different message.

Messy handwriting. A scribbled list. Restaurant names stacked one after the other, some crossed out, others with times rewritten, erased, replaced again. One had a smudged heart half-erased. Another with a small sun doodle at the end. A few notes scattered like Go early. Less crowded. Cheesecake out of stock. Pass.

Jiwoo paused, reading it twice. Didn’t take much to guess what it was. Or who was it for.

He still hadn’t said it.

Nearby, Jeongguk’s phone buzzed once on the front desk – forgotten, maybe dropped in the middle of another rushed hour.

She picked it up, tapped the camera roll, scrolled briefly. Found the clip—one from a late-night drive some time ago. Her voice in the background, laughing. Posted it to his story.

Then walked out with the board in hand. And just like that, it was done.

Jeongguk exhaled slowly, the weight of the past settling quietly as he looked at Jiwoo.

“Did you know she almost finalized the divorce that night?”

Jiwoo didn’t flinch. “Good. It shook her.”

“Was that what you meant to do? Some kind of revenge? Karma I deserved?”

“No, Jeon,” she said, calm but unyielding. “It was meant to shake both of you. I knew she’d see it. Knew you’d find it. You made this big declaration about wanting to love her again – and you still haven’t said it.”

“I was trying to make myself worthy enough before telling her.”

“And when will that be?” Her voice was steady, but there was an edge to it. “You’ve spent the last three years trying. Said it yourself – you got lost chasing the version of you she once loved. The one she still loves. And you’re still going in circles. When will you realize that no matter who you try to be, she’s going to love you anyway?”

Jeongguk’s face stayed still, but the silence between them grew heavy with unspoken words. “You weren’t part of this anymore. You had no right to get involved.”

“If I didn’t, would you have pushed yourself to try harder for her? To be there for her?”

Jeongguk leaned back slightly, jaw tense. “That wasn’t your choice to make.”

“But it was a choice that started to make things better for you, didn’t it?”

He remained quiet, the weight of her words pressed down on him.

Jiwoo started to gather her things. “Just be fucking honest for once. Love her like you used to. Or maybe even better,” she pauses briefly, then adds. “Stop wasting time. You won’t realize when time will run out and you’re left with regrets instead of love that should’ve been yours to hold.”

She left before he could say a word, the silence between them closing like the last page of a book.

Jeongguk swallowed hard, the truth in Jiwoo’s words hitting him like a sudden, cold wave. His phone buzzed, breaking the silence. The screen glowed with a photo of you, lips pressed softly to his cheek, eyes closed in a moment of pure tenderness.

He stared at it, breath steadying. A soft light began to grow inside him, like the first rays of a sunrise finally breaking through after a long wait.

[tacoguacamole]

ANOTHER TIME | JJK - 6

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

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

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

[Theme: Marriage AU. BF2L2S]

[Warnings: Major Angst, Multiple Flashbacks and Time Jumps, Mature Theme, Smut, Mature/Explicit Language, A lot of fluff, Romance, Slowburn]

[Older JK, Older OC, Older Bangtan, Lawyer Seokjin and Namjoon, Doctor Yoongi, Event Planner Hobi, Solo idol Jimin, Secretary Taehyung, Brief cameos of Seventeen Mingyu, GOT7 Mark, Kook's a jerk and mean for the earlier chapters]

[Status: Ongoing]

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

[Chapter Summary: In the soft glow of old rooms and familiar glances, something warm began to stir again — not forgiveness, not yet, but something close enough to ache. And when the dance came, and he reached for you like he always did, you let him — even knowing what came before, and what might come after.]

[MINORS DNI! 18+]

When you reach the table, Jeongguk is already on his feet—chair pulled out for you before he even realizes he’s done it. Instinct, maybe. Muscle memory shaped by years of shared spaces and silent understandings.

He doesn’t look over right away. His jaw ticks, almost like he wants to say something—but the words never come.

Your eyes flick to his, something unreadable passing through you. “Thanks,” you murmur, just above the hum of music and conversation.

He steps aside. Lets you settle in. Follows quietly in his own seat. You don’t say anything else, and neither does he.

Across the table, one of Jeongguk’s younger cousins leans in with a wide grin. “Noona, you look so pretty! I didn’t recognize you for a second.”

You remember her from the wedding. You offer a polite smile, murmuring a quiet thank you.

His mother returns just then, placing a new platter in front of you. “Sweetheart, help yourself. I told the staff to keep your favorite japchae warm.”

“Thank you, Eomma-nim,” you offer a faint smile. “Smells really good.”

She pats your hand before moving on, a gentle touch that says she’s glad you’re here.

The table gradually grows louder with laughter and small toasts, plates scraping and glasses clinking gently.

You catch bits of conversations—Jeongguk’s brother talking about a new client, someone else griping about Seoul traffic.

Between the small talk, Jeongguk leans over, adds another round of japchae on your plate, along with a few bite-sized jeon. You don’t say anything. Just let your fingers brush the warm pieces.

His eyes meet yours for a brief second—quick and easy, like a passing glance—before he looks back at the group. The quiet clinking of glasses and low hum of voices fill the space, wrapping comfortably around you both.

Then a cousin pulls out her phone, turning it around with a grin. “Look at this! Do you guys remember this birthday party?”

Everyone leans in for a look. The photo is a bit blurry, like it was taken with an old digital camera. Jeongguk is in the center, frosting on his cheek. You’re next to him, laughing—your hand caught mid-air like you’d just smeared it. Both of you wearing silly paper crowns.

“She got him so good. I thought Eomma was going to faint,” Jeongguk’s brother chuckles from the other side of the table.

“You two looked like you ruled the world back then,” the cousin teases, nudging Jeongguk playfully.

You laugh along, but the image stays in your mind longer than it should—those crooked paper crowns, that frosting-smeared joy. Life felt simpler then.

Jeongguk doesn’t say anything but his eyes stays on the photo just as long as yours before he goes back to the japchae like he didn’t see it all.

The plates are mostly empty now—just a few bowls left half-full for people to pick at. The conversation flows more freely, slow and easy. Someone pours another round of drinks. Another launches into a story about a drunken Christmas, earning laughs and playful groans.

An aunt brings up the time you and Jeongguk got scolded for sticking googly eyes on all the family portraits. You smile at the memory—how you picked a fight with him for starting it, even tried to stick a few on his face for acting like a child. But in the end, you helped him take them all down. Both of you got an earful from his mother by the time she returned from the market.

The laughter and talking move around you, but your thoughts drift inside, caught between the quiet calm of the moment and the slow pace of the evening.

Dessert arrives—a simple plate of fruit shining under the soft lights. The quiet clinking of spoons on bowls mixes with the low sound of small talk.

Jeongguk shifts in his seat and looks at you, his eyes meeting yours for a moment—just long enough to show a flicker of something you can’t quite place. “Didn’t expect you to be here.”

Your hand pauses mid-spoon, the noise around you fades. “Didn’t expect to be here either.”

He lets out a quiet breath. “Why did you come?”

I know how it feels to get stuck in a loop of lies in front of our families. Been doing that for years. I’ve been covering for you for years. I don’t want to put you in that position. The words get trapped in your mind.

Instead, a smile slips out. “Couldn’t miss the cheesecake.”

He chuckles softly, the sound easing some of the tension. “Always knew you had your priorities straight.”

You groan. “Don’t remind me about priorities. Just escaped Mark’s babble about rebooking plane tickets for the team.”

He lets out a quiet laugh. “Mark can be... persistent.”

You nod, half-smiling. “I am too but today was a bit much.”

Jeongguk stays quiet for a second, eyes tracing the movement of your spoon, before he speaks again. “I’m sorry about earlier. Didn’t mean to snap at you.”

You nod quietly, your eyes meeting his for a moment before you turn back to your dessert, ignoring his lingering gaze from the corner of your eye.

Around you, voices rise and fall like waves. Someone taps their glass for a toast. A cousin starts telling a story—part true, part exaggerated—and the table bursts into laughter again, glasses raised.

You stay at the table a little longer, answering questions about work and dodging a compliment about your dress. Your eyes drifts toward where Jeongguk has slipped away, toward the bar nestled against the far wall of the living room.

Eventually, you follow him there, the family conversations blending into the background. The warm light from the hanging lamps casts soft amber pools over the polished wood and glass. The air feels cooler here, and the voices are quieter—just a few guests remain, speaking in low, relaxed tones.

He’s quietly fixing a drink for both of you then nudges toward your glass without a word.

You accept it with a small nod. “It’s louder than I remember.”

Jeongguk hums. “So much for a small party. Think everyone from Busan and Seoul is here.”

You let out a soft laugh, fingers curling around the cool glass. “She deserves it,” you watch the way his eyes follow the movement in the room. “They all came for her.”

He nods, then glances your way. “You holding up okay?”

You nod once. “It’s just... a lot of faces.”

Jeongguk doesn’t press further. Just stands beside you in the soft light, with the kind of silence that doesn’t need filling. He lifts his glass, tipping it slightly toward yours. You do the same, sharing a quiet toast to the small moment of peace between you.

That’s when his mother appears, moving gracefully through the room wearing her birthday sash—now a bit crooked. Her cheeks are pink from the warmth and joy of the celebration, her smile easy and genuine. She spots the two of you by the bar and lights up instantly.

With a familiar warmth, she places a hand on each of your shoulders.

“Look at my beautiful children,” she says with playful pride. “I missed you both. Ggukie, do you remember your birthday five years ago? She planned the whole thing behind your back. Even your silly Avengers cake.”

Jeongguk lets out a quiet chuckle. “That cake was awesome.”

You smile faintly, eyes fixed on the candlelight across the room. “Took me two bakeries and a borderline argument with Taehyung to pull it off.”

His mother laughs softly, a touch of nostalgia in her voice. “Those were good times. I miss having you both here like that. The house felt warmer when you visited together.”

A colleague calls her over, and she floats off with a soft hum, leaving behind a warmth that lingers a moment longer.

Jeongguk sighs. “I’m sorry about Eomma.”

You want to say something, but the words get stuck. Your chest feels tight and heavy. It’s not because of his mother. It’s everything else—the calm of the evening, the familiar feel of the house when it’s full, and how things seem almost normal again, like nothing was ever broken.

It’s not the silence that gets to you—it’s the warmth. The soft happiness that slipped in when you weren’t paying attention. And somehow, that’s the part that hurts the most.

From the front of the room, your father-in-law begins lighting the candles on the cake. You’re relieved when he calls Jeongguk to join beside his brother.

The lights dim further, guests gathering toward the center where the dessert table glows under a string of fairy lights. Laughter bubbles near the front, and voices join together, starting the birthday song. The whole room shifts forward.

You step back slightly, lean against a nearby table, and join the clapping with the rest of the guests.

Jeongguk blends in the front easily, his posture relaxed, smile quiet. You see the way his mother beams beside him, and how he leans into her touch when she squeezes his arm.

Mrs. Jeon is ushered closer toward the cake, your father-in-law gently guiding her with a hand at her back. Guests crowd around, phones raised, voices rising in cheerful noise.

“Say something cheesy when you blow it out!” someone calls.

“Like what?” she laughs, cheeks flushed from wine and attention.

“Wish for true love!” another shouts, drawing groans and chuckles.

She turns, gaze skimming over the room before landing on you. Then to Jeongguk by her side. She doesn’t say anything. Just smiles—a little too long, a little too knowing.

The candles flicker.

She blows them out.

The room erupts in applause. When it dies down, voices rise again. Someone puts on music—something upbeat and familiar—a few guests start dancing, with Jeongguk's brother leading the fun, drinks in hand.

You shift your weight, fingers grazing the rim of your half-empty glass. The closeness, the laughter, the mix of voices—it’s all too much. Not unpleasant, just heavy, like the air’s grown thick with every friendly smile.

A laugh rings too loudly by your ear. You flinch before you mean to.

You tell yourself you're just looking for a quieter place to freshen up, maybe grab a breath of air. But your feet move on instinct, carrying you toward the main staircase before you can question it.

Upstairs, the hall is calmer—dimmer. You pass the guest bathroom, the library, the game room Jeongguk and his brother used to spend hours in, shouting over video games and accusing each other of cheating. You’d walked in once with snacks and ended up refereeing a heated debate over who unplugged the console mid-match. Neither of them ever admitted it.

Then, just past the corner, you pause—half a second too long—at the room with the faint scuff on the baseboard, where your suitcase once left a dent.

You hesitate, then slip in, leaving the door slightly ajar.

The bedroom looks like it hasn’t changed much—tidy, a bit plain, except for the old Iron Man posters above the desk, their edges curling slightly. The bed’s made with tight, careful corners, like someone was trying too hard to keep things in place. The feeling is the same—quiet, worn-in, soft with the kind of stillness that settles after years of living.

Your fingers brush the edge of the bookshelf. A row of framed photos remains on the dresser—some of Jeongguk and his brother, some older family shots, and tucked behind them, a faded strip from a photo booth.

You and him. Younger.

“Five thousand won for this?” you had asked, staring up at the tiny booth wedged between a claw machine and a fried chicken stall. It looked like it had been there since the ’90s, complete with flickering bulbs and a busted coin slot. “You know that’s basically robbery.”

Jeongguk had just grinned, already digging into his wallet. “It’s for the aesthetic.”

“It smells like burnt plastic in there.”

“Romance,” he said with a wink. “Now get in.”

You’d sighed dramatically but followed him in anyway, cramming your legs against his under the cramped vinyl bench. The seat squeaked under your weight.

“I think something just poked me.”

“Probably the ghost of someone else who paid five thousand won for blurry pictures.”

You elbowed him, and he laughed, pressing the button before you could fix your hair.

“Wait, I wasn’t—!”

Flash.

“God, you’re the worst,” you muttered, already sweating from the broken fan above.

“And yet you love me,” he said, tilting toward you with that smug little smile.

You meant to shove him away, but his lips were already brushing yours, a bit off-center, his nose bumping yours. You laughed against his mouth, too surprised to kiss back properly.

“Try again,” you whispered.

“Nope,” he said, smug. “That was pure. We leave it.”

Another flash went off.

You exhaled, relaxing into the narrow seat as the countdown started again. Jeongguk leaned his head onto your shoulder, quieter now. His hand found yours between your knees.

“You always do this,” you said softly.

“Do what?”

“Make something stupid feel like a memory.”

“That’s because it is one,” he said. “We’re gonna forget half our lives someday. Might as well waste our money on the parts we want to keep.”

There was no punchline that time. Just the hum of the fan and the final shutter going off.

Back in the room, your thumb hovers over the faded strip—four blurry frames, and his voice from years ago still lodged somewhere beneath your ribs.

You slide it gently back behind the others, and leave it there.

The room stays still around you. Just the faint hum of the party threading through the floorboards. You sit on the edge of the bed, lean back slightly on your palms, let out a breath. The weight in your chest begins to settle, not gone, but calmer now.

There’s a soft creak in the hallway.

You don’t turn. Somehow, you already know.

No surprise. Just the quiet fall of his footsteps and the soft trace of his cologne—lavender and clean cotton, like sun-dried sheets.

Jeongguk slips in, one hand on the door, quiet but not hesitant—just at ease. He doesn’t speak at first, only gives you a small, knowing look as he walks over and sets two paper plates on the nightstand.

“Got to these before the kids swarmed in,” he says, handing you one. “Figured you’d want first dibs.”

You shift forward on the bed as he nods toward the plates—his modest, yours far less so, a generous slice of cheesecake with its dense layers and frosting still holding firm, like it was picked out just for you.

“It’s from that bakery in Apgujeong,” he adds, getting comfortable beside you.

A small smile tugs at your lips. “Eomma really had to get it from that same place.”

“Unless you want the return of that kiwi monstrosity she was obsessed with.” Jeongguk says, already picking on his share.

You let out a quiet laugh. “God, I love your mother, but that old favorite deserved prison time.”

“I’d testify.”

You both eat in the calm that settles after, the silence easy. Only the light scrape of forks fills the room, along with the faint sound of kids laughing and running down the hallway. The old clock on the shelf stays stuck at 6:13—wrong for years now, but neither of you ever bothered to fix it.

Your eyes notice how slowly he eats, slicing the cheesecake like he’s got all night. But you know the truth—this hasn’t been his favorite for the last three years—you don’t call him out on it. Instead, your hand moves on its own, reaching over to steal a bite from his plate.

“What are you doing?” He pulls his share just out of reach.

“You’re eating like a snail. Don’t waste perfectly good cheesecake.”

“I’m savoring it.”

“You don’t even like it.”

Jeongguk shrugs, a faint smile tugging pulling at his lips, eyes fixed on yours, softening just a litte. “Maybe I just forgot how good it is.”

You hold his gaze—stady, unreadable—and for a moment, neither of you breathes. The silence stretches just long enough before a sharp voice breaks through from outside.

“You two better not be eating all the cake up there!” Mrs. Jeon calls, her tone teasing but firm.

Jeongguk stands, taking both your plates to set them aside. “Guess that’s our cue.”

Neither of you says much on the way out. The old bedroom fades behind you like a soft close of a memory until the sound of distant chatter pulls you back in.

Downstairs, the soft hum of conversation and clinking glasses picks back up. The air feels more relaxed now—comfortable, lived-in, like the remnants of a celebration slowly winding down but refusing to end just yet.

Mrs. Jeon is at the center of the room again, cheeks aglow with laughter and the comfort of old company, talking happily with her long-time friends. Mr. Jeon stands beside her, smiling quietly, a glass in his hand.

The music shifts—something slower now, familiar and warm—and a few guests begin swaying where they stand. One of their business partners nudges Mr. Jeon playfully. “Come on, show us how it’s done, you two.”

Mr. Jeon laughs, almost embarrassed, but Mrs. Jeon takes his hand with a theatrical sigh. “Just don’t step on my feet this time, Yeobo.”

The room breaks into applause as the couple begins to sway, moving gently in a rhythm that’s clearly theirs and theirs alone—years of love written in the way they fall into step without even trying.

You stand beside Jeongguk, the two of you watching quietly. The gentle, well-known melody floats through the air—like the memory of a quiet evening long ago, when you both moved slowly, close enough to hear each other’s breath.

“Jeongguk-ah, don’t just stand there.” Mrs. Jeon’s voice echoes across the room, light but still sharp. “You two, come join us now.”

You feel Jeongguk shift beside you, just slightly. His fingers twitch at his side like he’s about to move—but he doesn’t. The music keeps playing. Slow. Steady. Familiar in a way that sinks beneath your skin.

Mrs. Jeon is still smiling from her spot, waving you both over like it’s the easiest thing in the world. “Don’t make me come drag you two out here,” she calls, lighthearted but not really joking.

With a small flick of her hand, she gestures to Jeongguk’s brother near the speakers—he scrolls through his phone, lands on something, and presses play. The opening chords float in, warm and delicate, stirring a quiet memory deep inside.

You glance his way, but he keeps his eyes fixed ahead—brows furrowed, lips pressed into something unreadable. Like he's standing on the edge of something.

And you get it.

The last time you’ve danced together, was years ago – one winter evening, lights strung across the ceiling, your hands wrapped in his as some old carol played low. You’d laughed then, both of you a little tipsy, swaying barefoot in the middle of your home, like the world had stopped spinning just for a minute.

“Let’s just make up an excuse,” you look away, taking a steady breath. “We’re good at that, right?” You don’t expect anything more. Like you haven't been expecting from the years that had gone by.

But his hand reaches for yours. Not rushed. Not forced. Just there, warm and sure, fingers curling around yours like he’s done a thousand times.

“Come on,” he says, just barely above the music. “It’s our song.”

And somehow, that’s all it takes.

Jeongguk leads you into the soft glow of the room, where the lights are low and the air carries faint hints of vanilla and old perfume. His hand never leaves yours. When he turns toward you, waiting for you to fall into step, your breath catches.

Because you hadn’t expected this.

Not tonight. Not from him.

But here you are, swaying to the sound of something that feels a little like memory—and then slowly, it is.

▶️

The air smelled faintly of salt and sugar—like sea breeze mixed with frosting. A soft wind moved through the sheer linen curtains, carrying with it laughter, and the distant hush of waves.

The sky had turned a soft purple as the last light of the day slowly faded over the water. Lanterns hung above—soft amber lights strung loosely—casting a warm, flickering glow that made the wine glasses shine and the tulips look a deeper purple.

The music had turned quiet, almost a soft hum. A cool breeze from the water moved the ribbons tied to the chairs. The ivory silk around you swayed gently in the wind, shining a little in the light. Guests lingered with drinks in hand, their smiles soft, voices quieter now.

The lights had gone dim. The band shifts to a slower tune.

And just like that, the crowd parted.

You barely had time to react before Jeongguk was there again, already reaching for you, one hand offered like it was second nature. His jacket was unbuttoned, hair a little messy from the wind, tie just slightly loosened like he’d been tugging at it all day. But his eyes—God, his eyes—were fixed on you with a kind of quiet wonder, like he still couldn’t believe you were real.

“You ready?” he asked, though his thumb was already brushing over your knuckles, like he couldn’t wait.

You smiled, followed him to the center. The music began, gentle and slow, and when his arms wrapped around you, you fit there like you always had.

There were cheers at first, a few whistles and claps. But they faded as the melody settled into the notes you and Jeongguk have memorized at this point. The crowd let you disappear into it—just the two of you, swaying in a rhythm that wasn’t rehearsed, but felt as if it had been written into your bones long before this night.

“Still can’t believe you said yes to me,” he leaned in, cheek brushing yours. “Out of everyone… you chose me.”

Your hand curled slightly against his chest. His heartbeat was fast. Boyish. Nervous. Honest.

“I'll spend every day proving it,” he pulling you a little closer. “I’ll continue to love you so deeply, you won’t ever have to wonder what love really feels like."

You let out a small laugh, and he grinned, proud of himself. Like your joy was his favorite accomplishment.

“Even when we fight,” he added, softer now. “Even when it’s hard, I’ll be here. I swear it.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you then. And for a moment, the rest of the world fell away.

“I want everything with you,” he whispered. “Every season, every version of you, every day, I want it all.”

The sea murmured in the distance, as if it already knew you’d return to this place someday.

Behind you, tulips in soft purples and nudes caught the last bit of sunlight, nodding gently in the breeze like they were listening, too.

But neither of you looked away from each other.

Not when the song changed. Not when the world kept turning.

You stayed like that, swaying slow, hearts full and too young to imagine an end.

And Jeongguk, forehead pressed to yours, whispered one last thing as the lights flickered gently above,

“I’ll love you like this forever. Even if you forget, even if I ever lose my way—I’ll always come back to you. You’re where I belong. You’re my home.”

The words settle somewhere in your chest, warm and heavy. You don’t say anything. You don’t need to.

He holds you closer, and the world hums around you—soft music, distant voices, the hush of something delicate and safe.

And then, without warning, the air shifts.

A familiar rhythm picks up again, slow and even, almost like nothing changed at all. There’s a weight beneath your palm now, solid and broader than you remember. The fabric under your fingertips isn’t a pressed white shirt but something darker, smoother. Jeongguk’s scent is different, too—richer, more grounded.

But his touch? That’s the same.

You lean in, forehead gently resting against his collar. Your eyes slip shut, but the sting behind them won’t fade. You try to hold it in—hold yourself together. But your heart has always been too soft for moments like this - too full of love, too quick to feel everything all at once.

It happens quietly—just your breath hitching, a subtle pull in your shoulders. But Jeongguk still catches it. He always does. Like instinct now, shaped by years of knowing how you carry your feelings, even when you don’t say a word.

You try to steady yourself, fingers tightening around his hand without thinking. He doesn’t flinch. Just holds on like he always has - gentle, steady. Thumb brushing along your wrist, slow and calming, like he’s telling you he’s here. Like he means to stay.

He pulls you in closer, the space between you folding away like it never should’ve been there at all. His hand rests gently at the curve of your neck—warm, steady. Like he knows exactly what this is.

You feel it—the slow return of something lost. Something that says he remembers. Something that feels a little like home. You don’t want to let go of this moment. Never want to let go of him.

But you needed to. The closeness says too much. His silence says even more. You think you might fall apart from the weight of it all—how easy it feels, how dangerous that is.

So you do what you’ve always done. Break it off with anything random that comes to mind.

“…I want nuggets,” you whisper against the fabric of his shirt, “Six-piece. With sweet and sour. Fries too.”

He pauses. The music keeps playing, but everything else seems to still. Then, softly—so softly—you feel the way his body shakes with a quiet laugh, low and warm.

Jeongguk doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t tease. Probably knows what you're trying to do. Doesn't press. Just breathes out near your temple and whisper, “Let’s go then.”

You step back blinking up at him. “You’ve been drinking.”

He tilts his head, a crooked smiled playing on his lips. “Not going to drive and risk us. Especially not you.”

A few minutes and a quiet phone call later, his cousin drops the two of you off at a familiar corner that hasn’t changed. The golden arches still buzz faintly in the dark, and the breeze from the street feels colder than you remember.

You don’t ask why he picked this place of all the chains.. You just let him have it. Seems like he needed this. Maybe you both did.

Jeongguk orders for you both like he used to—no second guessing, no asking. You’re handed the bag before you can even reach for your wallet.

“Come on,” he murmurs, motioning with a tilt of his head.

You follow him around the side of the building where there’s a small metal bench tucked beneath a flickering streetlamp. And right across from it—just beyond the empty stretch of road—is the building you both once called home.

You sit beside him, paper bag rustling between you, the heat from the nuggets rising in soft steam. He passes you your sauce without a word, his shoulder brushing yours.

There’s no music here. No crowd. Just the hum of the city, the hush of shared silence, and the gentle touch of your knees.

You dip a nugget into the sauce. He steals one just like he always did. You let it happen, like you always did.

And somehow, just like this—sitting by old windows, eating something too unhealthy, feeling the cold nip at your cheeks—it becomes a little easier to breathe.

You glance across the street, eyes tracing the outline of your old apartment. A few windows are still lit, though most of them are dark. You wonder who lives there now. If anyone has fixed the cracks in the hallway walls. If the elevator still rattles like it’s held together by prayers and rust.

“You think the old man on the third floor ever fixed his door?” you ask, biting into another fry. “The one who used to slam it five times just to get it to shut.”

Jeongguk huffs a quiet laugh beside you. “Doubt it. He probably still slams it out of habit, even if it works now.”

You smile, shaking your head. “I used to jump every time.”

“You used to curse every time.”

“Only because you used to leave me in the hallway with groceries while you sprinted to the bathroom.”

He grins at that, leaning back slightly on the bench. “Hey, survival first. You knew what you were signing up for.”

You let the moment breathe, warm and a little ridiculous. Then you point toward a window on the fifth floor. “That was us, right? Top left?”

“Yeah,” he says, quieter now. “You hung your plants there. Even though there was barely any light.”

You smile again, smaller this time. “They died.”

“I tried to tell you.”

“I tried to ignore you.”

For a second, you both just sit there, the quiet stretching easy between you. Until Jeongguk breaks it with a murmur, not quite looking at you.

“Feels different now, doesn’t it?”

You pause, choosing your words carefully. “Maybe we’re just the ones who changed.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just presses his thumb against the band on his finger, turning it slightly, like he’s reminding himself of something he doesn’t want to forget.

“Maybe,” he says at last. “Or maybe I just found my way back.”

The words hang in the air longer than they should.

You peel open another packet of barbecue sauce, eyes still on the old apartment building across the street. The fifth floor window is dark. Still. Quiet. Like it’s waiting for something.

Jeongguk leans forward with his elbows on his knees, watching the slow blur of passing cars ahead.

“You ever think about how fast it all went?” he asks eventually, his voice lower now, almost lost to the wind. “Feels like I blinked and... here we are.”

You glance at him, but he’s still looking down the road. There’s a part of you that wants to ask, here we are where? Where you stand? Where you are now? Instead, you offer a small nod. “Sometimes.”

His fingers trace the rim of his cup, slow and aimless, like he's following a rhythm only he understands. “Funny how some things feel so far away,” he murmurs, eyes now fixed on a cat passing by. “Even when they’re just right there.”

You don’t respond. Can’t. Not when the back of your throat has started to sting again. So you reach into the paper bag between you, hoping for a distraction, only to find it empty. All twelve nuggets are gone. Yours. His. Mostly his.

You blink down at it. “Didn’t mean to eat all your food.”

He looks over, eyebrows raised. "You always do.”

And he smiles—not to tease, but in that quiet way he used to. There’s no edge to it, just warmth that sinks into your chest before you can stop it.

Then, with the smallest flick of his thumb, he reaches forward—wiping a smudge of sauce from the corner of your mouth.

Your breath catches. Just like it did back at the old convenience store where you'd argue about ice-cream and ramen flavors. You pull your scarf higher, hoping to hide the heat creeping up on your face.

The wrappers crinkle quietly between you, and Jeongguk’s finished drink cup sits forgotten by his side, long since watered down with melted ice.

A calm settles between you—quiet and easy, like something you didn’t realize you were missing until now.

“You always liked this spot,” he says, leaning back just enough to drape his arm behind you. “Even when it was freezing.”

You give a small shrug. “It made sense then. Everything kind of did.”

A breeze sweeps past. You reach up to fix a loose strand of hair that whips into your eyes, and somewhere beside you, Jeongguk shifts just slightly. You don’t notice it at first—not really. Just the smallest movement, the soft click of his phone in his hand.

Your eyes flick up. “Did you just take a picture of me?”

He doesn’t even look guilty. Just taps once on the screen, like it’s nothing. “You looked nice.”

You narrow your eyes. “That’s not the point.”

“What’s the point, then?” he asks, already thumbing through something. You catch the faint glow of Instagram stories flashing across his screen.

“The list,” you remind, setting your drink down. “Pictures of us. Taken together. You know—kept by me.”

Jeongguk blinks, playing innocent. “Right. Us. Together.” He holds up his phone, grinning. “But this isn’t of us. It’s just you. Technically, that’s not the same thing.”

You stare at him.

He adds, “The list never said I can’t take photos of you. Just that you keep the ones we take together. I didn’t break anything.”

You scoff. “The loopholes just keep coming, huh?”

“More like… overlooked details,” he shrugs you off casually. “Just working with what you gave me.”

You shake your head, but your lips twitch despite yourself. But still, you blurt out the words bothering you. “You really gonna post it?”

He pauses mid-scroll. “Why not?”

You lean back in your chair. “Because… you already had one girl on your story recently.”

The silence that follows is light but taut.

Jeongguk frowns a little. “What?”

You raise your brows. You don’t say her name. Didn't have to.

His brow furrows deeper. “I haven’t posted anyone but you for a long time. My page has just been you.” He turns his phone toward you like he means it. Like he genuinely doesn’t know what you’re talking about.

Your eyes scan it quickly—he’s right. It’s all old photos.

You at the beach, wearing a yellow dress that probably doesn’t fit anymore. The waves of Busan behind you, the sun in your eyes.

The purple tulips you hid behind the night he told you he loved you. A blur of flowers in the background next, his hand slipping a ring on your finger—he’s not in the frame, just you and the moment.

Sapporo—your first trip together. Snow clings to your hair and coat, as if it has a life of its own.

You behind a cloud of coffee steam, your vacation home kitchen faint in the back.

Just a few memories. Pieces from a much longer story scattered across his feed.

The last—

Not a trip, not a moment caught mid-laughter—just an ultrasound. Blurry, a little grainy, but unmistakable.

Ha-yun. Tiny, still forming, but already loved.

Your chest warms, folds in on itself. For a second, you forget what you meant to say. But then you remember—and you press on, gently, still wanting to jog his memory. “Passenger seat. Laughing at something. White heart emoji,” you say.

Jeongguk still looks clueless. So you take his phone, scroll through his archive. Find the story you needed. Tilt the screen his way.

The frown that follows isn’t confusion anymore. It’s anger. The kind you remember from the colder days, back when warmth had disappeared from your marriage and silence built walls around you.

You hadn’t seen that look lately. It sends a chill through you to see it now. You don’t know why he’d get mad over something he did, but you let him explain anyway.

“I didn’t post this,” he says, voice low. “I remember taking it. It was just one of those clips you forget about.”

You say nothing, just watch him.

“I promise, I never posted this. Left my phone at the front desk before a meeting that day.” He pauses, then adds with more certainty, “Didn’t have it until the receptionist said you called.”

It’s not just facts. The way his eyes stay fixed on yours, it sounds like he’s pleading. Like this one slip could undo something you don’t know he’s been trying to repair.

“You know people still think we’re—” you start.

“I know,” he cuts in, sharp but steady. “Exactly why I wouldn’t do that to you. I don’t give a fuck about what people say about me, but you—you can’t get caught up in my mess.”

“Kind of already am…” you whisper. The breeze picks up just in time to carry it away. He doesn’t hear you.

You scroll to the photo he’d just taken of you. Send it to yourself. Then, without comment, you delete it. Close off the app. Return his phone.

He watches you do it, jaw ticking once. “You don’t trust me.”

“I don’t trust socials.”

He hums quiet. “Okay.”

The pause between you feels dense, like the air itself is holding its breath. You can still feel the edge in his voice. The way his jaw clenched when he looked at the way you deleted your photo. Like a bruise under skin—settled but not gone.

He shifts a little, arms now to himself, his thumb tracing his ring—your rings, like he's been doing the entire night, like it's the only thing that's been keeping him stable at the moment.

You watch him. The slope of his shoulders. The way the wind toys with the ends of his hair. You don’t know what exactly makes you move—maybe it’s the ghost of that cold expression on his face. Maybe it’s guilt for ever doubting him. Or maybe it’s just that old, quiet ache that you still know how to soothe, even after everything.

So, you shift a little closer. Slowly. Then, without saying anything, you reach for his hand.

He doesn’t react immediately. Just blinks down at your fingers gently sliding over his, thumb tracing the faded tattoo near his knuckle. But then you feel him turn, just slightly, like gravity finally pulled him back to you.

His hand turns over under yours—palm up, open—and your fingers find the spaces they used to fill so easily. Like they never forgot how.

Neither of you speaks.

The wind dies down, and for a few seconds, it feels like you're both tucked inside something softer than forgiveness. Not quite peace, not yet—but maybe the start of it.

His thumb brushes yours once.

And quietly, in the hush of that moment, you realize, he’d let go of the anger the second you reached for him.

Maybe he just didn’t know how to show it until now.

The street is quieter than expected for mid-afternoon.

Shadows stretch long across the pavement, cast by a line of ginkgo trees just beginning to green again. A couple walks past, sharing earphones, the occasional traffic hums a soft undercurrent. Even the sunlight feels muted, like it’s been filtered through gauze.

Inside the car, everything’s still.

Jeongguk sits with one hand on the wheel, the other resting loose over his knee. He hasn’t turned on the engine since pulling in. Hasn’t touched the radio either. Just lets the silence press in around him—familiar, almost comforting now in a way it never used to be.

There’s an ache in his jaw he doesn’t remember forming.

He shifts a little, reaching for his drink in the cupholder, only to set it back down untouched. His reflection stares faintly back at him from the black screen of his phone—sleepless eyes, mouth drawn. Not angry, not exactly. Just… tired.

Maybe it's been sitting with him longer than he realized. That moment outside the fast-food chain. The faint hesitation in your voice when you mentioned the story. The way you’d scrolled to prove a point but stopped short of pressing it. Like you were offering him a chance to explain. A chance he hadn’t even known he deserved.

A few birds scatter from a nearby branch. He watches them lift into the sky without thinking.

There’s a quiet throb behind his temple—from the tension, from a few nights before. His hand rests on the steering wheel, knuckles pale from how tightly he grips it. But he doesn’t let go.

The longer he sits here, the easier it is to forget what he’s supposed to feel. Or who, exactly, he's trying to be angry at.

And somehow, with the windows rolled halfway down and the air moving just slow enough, his mind pulls backward—familiar tide, familiar trick.

Jeongguk didn’t notice her at first.

Back then, at sixteen, he’d been too focused on the girl by the water’s edge—the one with salt in her laugh, sunlight in her hair and a yellow dress that blended perfectly with the rest of the colors around her. The girl he’d spend years trying to both hold on to and let go of, never quite managing either.

It was summer at Gwangalli. He was barefoot in the sand, dialing in the light on a secondhand film camera, trying to capture the kind of scene that looked effortless but meant everything.

Your dress catching the wind. Your eyes full of something sharp and unbothered.

He almost had it.

And then someone stepped right into frame.

Another girl. Dark braid swinging, in a blouse so dark it seemed to drain the color from the beach, sketchpad tucked against her chest like a shield. She walked straight through the shot without so much as a glance.

“Ya,” Jeongguk muttered, lowering the camera. “Move.”

But she didn’t stop. Didn’t turn. Maybe she didn’t hear him. Or probably she just didn’t care.

The moment slipped through his fingers.

Still, the shutter clicked out of habit. A ruined frame.

Jeongguk didn’t think twice when he tossed it aside after it got developed along with the photos of you. He hadn’t known her name then. Hadn’t known how close she already was.

Hadn’t known how much his life would change because of her.

A car horn snapped him out of it. Sharp. Distant.

Jeongguk blinked, the heat of the present bleeding back into his skin. The sun had shifted while he wasn’t paying attention, slanting lower across the dashboard. He rubbed at the crease between his brows, then glanced at the time. Still early.

The building across the street remained quiet.

He leaned back in his seat and let his gaze drift upward. Power lines tangled against a cloudless sky. Somewhere down the block, a dog barked once and then went quiet. It was too hot for noise.

The kind of heat that made the air feel heavy with memory.

He rolled his wrist once, cracking the stiffness out of it. His window hummed a little lower, letting in the kind of stillness that didn’t quite help.

It had been years since he thought about that day on the beach.

Even longer since he thought about what followed.

But memories have their own rules—surfacing when you least expect them, when you’re too tired to push them down.

And suddenly, like breath drawn in without warning, it was there again—unfolding soft at first, before it sharpened.

It was an internship Jeongguk barely remembered signing up for – something tied to a photojournalism initiative paired with a creative agency downtown. He was twenty then, tired, overworked, distracted by deadlines and still chasing moments he could never quite frame the way he wanted to.

She was already there when he arrived.

She didn’t say much that first day. Just nodded when they were introduced, then turned back to a sketch she’d been working on—quiet, composed, her pen moving without pause. Something about her felt familiar, but not enough to place. He assumed she was shy, maybe the type who preferred headphones to small talk.

If she recognized him, she never said.

And he didn’t recognize her. Why would he?

To him, she was just another intern—a name in an inbox, not important enough for Jeongguk to remember. One of a dozen faces under fluorescent lights, blinking through meetings and overedited pitch decks.

They never got close.

A few overlapping assignments, polite exchanges. One late-night editing session that went longer than it should have—half the team had left, but she stayed behind finishing layouts. He handed her a banana milk from the vending machine after accidentally spilling his ramen over her mood board.

She’d declined with a soft laugh. “I prefer chocolate, but thanks.”

That was the only thing he remembered from that entire month.

It wasn’t until years later that their paths crossed again.

Jeongguk had just wrapped a client shoot and ducked into a weekly department meeting he rarely paid attention to. The conference room was freezing. The air smelled faintly of fresh toner and leftover coffee.

He sat near the back, scrolling half-mindedly through test shots on his laptop until the projector lit up and a photo caught his eye. The name beneath it felt familiar though he couldn’t quite place where he’d seen it before.

Jiwoo. Creative Director, Division 2.

A woman in slate gray then appeared at the front, posture straight, hair pulled back. Familiar—not in the way most colleagues became over time, but in a way that made something stir just beneath the surface. A small, odd tug at the edge of memory.

She glanced his way only once. Didn’t falter. Didn’t flinch. Just gave the room a clear, concise rundown on her division's upcoming brand campaigns, her tone calm, delivery crisp.

It wasn’t until after the meeting, when people filtered out in small clusters, that she approached.

“You’re here,” she said simply.

Jeongguk blinked, confused. “Jiwoo, right? The new C.D?”

“Jiwoo,” she corrected, a small smile tugging at her mouth, “your old colleague from the internship.”

He stared for a second. “What?”

“You spilled ramen on my final pitch.” she said, sounding a little nervous, "I prefer chocolate milk?"

That did it. It hit him in a quiet, specific way. “Holy shit.”

She laughed softly, amused at how stunned he looked. “Small world, huh?”

“Even smaller now that you’ve mentioned it,” He paused. “Wait—you remember that?”

“Hard to forget when it almost cost me the whole program. You offered that banana milk like it would bring world peace."

He laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Didn’t expect to get hit with that today.”

“And I haven’t even said the best part,” she added, her smile turning more comfortable now. “I kind of photobombed your view once.”

He squinted. “Excuse me?”

“Back in Gwangalli. You were taking pictures of this girl by the shore? I walked right in front of your frame.”

“No way.”

“Yep. Ruined your perfect shot. It was a whole thing.”

Jeongguk blinked, genuinely stunned. “Why didn’t you say anything back during the internship?”

She gave a small shrug. “Bit weird to walk up and say, ‘Hi, I’m your photobomber. Nice to meet you.’”

He let out a loud laugh—too loud. A passing staff peeked in, shot them a quick look, then moved on.

A breeze stirred through the cracked window. Warm. Fleeting. It caught the edge of his sleeve, brushed across his skin like a thought he didn’t quite want to have.

Something in his chest lingered—an echo of that laughter long gone. It wasn’t his anymore; he had already left it behind long ago. It wasn't his to keep in the first place.

Yet it still came quietly today. A shift so small it almost didn’t register—like a whisper from the past, pulling him back to a night he wished he could forget.

The night everything stopped.

Ha-yun.

His daughter, small as a prayer and just as fleeting. Gone before he could hold her properly. The world had turned cold and colorless after that. He left everything behind—his work, his name, the quiet ache in your eyes that he couldn’t meet anymore.

Weeks passed. He didn’t know how many. Grief blurred the edges of time.

When he finally returned to work, the office felt different. Muted. People spoke in low voices and left space between words. They avoided his gaze, careful not to touch the rawness they imagined in him.

Except for Jiwoo.

She stopped by his desk one afternoon, arms folded around a thick binder. No apology. No hesitance.

“I covered for you,” she said. “The Haneul campaign. Didn’t want you to lose it.”

He blinked at her. Still half-numb. “You didn’t have to.”

“I know,” she said simply. “But I wanted to.”

He looked at her then. Really looked. There was something steady in her eyes—not softness, not pity. Just presence. A calm that didn’t ask for anything.

“You’re good at what you do,” she added, setting the folder down with a quiet thud. “Would’ve been a shame to let it fall apart.”

He swallowed. Nodded. His voice barely made it out.

“Thank you.”

Nothing happened overnight. Just shared elevator rides as time passed. A nod in the hallway. Evenings where their screens glowed long after the office had emptied. They worked on separate floors, in different divisions, caught in their own projects and deadlines—but every now and then, their paths would cross.

Jiwoo came by his office with feedback for a joint project. Left a can of coffee on his desk without a word—the brand he always bought. A few weeks after that, she stayed behind to help adjust lighting ratios for a last-minute reshoot.

He didn’t ask her to. She didn’t wait for thanks.

That night, as they packed up, she glanced over. “Do you always bury yourself in work when you don’t want to feel things?”

He looked up, tired. “Don’t you?”

A faint smile tugged at her mouth, something sad and knowing. “We all have our escapes.”

Time moved differently then.

They weren’t close. Not really. Just two people who didn’t ask too much of each other. Who knew how to leave space without leaving entirely. And maybe that was what he needed most.

Still, small things began to slip through. The way Jeongguk’s eyes lingered too long. The way her hand brushed his when passing pens. The way she remembered how he liked his ramen. How he started calling her Jiwoo-yah without realizing it.

At home, the space stayed quiet. The nightmares too loud. Ones that haunted Jeongguk no matter what he turned to forget – how he failed as a husband, father, protector.

You were gone more often, folding yourself into business trips and late meetings that he didn’t question.

And Jeongguk—no longer sure what he was supposed to be—found something dangerously still in Jiwoo’s company.

It wasn’t love. He told himself that often.

But it felt like peace.

And sometimes, peace was enough to make a man forget everything else.

[tacoguacamole]

ANOTHER TIME | JJK - 5

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

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

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

[Theme: Marriage AU. BF2L2S]

[Warnings: Major Angst, Multiple Flashbacks and Time Jumps, Mature Theme, Smut, Mature/Explicit Language, A lot of fluff, Romance, Slowburn]

[Older JK, Older OC, Older Bangtan, Lawyer Seokjin and Namjoon, Doctor Yoongi, Event Planner Hobi, Solo idol Jimin, Secretary Taehyung, Brief cameos of Seventeen Mingyu, GOT7 Mark, Kook's a jerk and mean for the earlier chapters]

[Status: Ongoing]

[Part 1. Part 2. Part 3. Part 4. Part 5. Chapter Word Count: 7k+]

[Chapter Summary: It wasn’t supposed to be like this - shared meals, quiet glances, the ache of almost-touch in a house that used to remember you both. The rules you wrote start to bend under the weight of old habits and newer silences, and even as everything around you spins — the deadlines, the breaking point — he’s there, steady, showing up in ways that feel too easy to fall back into.]

[MINORS DNI! 18+]

The air between you settles like a held breath — the kind of quiet that doesn’t rush to be filled. Somewhere nearby, a bird rustles in the hedges, then flits away.

You nod toward the basket by your side, trying to ignore the flutter in your chest. “You planning on trading pastries for labor?”

Jeongguk takes a step closer, a small smile forming. “Thought it was a fair trade.”

Without asking, he crouches beside you, setting the paper bag gently on the table nearby. His jeans brush the hem of your skirt as he reaches into the basket, picking up the stray sprigs you hadn’t noticed. His movements are quiet, almost careful — like he’s not sure where he fits, but wants to try anyway.

You glance sideways, brow lifting. “The weekends are yours.”

He shrugs, fingers brushing dirt from a stem. “Didn’t feel like staying in.”

You don’t ask why. The reasons are too quiet to name. Instead, you reach for the rosemary. “Well. If you’re here, might as well put you to work.”

He chuckles softly, the sound gentle in the quiet garden. “Bossy.”

“Efficient.”

You move together — your hands leading, his following with that calm focus he’s always had, even if his fingers fumble sometimes. Not because he doesn’t know what he’s doing. But because he’s not always looking at the plants.

You feel it. The way his attention shifts. Pauses.

“Don’t mangle the sage,” you murmur, nudging his elbow. “She’s sensitive.”

“Sounds familiar.” He’s already looking at you, smile tugging at the edge of his mouth.

You look away quick, as if that was going to do anything with your abnormally beating heart.

A soft breeze passes, tugging at your shirt. Pulls a few strands of hair loose. You’re about to say something — maybe thank him, maybe point out a spot he missed — when your sight shifts slightly. Not dizzy. Not anything big. Just… a little off.

Jeongguk’s hand is at your arm instantly, firm but gentle. “You okay?”

You blink once, shake your head like you can brush it off. “Yeah. Just—stood up too fast.”

His eyes search yours. “You’re flushed.”

“It’s warm.”

“It’s not that warm.”

You force a small smile. “I’m fine, Gguk.”

He doesn’t believe it — not fully — but he lets it go, for now. His hand lingers at your elbow for a moment longer before he leans back slightly, giving you space.

“So,” you say, nudging the paper bag on the table. “These croffles any good?”

He breathes out, a quiet laugh hidden in the sigh. “For dessert? Absolutely.”

Inside, the change is soft — no hurry, no words needed. The garden fades away as the house wraps around you both again, like it’s trying to remember how things used to be.

The kitchen is filled with warm, golden light from the late afternoon. It slides over the counters, making the marble look soft and pale. You put the basket of herbs by the sink, your fingertips lightly touching the edge before you return to the doorway.

Jeongguk is already in motion — his sleeves rolled up, his shoulders loose. As if no time has passed. As if his hands still know the drawers, the rhythm, the quiet feel of your mother’s kitchen. The soft scrape of the cutting board, the tap of a pan on the stove, the faint sound of water running.

You lean against the frame, arms loose over your chest, just watching.

From the fridge, he pulls out eggs, leftover rice, a few vegetables. The herbs you just picked sit by the sink, waiting. It’s simple. But the way he moves — calm, confident, slow — makes your chest feel heavy.

Once, you would’ve sat on the counter beside him, bare feet swinging, teasing him between mouthfuls of half-cooked vegetables. You’d remember Christmas years ago here at your mother's house, sunlight pouring into the kitchen as you both laughed over spilled flour and tea. Then you would’ve poked at the pan, earned a warning glare before he pulled you close anyway.

Now, you stay back — not quite distant, just unsure.

Jeongguk glances at you over his shoulder, a strand of hair slipping across his forehead. “You’re quiet.”

You blink, caught. A small smile tugs at your lips. “I’m letting you concentrate.”

He huffs, low and amused. “Right. That’s new.”

You wander in, fingers brushing the back of a chair, and sink into your seat by the counter. Jeongguk doesn’t say anything — just keeps moving with quiet efficiency. A dash of soy sauce. The soft flick of his wrist. A sprinkle of herbs across the pan.

The rhythm calms something in the room — softens the tension and fills the stillness.

“So…” you start, lightly, “should I be worried you’re trying to impress me?”

His lips twitch, almost like a smile. “Would it work if I was?”

You smooth a wrinkle in the tablecloth, avoid his gaze. But the warmth’s already creeping into your face.

By the time the food is plated — warm rice, a golden omelet draped gently on top, herbs scattered like a finishing touch — something has shifted. Loosened.

Jeongguk slides a bowl in front of you. When your fingers brush, neither of you pulls away too quickly.

The first few bites are silent, filled only with the soft clink of chopsticks and the sound of the stove ticking as it cools. You glance up once — then again — catching him mid-look, or maybe just as he’s turning away.

“It’s good,” you murmur. “You haven’t forgotten.”

He leans back, eyes lingering on you. “Did you think I would?”

You twirl your chopsticks between your fingers, lost in thought. “People forget things when they stop doing them.” A small shrug. “When they stop being close.”

The fridge hums softly behind you. Somewhere in the distance, children’s laughter rings out, then fades.

Jeongguk’s voice is quieter when it comes. “I didn’t forget.”

There’s a softness and steadiness in his eyes. A spark of something familiar too – something you remember from before all the pain, the lies, before things changed. It’s something you’ve missed. Something you’d never say out loud anymore. The small tears of happiness you quickly brush away say it for you.

He notices. Doesn’t mention it.

And you don’t explain.

Instead, the conversation shifts — toward safer things, gentler ones. You tell him about the vendor in Paris who won’t answer emails, the two-shades-too-dark fabric that threw off an entire board. You mimic your assistant’s panicked voice notes, and Jeongguk chuckles, low and real, one that wrinkles his nose and makes his eyes squint.

The dishes are done, counters wiped clean. The clock ticks somewhere behind you, the kitchen dimming into quiet, late afternoon slowly dipping into evening. There’s no hurry to end it — not really.

It’s Jeongguk who glances first toward the living room, hands stuffed into his pockets like he’s not sure if he should ask but does anyway.

“Want to… put something on?”

You pause — not because you don’t want to, but because you do. And that terrifies you because you know it’s just a piece of paper making you see things, feel things from him. Or is it? You’re not sure anymore.

Still, you nod, brushing a damp curl from your cheek.

The couch sinks gently as you both settle in, the TV flickering on with its familiar glow. Jeongguk lets you choose — or maybe he already guessed — because when the Avengers theme plays, he lets out a quiet, surprised laugh.

“Seriously?” he groans, grinning as he sinks into the cushions. “Out of all the movies out there?”

“You love it,” you shoot back, pulling the blanket over your lap.

He huffs. “Do not. Only watching this under protest.”

“Uh-huh,” you say with a grin, snuggling down. “Tell that to your collectible shelf.”

Jeongguk doesn’t argue—just laughs quietly and nudges your knee. He disappears shortly, then comes back with a paper bag. “Almost forgot dessert,” he pulls out two warm, golden croffles dusted with sugar. Hands you one, pride barely hidden. “Got these all the way from across the city, you know.”

You take a bite, lips curving around a soft hum of approval. “Still warm.”

“Told you,” he mumbles through his own mouthful. “Best croffles ever.”

As the movie plays, the room feels softer. You both share quiet comments, half-whispers that barely rise above the sound. A few gentle jokes. A shared laugh when the Hulk breaks through a wall. And when Tony says his last lines, the weight in the room shifts.

Jeongguk fidgets. There’s a quiet sniff. Rubs his eyes like it’s nothing.

You look at him, a small smile on your lips.

“Don’t,” he warns, eyes on the screen. “It’s the… onions. From dinner.”

“Oh yeah?” you whisper. “The ones you chopped, like, three hours ago?”

He groans, dragging a throw pillow over his face. “Fine. It’s the weather. Very dry in here. Terrible humidity.”

“Right,” you grin. “And by ‘weather,’ you mean ‘Tony Stark.’”

His muffled voice replies, “He’s a hero, okay? You just don’t get it.”

But you do.

You remember the action figures lined up like trophies in your college dorm. The Iron Man pajamas he’d throw on when you dragged him out for late-night ramen breaks during finals week. The bright red and gold socks — his lucky charm — that he wore to his first big interview. The extra pair he got for you, still tucked in your drawer somewhere.

But of course, you don’t say any of that. Just smile at this version of him— softer around the edges, still a little boyish in the ways that matter.

The credits roll, silver light flickering over the room, the music fading into the soft quiet of evening. You stretch your toes under the blanket, feeling the stillness settle — warm, easy, familiar.

Jeongguk shifts beside you, his knee brushing yours as he leans forward to reach for the remote. Doesn’t press stop. Just lets the music play out, fingers tapping absently against the edge of the coffee table.

“You should…” You’re not sure what you meant to say. That he should head out? That you should call it a night? That things slip back to the list you’ve created?

You tug the blanket a little higher, as if it could help hide the thoughts burning in your head.

Jeongguk leans back, arm resting behind you, his thumb brushing lightly over the cushion near your shoulder — not quite touching, not quite distant.

“Long day,” he says softly.

You nod, eyes growing heavy, the warmth of the room tugging at your limbs. He doesn’t attempt to head out. You don’t remind him.

Time passes like that — slow, quiet, almost paused. Your head dips slightly toward the couch armrest. His fingers move softly closer to you, just barely touching your hair, as if he’s trying to remember how it feels.

You think you hear him breathe out — not quite a sigh, not quite a laugh, something in between. Or maybe it’s just the house settling around you both.

Neither of you says goodnight. Neither of you say anything else.

And when your eyes finally close, and your head tips just a little closer toward his shoulder, Jeongguk shifts — only slightly — until the space between you is nothing at all.

Sleep still holds your limbs, your cheek warm where it rested on the couch cushion. A quiet stillness hangs in the room — soft light shining through thin curtains, the air filled with the smell of fresh coffee and something lightly sweet, like butter and sugar left on the plates.

You hear him somewhere in the kitchen, the soft creak of a cabinet opening, the clink of a spoon. From where you are, you can see the curve of his back as he leans over the counter, pouring coffee into two mugs.

Padding barefoot toward him, the chill of the floor becomes a quick wake-up call.

Jeongguk notices you before you say anything, his head turning slightly over his shoulder. “Morning.” He sets one of the mugs down for you. It’s the way you like it — just a splash of almond milk, no sugar.

“You cooked again?” The stove looks like it’s just gone out with the light heat fading into the kitchen.

Jeongguk rubs the back of his neck. For a second, you see that boy in the middle of your old apartment, waiting to confess to the love of his life. But then again, you’re too sleepy to know what you’re seeing.

“It’s just eggs. And toast. Nothing fancy.”

You take a bite anyway when he plates it for you, fork scraping gently against the ceramic. The eggs are fluffy, the toast a little too crisp, burnt on the edges, but warm and buttery all the same – just the way you liked it.

The thoughts in your mind grow harder to hold back.

Jeongguk staying the night wasn’t part of the deal. Neither was cooking meals. Neither was this breakfast. Nor choosing to spend the weekend with you when the list clearly says weekends are his—the one sliver of freedom you allowed him, a gesture meant to prove you weren’t trying to keep him. As much as that would’ve been the outcome your heart would gladly accept, you knew the weight of reality. And this… this wasn’t reality.

A small part of you likes it. Hell, you’ve missed this. Him. But it’s terrifying you that things are starting to feel almost easy again, like maybe you could forget everything that’s about to come.

“This isn’t what we agreed on, you know?”

Jeongguk pauses mid-sip of his coffee, lifting a brow like you’ve just accused him of a crime. “What’d I do now?”

You point at the plate in front of you. “This. Breakfast. You cooking for me. You cooking at all. It’s not on the list.”

He sets his mug down, eyes widening with mock offense. “Excuse you, the list literally says breakfast. It doesn’t say how breakfast should appear. Could’ve been cereal. Could’ve been toast shaped like a heart. There weren’t specifics.”

You narrow your eyes. “You know that’s not what I mean.”

Jeongguk raises a brow, grins, crosses his arms over his chest. “Technically, this doesn’t break any rules.”

“No?”

“No.” He reasons out. “We’re having breakfast. Breakfast is on the paper. Nowhere does it say though how breakfast should be presented. Breakfast.”

“You’re so annoying,” you mutter, trying not to smile as you take another bite.

“You’re welcome, by the way,” he says, pushing off the counter to rinse his mug. “Those eggs didn’t scramble themselves.”

“They were too fluffy.”

“Too fluffy?” He turns around, hand dramatically on his chest. “They’re exactly how you’ve had them since Uni.”

Letting it go with a sigh, you nod slowly, give him a soft warning. “Just…don’t make a habit of this.”

“Of cooking?” he teases, tilting his head. “Because I was thinking pancakes next.”

“Gguk.”

He holds up both hands in surrender. “Fine, fine. No habits. No rules broken. Just... eggs.”

Your gaze stays fixed on the plate. It’s just eggs. But you know it’s never just eggs. “You should probably get going. Monday’s not gonna wait.”

Jeongguk pulls off a small smile. “Right. See you later.” Grabs his keys from the counter, tossing them once in his hand like he’s stalling, then heads for the door without another word.

The studio hums like a beehive on the edge of collapse — steam hisses from a press table, fabric whispers beneath hurried fingers, heels tap over taped floors marking invisible runways. The sharp scent of dye and starch clings to the air like nerves. A model adjusts a loose strap in the mirror, her mouth tight, lashes unblinking. A stylist crouches beside a rack of silk gowns, threading a needle with shaking hands.

“Where’s the backup for Look Nine?” someone snaps behind a screen divider.

“We already rotated her out,” someone else replies. “Too pale under the LEDs.”

Mark paces near the mood board, phone pressed hard to his ear. His voice is low but clipped, half in English, half in French, Korean getting mixed up in between too – it makes you laugh for a second. Until one look at the board tells you everything — pinned shots of another line, swatches curled at the edges from overhandling, and a red marker line slashing across today’s schedule like an open wound.

Mark pinches the bridge of his nose, sighs like it hurts. His phone drops from his hand into his pocket, conversation ended. He turns toward the monitors just as you quietly take your place beside him.

“Still surviving, old man?”

“You’re not supposed to be here.”

“You texted me. Said the final look samples came back two inches short.”

Mark drags a hand through his hair. “That was an update, not a plea for help.”

“You sent three angry emojis.”

“Wasn’t supposed to take that as encouragement. I’m telling Yoongi.”

“Like that’s going to stop me.” You’re already taking off your coat, passing it over to your assistant. Another staff hands you a garment bag. Someone else gives you your tablet. There’s no time for hellos, barely enough space to breathe.

He’s already giving in. “You’re staying out of Look Twelve,” he mutters. “Too many pins at the hip.”

You flash a grin over your shoulder. “Noted, partner.”

The day doesn’t get better. As much as you’ve tried working through it, one crisis comes after the other. Someone’s panicking about Look Six — one of the models missed her last fitting and now the bodice won’t zip. There’s talk of skipping it entirely.

You grab a handful of safety pins off a tray, offering it to the nearest stylist without slowing. “Use the veil to hide the back seam.”

At some point, the espresso machine shorts out. Kills the power briefly in the west wing. Night is almost here, everyone’s tired and, coffee is essential to keep the team going. No one has time to fix it, so the assistants take turns running to a nearby café.

The shoot hasn’t even started yet. You stare at the draft board, then the open camera rig — one staff experimenting how to set up angles, another trying to color match without lighting presets. No real-time feedback. No edits. No visual anchors. It’s all guesses and rushed fixes.

“What the fuck are they doing?” You ask Mark who’s already frantically texting. Doesn’t need to look at what you meant. Knows you’re referring to the sorry excuse of a visual team. Unspoken things you’ve both developed working together for years.

“They’re trying to make it work.”

“That’s not their job.”

“It’s got to be. Creative and Visuals just bailed.”

You pull your hair back with one hand. “Unbelievable.”

“Something about their equipment being stuck in cargo. Won’t get here till 9:00 PM, if at all.” He exhales. “They called two hours ago. I didn’t want to say anything till I figured out options.”

You’re on the verge of tears after holding yourself together for most of the day. Exhaustion is taking over your body. The tteokbokki you ate hours ago is long gone, along with the visuals and creative team that’s gone too. Then you feel it — a slow warmth under your nose. You wipe it away without thinking, expecting sweat or your makeup melting from the heat. But it’s red. Wet.

Mark’s voice fades mid-sentence. “—you okay?”

“I’m fine.” You tilt your head back slightly, already reaching into your pocket for tissue. Nothing there.

“Here.” He’s already tearing one from a kit bag. You take it without looking at him. “We could hold off—”

“No. We can’t delay.” You press the tissue harder to your nose and move toward the monitor, resume work like always. “Let’s just shoot raw. We'll clean it in post.”

Mark watches you for long – his stare burning on the corner of your eye. “We don’t have the manpower. Can’t edit this by myself either.” Excuses you’re familiar with, drops in. You know he’s trying to stop the day.

You give him a look — sharp, tired, unwavering.

“Okay boss,” he mutters. “Figuring it out. I’ll try following up with them till then.”

The phone on the table vibrates against the wood. You grab it without looking. “What?”

A pause. Then, warm, low, “Oof, you don’t sound good.”

The chaos blurs, the noise softens, the pain in you eases. The corner of your mouth lifts before you can stop it. “Gguk.”

“Was wondering if we’re still on for dinner?” Jeongguk’s voice lilts with something close to a smile. “Or am I being stood up again?”

Your heart stumbles. Dinner. Right. “Damn it”

“Guess that’s a ‘no,’” he teases softly, his voice calm when yours isn’t. “Getting stood up twice. Karma, huh?”

“No! I—” Your eyes dart to Mark, who’s shoving his phone into his pocket, waving you over. His mouth forms the word ‘cancelled’.

Panic pricks at the back of your neck. “No, Mark, wait—Jeongguk, listen, I can’t—”

“Breathe, it’s okay.”

“The creative team vanished, the camera rig’s being handled by one of our staff who’s supposed to be working on shoes—photographers—they just—” Your fingers squeeze the phone, eyes locked on the cluster of stylists whispering urgently. “Gguk, I’m sorry, but I—Mark! No, not that rack! —I have to go.”

“Hey—”

You end the call, pressing the phone to the table, breath slipping out fast.

Mark approaches you with an "I have an idea," and the next moment you’re pulled back into motion, the room closing in again, the pulse of crisis thumping steady under your skin.

There’s a shift in the air you don’t have the time to dwell into. With the lights being tested even when it should’ve been done hours ago, gowns still being altered because some model got caught on one of the lighting cords, makeup brushes flying across the room, a model sneezing mid-lipstick, someone’s tugging on your arm, asking about earrings. Another assistant waves you over, frantic about the backdrop.

You’re one step closer to ripping your hair out.

Mark’s at your side again, too fast, too smooth. “We’re back on track,” he says, lips twitching like he’s trying not to grin. “Relax.”

You want to ask — how, who, what — but then you hear it.

“Watch the stand,” a voice calls out, deep, commanding. “It’s angled wrong — your entire left frame’s blown out.”

When you look up, Jeongguk is already there. His team already dispersing, taking their places like a familiar routine in your space.

You forget the clipboard in your hands, the half-formed instructions on your tongue. Jeongguk meets your eyes, gives you a small lift of his brows — nothing big, nothing showy. Just a quiet hey.

Mark gives you a look across the room — equal parts guilt and triumph.

Anger should’ve been the right feeling. But instead, peace drapes over you like a heavy, unexpected exhale.

You worked through the rest of the evening, staying away from Jeongguk as much as you could. Letting him focus. Distracting yourself with the sudden change in chaos. Outfits suddenly fitting right, pins no longer needed, a new set of makeup brushes appearing from the luggage — as if the universe had finally decided to give you a moment of calm.

Between tasks, you steal quick glances – when he bends beside the rig, gestures to one of the panels, adjusts the stand himself when no one else moves. He’s changed since this morning — black slacks, a navy shirt rolled at the sleeves, his guest pass clipped on the loop of his belt. Professional. Composed.

Your throat tightens. You don’t remember him looking this sure of himself since his old shoots — back when you were the one in front of the lens and he was still figuring out his light. Practicing, fidgeting with settings he was still learning. Back when you were all the subject he’s focused on.

Jeongguk’s halfway through reviewing a frame with his crew when his eyes track you from across the room, softening, mouth twitching like he wants to say something but won’t in front of everyone. He tips his head once, barely a nod.

You step toward him, heels quiet against the studio floor.

He looks up from the light meter, catches your gaze mid-calculation.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you murmur, just low enough for no one else to hear. “I’m not owing you anything.”

Jeongguk tilts his head, the corner of his mouth tugging up. “Just so you know, I’m getting paid,” he says easily. “Think I’m doing this for free?”

Questions rush through your mind like a landslide, but only a simple, “What?” slips out.

He shrugs, adjusts reflector, keeps his eyes on you. “Seora pays well. I remember this CEO who once made me shoot a full pre-launch campaign in forty-eight hours with a half-dead printer and three cups of instant ramen. But when the rush ended, my team and I got a check—enough to stay jobless for six months.”

You blink. “That was years ago.”

“Yeah,” he says, a little quieter now, a little warmer. “Your first collection after you took over. Half the board didn’t believe in you, the investors were circling, and you had one shot to convince them Seora wasn’t going to sink.”

You don’t say anything. But you remember — the weight of it, the way the silence in those boardrooms used to press against your chest.

“I still have those shots,” he adds. “You didn’t sleep for three days. Made me retouch a belt loop for six hours.”

You huff, almost smiling. “You said the belt loop was crooked.”

“It was,” he says, mock-offended. “But six hours?”

“Buzz off.”

He places a light stand into place; tone breezy but eyes sharp. “Anyway, just because you’re my Mrs. Jeon doesn’t mean I don’t get my cut.”

You roll your eyes. “Don’t call me that.”

“What?” His voice lilts. “Mrs. Jeon? That’s still your legal name, no?”

You glare, still, a small smile breaks out. “Get back to work. Don’t waste my money.”

“Yes ma’am.” Someone calls his name — camera test’s ready. Jeongguk brushes past you with a light touch to your arm. Quick, grounding.

You don’t say anything when he steps away. Just watch the slow but certain way he pulls the chaos back into order — not loud, not commanding, just efficient. People listen when he speaks. They adjust when he gestures. And without meaning to, the tension in your shoulders begins to ease.

And then you find yourself stepping back. Not out of the room, but just far enough to watch. You hover near the monitors, arms crossed loosely, watching as Jeongguk moves through the chaos like he’s done years ago.

Near the backdrop, he crouches low, one hand gently tilting the model’s chin, thumb barely brushing her jaw as he adjusts her toward the light. She lets out a soft laugh — maybe at a quiet joke or just the moment itself — her lashes lowering before she meets his eyes again.

Jeongguk’s mouth curves into a quick, polite and easy smile, before he’s already shifting his focus back to the camera, adjusting the settings with steady hands.

Suddenly, the cuffs of your sleeves look more interesting. Why hadn’t you noticed the ugly button that didn’t compliment the color of the cuffs before? The shoot notes in your hand look like they need revisions again — though you’ve read through them twice and already think they’re perfect.

“Easy there, boss,” Mark sidles up beside you, a knowing hum under his breath. “You’re gonna set the poor girl on fire.”

“Was just watching,” you mutter, heat creeping up your neck.

Mark leans back on his heels, smirking. “Think I should pull her away before you cost us a model.”

“Perfect timing that you’re here,” you narrow your eyes, folding your arms. “Why’d you call him? You don’t exactly seem thrilled about having him near me.”

His grin fades. “Don’t have to like the guy. But when it comes to you, he’s the only one I’m sure would drop everything and show up.”

An argument gets caught in your throat. You want to remind Mark it’s not like that anymore. You know it hasn’t been for years. When it comes to Jeongguk’s planner, it’s like the pen ran out of ink just as your name was about to be written down. You shouldn’t even be on his list of things to do, but that’s the reality that’s been hanging over the last three years. It’s the reality you’ve made now.

Mark shrugs, looking at the busy set. “Sometimes, you have to put personal feelings aside and see that things have changed. You’re running out of options. He knows our work. Has done them before. Jeongguk’s the one guy I, sadly, know who won’t let you down.“

“You seem confident.” The words come out almost like a whisper.

“Takes one to know one.” He turns away before you can answer. You watch him disappear into the set, the weight of his words pressing down on you, making you question what you thought you knew.

Lights dim one by one when the night finally wraps up, casting long shadows across the scattered equipment. You stand near the table piled with untouched snacks, absently twirling the scrunchie on your wrist as you watch Mark wave goodnight, and leave with the last of the crew.

It’s just you now. Or so you think.

“Didn’t peg you for the type to hide by the snack table,” Jeongguk’s there, slinging his jacket over his shoulder, camera bag slung casually over the other. “Usually upfront putting on a whole mukbang show.”

You lean against the table, crossing your arms. “Didn’t feel like the snack choices for today.”

“How about carbonara from Benny’s?”

“They deliver this late?”

“They do if you know the owner,” he says, smug as he sets his bag down. “Should be here in ten.”

You try to hide the way that lands — like a knock you weren’t ready for. “Didn’t think you’d remember Benny’s.”

“Hard to forget when you cried that time they took the truffle fries off the menu.”

You sigh, sinking onto one of the stools. The set is quiet now, shadows stretching where there was once heat and motion. Everything softens around the edges.

“Didn’t eat dinner,” you murmur. “Could eat a whole buffet.”

“Figured,” Jeongguk takes the seat beside you. “Always forget when you’re in charge of too many things.”

The food arrives not long after — warm boxes, the faint scent of cream and parmesan and baked garlic butter curling into the air. You eat beside each other like no time has passed. No tension. No pretense. Just two people winding down after too long a day, like they used to — back when things were simpler, or maybe just when you didn’t know how complicated things would get.

The soft clink of glasses and quiet talks fill the dim hotel lounge. Plush armchairs and velvet sofas gather around small tables, warm amber light casting gentle shadows.

Jeongguk’s call had been brief, almost formal. ‘Prints are ready. Can I give them in person?’

No explanations. No questions. Just followed by another separate voicemail from him with the address of the hotel. You didn’t ask why he had prints made. Understood he’s always been old school, preferred things done the way he started – something tangible, something real, instead of digital things that could be forgotten or ignored.

You just couldn’t grasp why he had to pull you out of a random Wednesday afternoon when you were going to meet for dinner anyway. The time between mornings and evenings, you’ve clearly stated, should be meant for yourselves. 

Jeongguk stands as his client finishes speaking. Quick handshakes are exchanged before he settles back into the velvet armchair. A glass of neat whiskey waits on the table. Quietly making your way over, you take a seat across from him.

He offers a small, easy smile and slides the stack of prints across the table. “Thought you might want to see these.”

You pick up the top print, eyes scanning the sharp lines of the model’s posture — poised, confident, every angle meticulously captured. The lighting cuts clean shadows, highlighting the structure of the garment and the texture of the fabric. Another print shows a tight close-up of the intricate embroidery, every stitch crisp against the muted background. A few shots frame the collection as a whole, lined up beneath the glow of the studio lights — structured, clean, cohesive. It looks less like a trial and more like a beginning. Something ready. Something already on its way to Paris.

“Think Mark’s going to want to fly to Paris tomorrow once he sees these.” You say softly. “Thank you Gguk.”

Jeongguk leans back, a quiet satisfaction shining in his eyes. “He’ll want to — and probably sooner than that.”

“You didn’t have to rush it, though. We gave you a few more weeks to work on it. Everything was short notice.”

“Wasn’t doing much else, honestly.”

“The Calvin campaign?”

He shrugs, that familiar confidence settling around him. “Not on my Wednesday agenda.”

“But asking me to meet you this afternoon is?”

The soft click of polished heels breaks the ambient hush of the lounge. Your eyes flicker across the room as a familiar figure approaches — graceful, poised, carrying that quiet warmth that has always set her apart. Her gaze lands on Jeongguk first, fond and steady.

You both rise from your seats in surprise. You’re thankful he’s the first to speak. “Eomma? What are you doing here?”

She waves a hand, brushing off the formality, gestures for you both to sit again, already settling herself across from you with ease. “I stopped by your office to check in. Taehyung said you’d stepped out.” Her eyes shift to you, softening even further. “It’s nice to see you together again, sweetheart.”

Heat rises to your cheeks at the endearment. The way she says it — warm, familiar, unfiltered — stirs something old and tender in you. Still, you gather yourself quickly, wanting to clear things up before any assumptions settle in.

“We were just talking about work, Eomma-nim. That’s all.”

Her smile deepens, and the corners of her eyes crinkle. “That’s lovely to know. You two have always been inseparable — even when it was all about work. Your dynamic… it’s always been something special. I’m glad to see it back.”

You glance at Jeongguk, silently begging him to cut in, to say something that might redirect the course of the conversation. But he’s no help — only a smug little smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Sit together, you two. Why are you across from her?” she says with a light scold, motioning for Jeongguk to move beside you. He follows far too easily, sliding into the seat next to yours with a faint grin still playing on his lips.

You take the opportunity to not-so-gently step on his shoe under the table.

He swallows a grunt, his jaw tightening as he barely holds in a sound, which earns a small snort from you. You hope she missed it.

“Ah, my beautiful children,” she says, clasping her hands together with a content sigh. “It’s been too long. Was it Chuseok when we last saw each other? A year ago?” Her gaze lingers on you, fond and a little wistful.

“Yes, Eomma-nim,” you reply, trying to keep your voice even.

“Where my little Ggukie wasn’t there.” Her eyes soften, not angry, but full of quiet sadness. “This is the perfect timing for you to attend another family celebration, together this time.”

Jeongguk straightens slightly, his brows drawing in. “What’s the occasion?”

She gives him a look — not quite scolding, not quite hurt, just enough disappointment to make him pause. “Jeon Jeongguk, you can’t possibly be that busy to forget your own mother’s birthday.”

He hesitates, fingers brushing the rim of his glass before he suddenly lifts it and knocks back the rest of the whiskey in one clean go — too quick to be casual. “Ah… no, I didn’t forget,” eyes flicker toward you after – the list you wrote lingers between a shared look.

“Thought you were celebrating next weekend?” he tries pointing out as if that was the plan all along. “I was going to drop by then.”

You appreciate his effort but Mrs. Jeon has always been hard to get by. It’s why you struggled with her the most when it came to coming up with excuses for your missing husband, her son, over the past few years. It used to come by easy until you’ve used up every reason in your book.

His mother raises a brow. “No, that’s when your brother’s in Jeju. I told you it’s tonight.”

Jeongguk nods slowly, his jaw tightening just a little. Silence threads between the three of you. You wait for him – no, you expect him – to come up with excuses like he’s always did. Before, he would’ve dodged this easily – out of town trips, client dinners, shoots he couldn’t move. But now, you don’t understand why he’s stumbling, why he’s acting like you have for all these years.

Guilt hits you. You never meant to put him in this spot. You don’t even know why he’s struggling with something that should’ve been easy.

“It won’t run late,” his mother cuts through the silence brightly. “Just a small party with some business partners and family. And your favorite cheesecake you two introduced me to – it’s my favorite now too. Made sure to get it from the same place you did.”

You want to tell Mrs. Jeon that it’s no longer her son’s favorite. She should know that. Your families aren’t being kept from the truth anymore. Her change in behavior digs a deeper grave for confusion.

With hands tied, you nod once, quiet and clear. Jeongguk answers shortly after, low and sure. “We’ll stop by, Eomma.”

Mrs. Jeon clasps her hands together, absolutely delighted. “Ah, that’s all I needed to hear. I’m going to set an extra seat for the two of you – together this time. No last-minute work emergencies, understood? Sweetheart, tell your mother to come as well if she’s not too busy still enjoying her retirement.”

The two of you nod in agreement. Your mother-in-law finally says her goodbye. The moment she’s finally disappeared out of the lounge, you both let out quiet breaths you didn’t know you were holding.

You don’t look at him when you speak. “What does your mother know?”

“She misses you.”

“Not what I asked, Gguk.”

He sighs. “Our parents know what they know. The rest of the family doesn’t. It’s better if you skip tonight. It’s on your list anyway.” The edge in his voice catches you off guard. You can’t pin point what exactly so you push further.  

“If that’s the case, why is Eomma acting like everything’s fine? What have you been telling her?”

“Nothing!” Jeongguk’s answer comes to quick, too loud. Earns a few stares from the tables nearby. “She probably thinks if she acts like it, say things out loud, it’ll become true.”

You finally look at him. Tried to search for answers in his eyes, answers you obviously couldn’t get from his mouth. But he avoids you – stares at the empty glass on the table instead. You desperately want to know what he means. Want to know if he’s still talking about his mother.

“Does she know it doesn’t work like that?”

Jeongguk doesn’t answer. Just drifts the conversation. “You don’t have to go. I’ll come up with an excuse. If Eomma gets mad, I’ll take the blow. About time I did.”

You don’t say anything. Just quietly gather the prints from the table, slipping them into your bag. Then a soft ‘bye’ leaves your lips before you walk out of the lounge—carrying more questions your mind can handle.

Jeongguk straightens his cuffs as he stands in front of the mirror, making sure he’s all set as if he hasn’t done that for the past two hours. A dark button-up, slacks pressed clean — simple, neat, just the way his mother likes. He breathes slowly and reaches for the gift on the table, a delicate ribbon tied around the box of hand cream sets she’d mentioned offhandedly weeks ago.

The watch on his wrist tells he’s stalled long enough.

He slips into his shoes and heads out.

The drive to his parents’ house in Hannam passes in a blur — streets familiar, traffic slow and predictable. It’s not like their family home in Busan, but it’s where memories have settled when his family first moved, where holidays are still celebrated, where his mother has redecorated the walls enough times to finally call it their home.

The sky’s turned a dusky gold, the city softening into evening. His parents’ house glow in welcome, lanterns already strung across the backyard, fairy lights peeking through the dining room curtains. He parks, steps out. The front door is already cracked open, the soft sound of music filtering through.

The house buzzes with soft chatter and laughter. A handful of guests are scattered through the living and dining areas — cousins catching up, a few family friends sharing drinks, and business partners politely exchanging small talk.

Jeongguk spots his brother near the bar, already enjoying a glass of whiskey.

“About time you showed up,” his brother calls out with a grin. “Eomma’s birthday party can officially start.”

Jeongguk offers a tired smile. “Sorry. Made it though.”

Their father joins them, hands him a drink, which he downs in one go, hoping to wash down the nerves he knows won’t leave him tonight. “If you plan on driving, go easy.”

“Unless you’re staying over?” his brother chimes in, raising a brow.

“No. Got work tomorrow,” Jeongguk answers simply, even though he’s taken a few days off. Doesn’t say it. Just knows he can’t stay at his parents’ house where too many memories and disappointments weigh on him the moment he’s stepped in.

“Jeongguk,” his mother’s already approaching him, with a radiant and calm smile. “I was starting to think you’d come up with another excuse.”

“Save the scolding for later, Eomma. It’s your birthday—don’t stress.”

“You're the one who gives me stress, Gguk-ah.” She tuts, lightly pinching his cheek before looking around. Her smile falters just a little. “She’s not with you?”

Jeongguk forces a smile, hoping it’s enough to pass. “She’s just running late. Caught up with work.”

She hums. Lets it go to greet a group of business partners, his father following close behind.

“She’s not coming, is she?” His brother pours him another drink, like he already knows the answer.

Is proven right when Jeongguk drowns the drink again, eyes lingering on the front door as if it was going to change anything.  

Soft classical music hums from the corner speaker, blending with the quiet clinking of wine glasses and the murmur of conversation. Warm overhead lights cast a glow over the carefully set table — a tasteful spread of small bites, flowers, wine bottles already halfway down.

Jeongguk moves through the crowd slowly, a drink in hand, nodding and smiling as he’s pulled into brief conversations.

A few chuckles. His cousin nudges him, raising a brow. ”You haven’t aged a day, Jeongguk-ah. What’s your secret?”

He shakes his head. “Work keeps me young.”

The dining area had started to fill — his aunts chatting while pouring makgeolli, his uncle already halfway into a debate with his brother about stocks. Plates passed from hand to hand, laughter rolled from room to room

But as Jeongguk nears his seat, his eyes land on the chair next to his, reserved for you. He hovers for a second. Debates whether to pull it out or ignore it altogether. Ends up not touching it.

Instead, he took his own seat, quietly smoothing down the napkin on his lap as the conversations carried on around him. Someone nudged a dish of banchan toward him.

His mother moved through the room with practiced ease, checking that everyone had enough to eat, calling across the table to nieces and nephews she hadn’t seen in months, refilling drinks for guests with a proud, glowing energy only birthdays could bring.

“She really went all out this year,” his brother said under his breath, leaning toward him. “Even got those fancy floating candles again.”

Jeongguk smiled faintly. “She deserves it.”

Someone raised a toast midway through the first round of soup. “To the most youthful and sharpest woman in the room!”

Glasses clinked. Cheers followed.

The evening moves along. Small conversations continue to float between bites of food. Jeongguk tries to stay present. Nods when needed. Answers when spoken to. But his focus keeps slipping. It’s not because of his fifth glass of whiskey. That’s never been a problem. His tolerance is strong.

He just feels drained. Like the night is stretching longer than it should.

Jeongguk knows tonight is about his mother. It’s her special day. He’s missed a few of her birthdays over the years. But he’ll make it up to her – like he always does. Some other time. Some other way.

But he just wants to go home. Sure, that place is quiet too – filled with worst nightmares lately that he has to face – but at least there, he doesn’t have to pretend. Doesn’t have to smile when he’s not sure how.

For now, he just needs to get through the evening without breaking.

Another toast had just ended when the doorbell chimed.

It barely cut through the noise at first — just a polite sound beneath the hum of conversation and clatter of cutlery. Jeongguk’s mother glanced toward the entryway, brows rising. "Ah, that must be another colleague," she’s already making her way toward the door with a practiced hostess smile.

He pays no attention. Just finishes his food. Reaches for his glass. Stops halfway when his mother returns with someone familiar beside her.

The hallway light spills behind you. Simple but elegant. A cream-toned dress that hit just below the knee, delicate at the shoulders, hugging your shape in a way that wasn’t loud—but enough to make the room fall quieter for a second. Hair loosely done, a soft gloss on your lips.

Jeongguk’s grip around his glass tightened before he realized.

His mother beamed, hand gently on your back as she ushered you in. “She made it,” she announced with far too much joy to mask.

Conversations resumed. A few new faces looked toward you with curious smiles, someone whispered your name. You offer a polite bow to the guests, some family members you’ve seen from previous gatherings, your eyes only briefly scanning the room before they stopped on him.

There was the smallest pause.

And then you walked toward a seat – the one beside him.

[tacoguacamole]

ANOTHER TIME | JJK - 4

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

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

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

[Theme: Marriage AU. BF2L2S]

[Warnings: Major Angst, Multiple Flashbacks and Time Jumps, Mature Theme, Smut, Mature/Explicit Language, A lot of fluff, Romance, Slowburn]

[Older JK, Older OC, Older Bangtan, Lawyer Seokjin and Namjoon, Doctor Yoongi, Event Planner Hobi, Solo idol Jimin, Secretary Taehyung, Brief cameos of Seventeen Mingyu, GOT7 Mark, Kook's a jerk and mean for the earlier chapters]

[Status: Ongoing]

[Part 1. Part 2. Part 3. Part 4. Chapter Word Count: 8k+]

[Note: Several time jumps. OC is finally getting back at him. Somehow. Bringing in Hobi and Jimin! I know there are a lot of unanswered questions but I promise it'll all make sense later. What do you think is going to happen to JK? How about OC? Let me know. Keep dropping your comments and theories. I love reading them! 💜

[MINORS DNI! 18+]

The soft drizzle falls around you, the light mist catching the edges of your blazer and the hem of your skirt. You pull the collar up a little higher, the cool air a contrast to the warmth of the house you’d just left behind.

Behind you, your mother’s voice calls out, reminding to take your car keys and drive carefully. You turn back, offering a quick smile, but shake your head. No need for the car today. Not when the rain feels just right, and the familiar walk to the store is all you need.

The streets shine faintly from the rain, puddles holding broken reflections of streetlights and neon signs. A bus rumbles by, sending a damp breeze that smells of wet pavement and far-off fried food. Somewhere close, a bike chain rattles, and a quiet laughter drifts from an alley.

Jeongguk’s already waiting by the convenience store, umbrella tilted enough to keep the rain off his shoulders. The pavement’s slick, but he stands like he’s been there a while—shirt crisp, slacks pressed, shoes untouched by the puddles gathering near the curb.

“Did you walk?” No ‘hi’s or ‘hello’s’, he greets you with a questioning look.

“Unless I was dumb enough to drive with the sunroof open in this weather, then sure.” You say, wiping your face with the cuffs of your blazer like it would make a difference.

“You’ll get sick.” Before you can even react, he pulls you under his umbrella, arm around your shoulders like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Should’ve taken your car,” he mutters, and you almost miss the small, teasing glint in his eyes, “Or at least a raincoat, genius.”

“That would’ve ruined my outfit.”

“And it isn’t already?”

“Was aiming for that dramatic, soaked-to-the-bone, movie scene vibe—like something straight out of one of your old short films.” Jeongguk doesn’t laugh. Only tightens his grip a little on your shoulder.

“Let’s go inside before you turn into a puddle,” he says, almost quietly, as he begins steering you toward the convenience store.

It’s a familiar chaos inside – the old freezer rattling in the back, faded posters on the walls, narrow aisles that make you stand too close. You both slip into the old routine without thinking — wandering to the snack shelves, fingers brushing when you grab the same bag of chips, quietly arguing over ramen flavors in front of the shelves.

“Seafood again?” he murmurs when you toss two packs into the basket. “That’s gross.”

“You have gross taste.”

“I married you. You’re far from gross.”

You blink, a little thrown off, and for a second, you forget about the ramen in your hands. The playful remark catches in your throat, his words hanging in the air longer than they should.

“Going to get coffee. Put some ice-cream in that basket, will you?” You avoid his gaze. “And none of that mint choco shit, please.” Walking away, you hoped he doesn’t catch the way your heartbeat’s just a little bit faster.

Jeongguk snorts under his breath. Reaches for his usual spicy pick. Pauses over the pack. Sets it back quietly. Picks up the same flavor as yours instead.

The soft hum of the store surrounds you as you both sit by the window, ramen cups warming your hands. The rain taps against the glass in a steady rhythm that blends with the quiet between you. You take your time with each bite, the steam rising gently, mixing with the faint scent of the store’s dim lighting.

Every so often, a laugh escapes—when Jeongguk almost loses a fishcake or mutters under his breath about the heat of a bite still too much for him.

He blows on another spoonful, glancing around. “You could’ve picked anywhere,” he says, not quite looking at you. “Why here?”

You shrug, spoon tapping lightly against the rim of your cup. “Felt like ramen.”

“There’s a million places for ramen.”

You take a slow sip of broth, eyes fixed on the rain sliding down the window. “Yeah, but not all of them have that loud freezer in the back,” you say, nodding toward the buzzing from behind. “Music to my ears.”

Jeongguk huffs a soft laugh, shaking his head. “Right. Music.”

You nudge his foot with yours under the table. “Don’t act like you didn’t miss the suspiciously sticky floor.”

He smiles. Doesn’t say anything else.

The conversation wanders, light and easy. You complain about your mother’s terrible playlist from earlier at the house; he tells you about a messy photoshoot he has to redo with a rookie group who kept striking anime poses. The laughter between you softens.

Across from you, Jeongguk leans back a little, his shoulders no longer drawn so tight, and for a moment, everything feels a little lighter.

In between bites of ice cream, you catch him looking – nothing grand, just quick glances when you’re busy wrestling with a stubborn scoop. His eyes follow the way your brows pinch in concentration, the smudge of vanilla clinging to your chin.

Jeongguk doesn’t say anything. Just wipes the mess off you, goes right back to his own cup. You keep your eyes on your ice cream, but your next bite comes a little slower.

The cups end up stacked between you, half-melted, sticky around the edges. Neither of you says much as you stand, wiping your hands on stray napkins, and straightening your clothes as if it was another routine.

By the door, the rain is still coming down—not hard, but enough. You hesitate, eyeing the gray outside, the sidewalk gleaming wet. The cold’s starting to get to you, starts seeping into your bones but there’s no regret with your choices this morning. Just thoughts on how you were going to get to work.

Jeongguk shifts beside you, umbrella already in hand. “I’ll drive you.”

You shake your head, pulling your blazer a little tighter. “I’m good. It’s not far.”

The air outside feels lighter than it should, like the morning forgot to wear its usual weight — and maybe that’s why you’d rather walk.

He doesn’t argue. Just presses the umbrella into your hand and steps back. You glance down at it, then back at him, brows raised.

“No gifts,” you remind him of the list that’s been dangling around, messing with reality.

“It’s just an umbrella. I’ll get it some other time,” He’s already turning toward his own way. “Just—don’t do the dramatic rain scene again. Once was enough.”

You smile, barely. “No promises.”

The office buzzes with its usual tension—the kind that builds before a storm of deadlines. Fashion week team is about to leave, and it feels like you're nowhere near ready to give them what they need. You’re starting to regret asking your mother to let you focus on this last project instead of the rest of the pending things needed to be taken care of. You've been stuck at your desk for hours, scrolling through model updates, fabric delays, and endless revision requests.

The conversations outside your office, the clatter of keyboards near the desks nearby, fades just enough for your eyes to drift to the black umbrella leaning against the corner of the room. It leaves a brief comfort in your chest amidst the office chaos but you quickly push the thought away before focusing back to the never-ending tasks on the table.

Mark’s voice cuts through the noise like caffeine. “Are you planning to blink today or should I hire a personal assistant to turn your head every few hours?”

You roll your eyes, tapping at your tablet. “If you bring me one more intern who can’t tell crepe from chiffon, I’m replacing you with AI.”

“Please. Even an algorithm wouldn’t put up with your mood swings,” he mutters before sliding into the seat across from you. He barely gets comfortable before he squints at you. “You walk here or swim?”

You don’t look up. “It wasn’t that bad.”

“Sure. And I’m Miss Korea.” He leans back, head tilting slightly. “You’ve got that look—like one of those soaked leads in a drama who says they’re fine five minutes before fainting in the street.”

You finally glance at him, unimpressed. “I’m not going to faint.”

“Yet,” he adds, already pulling a file from your side of the desk like he’s about to manage your life himself. “Next time, toss on an extra coat. Or maybe wear a waterproof personality.”

You try not to smile, focus snapping back to your screen.

Mark flips through a few pages, then mutters like an afterthought, “Can’t even pick on you properly when you look like a sad dumpling.”

The hours stack on top of each other. Your inbox keeps refilling no matter how fast you clear it, and the tablet screen glares back like it’s judging your posture. Every time you blink, there’s a new message, a change in schedule, a missing sample no one can seem to track down. The morning calm feels like a different lifetime.

At some point, Mark slides a protein bar your way without looking up from the papers scattered. “If you pass out now, I’m not carrying you. My back’s already had enough this week.”

“For the hundredth time, no one’s passing out.” You huffed. “And don’t blame me for your old bones.”

“Take that back.”

You don’t.

Mark doesn’t say much after, just stands and disappears for a while—something about checking prints downstairs, or maybe he never said at all. You’re too deep into revisions to notice until his chair squeaks again.

Not long after, the office door creaks open. You don’t look up at first, expecting another intern with bad timing and worse questions. But then a voice breaks through the static in your head.

“You still squint at the screen like that? Thought Mark Hyung would’ve bought you glasses by now,” comes the familiar lilt.

Another joins in, teasing and warm, “She only listens to lectures if they’re wrapped in a compliment.”

You blink. And there they are—Hobi and Jimin. Hobi looks like he stepped out of a launch party, and Jimin, hoodie up, cap low, like he’s dodging both fans and responsibility. One of them’s already holding a takeout bag, the scent of something greasy and fried curling through the air like a bribe.

Jimin raises an eyebrow. “You eat today or just survive on sarcasm and spite?”

Hobi grins, leaning his elbows on your desk like he’s got all the time in the world. “Someone said you needed rescuing. And voilà, the rescue party has arrived.”

Jimin plops down in the chair beside him, pulling his cap a little higher. “Not like we needed the call. But if we didn’t show up today, you’d probably talk to your fabric suppliers till later and not even squeeze in a call to deliver bread at least.”

You snort, setting your tablet down with a sigh. “If I had known I was going to get a course on how to stay on track today, I should’ve left the office, gone to the mountains for a hike.”

Jimin raises a brow. “Bold of you to assume we wouldn’t follow.”

“You’d get lost halfway up and complain about not having Wi-Fi,” you mutter, but the corner of your mouth is already lifting.

The smell of fried chicken and bulgogi fills the office as the five of you settle into the small lounge area. The takeout containers are spread out like a battlefield, half of them already picked through, the other half still piping hot.

Hobi leans back in his chair, balancing a bottle of soda between his hands. “I still think you should let me do a rebrand on your office look. Maybe a neon sign with your name in it. Just to hype this place up.”

You roll your eyes, feeling a laugh bubbling up. “A neon sign in this place will make my company look like a club instead of a luxury fashion line.”

Hobi’s grin widens. “Man, I miss clubbing. Like an actual party where I don’t have an earpiece with staff panicking and asking what comes next.”

You shake your head, chuckling despite yourself. “You and your partying ass. Get over it.”

Jimin, who’s been quietly observing the banter, leans in with a teasing smile. “It’s not that bad. Though I bet Hobi Hyung would love an excuse to throw a real party here. We could call it ‘Fashion Week: The After-Party Edition.’”

You raise an eyebrow at him. “Don’t encourage him.”

Hobi shrugs innocently. “What? A little bit of fun never hurt anyone.”

You laugh, finally feeling like yourself again.

Jimin’s expression turns a little more serious. “It’s been a while since we caught up. Really caught up, you know?” He’s smiling, but there’s a quiet edge behind his words. “You good?”

You shift in your seat, avoiding his gaze for just a moment. “I’m fine,” you say, a little too quickly. “Just... busy.”

Hobi isn’t having it, though. Leans forward, narrows his eyes at you. “You sure? Because from where I’m sitting, you look like a walk-in freezer that’s been running on empty. I don’t know what’s worse—watching you survive on coffee or seeing you avoid the topic every time someone asks.”

Mark shifts, his gaze flicking between you and Hobi, before cutting in lightly, “Hobi’s just mad because he doesn’t get to plan your next ‘catch-up’ event. But yeah... ‘fine’ is not the word I’d use.”

Jimin sighs, a little quieter now. “You’ve been through a lot. If you want to talk about it—”

You shake your head, a half-hearted smile trying to escape. “It’s nothing. Just work and... you know other stuff.”

Hobi watches you closely, the corner of his mouth twitching in a subtle frown. “I get it, you’ve got a lot on your plate. But... seriously, how are you holding up? Other than—” you give him a look that makes him stop. “Jeongguk, how are things with Jeongguk?”

Your lips part, but nothing lands right away. “We’re... civil.” It’s all you say.

You don’t mention how you’ve been pretending to be fine with how things are, even when it’s harder than it should be. You don’t mention how you’ve offered yourself to your soon to be ex-husband’s shoulder to cry on when he shares his troubles with the woman, he’s replaced you with. You don’t mention how you sometimes catch yourself wanting to ask him things you shouldn’t.

“Civil,” Jimin echoes, unconvinced, breaking the silence.

“He’s civil. I’m civil. He’s keeping to the terms.”

“Civil’s overrated. Bare minimum” Hobi crosses his arms, drifting his attention to the office windows. “He’s still fucking married to you. Supposed to be giving you these things without it being printed on some damn paper. You don’t have to play nice for anyone.”

You stiffen slightly but keep your expression neutral. “It’s complicated, Hobi.”

Hobi raises an eyebrow, not backing down. “That’s your polite way of saying you’re letting someone walk all over you?”

Before you can respond, Jimin cuts in gently, giving Hobi a warning glance. “Take it easy.”

Hobi leans back, giving a mock sigh. “Told you from the beginning, I never liked that list.”

You smile faintly. “You also said we were the couple that’d never fall apart.”

“I still lose sleep over my wedding pep talk for you.”

“Loved that pep talk. Probably would’ve run away if it weren’t for that.”

“Good,” Hobi replies dryly. “You should’ve.”

Jimin shakes his head with a half-smile. “Hyung, let it go. Jeongguk’s important to her, she loves him and that means we have to tolerate him.”

Mark, who’s been pretending to focus on sorting samples, chimes in. “As long as he doesn’t mess with her deadlines, I don’t care who she loves.”

You snort, grateful for the shift. “Touching.”

“I try,” he deadpans, then sets a fabric swatch book down with a soft thud. “Now, if you three are done reliving heartbreak, someone needs to sort these model cards before I start mixing up shoe sizes with waistlines.”

Hobi stretches with a groan but grabs a stack anyway. “Alright, boss man. But I’m only helping if you admit I make this office look good.”

“You’re literally in a hoodie,” Mark replies.

“It’s Louis,” Hobi grins, already flipping through cards.

Jimin moves beside you, peeking at your tablet. “I’ll take over this round of approvals. You look like you’ve forgotten how to breathe again.”

You don’t argue. Instead, you lean back, letting them fall into your chaos like they’ve always known how. For the first time that day, the weight on your shoulders feels a little lighter.

The sounds of clicking keyboards and soft rustles of fabrics fills your office. Hobi’s made himself at home by the mood board, offering unasked-for commentary on color pairings while Jimin plays assistant, flipping through lookbooks with exaggerated seriousness.

“Please tell me this model isn’t walking the finale in suede,” Jimin mutters, squinting at a printout.

“She’s not,” Mark replies dryly. “Unless you’re volunteering to carry her down the runway when she slips.”

“Depends—do I get a signature Seora tux?”

You just listen, fingers moving slower over the tablet screen. Hobi's voice floats nearby, filling the room with something lighter than what usually hangs in the air. Even Mark’s tension has eased.

Your phone buzzes once, face down beside the tablet. Absentmindedly, you flip it over.

An Instagram story—Jeongguk’s username in soft gray at the top.

You tap before you can think. It’s a video, no more than five seconds. A woman in the passenger seat, laughing at something, her voice muffled by the hum of the road. The camera shifts slightly—Jeongguk must be holding it—then settles on her smile. The caption reads nothing but a small white heart.

The video ends. The screen stays still in your hand. Something in you stills with it—like a thread pulled too tight.

Around you, the others are still talking, still moving. Jimin’s flipping through a file, Hobi’s complaining about fluorescent lighting, Mark is reaching for the stapler.

You clear your throat, folding the tablet shut a little too gently. “We should go out.”

Jimin looks up. “Now?”

“Now,” You’re already reaching for your coat. “Need something stupid. Loud music. Tequila. Bad choices.”

Mark doesn’t move right away. “You hate drinking.”

“I hate being bored more Besides, Hobi said he misses the club.”

He squints at you, like he’s trying to see what’s beneath your voice, then shrugs. “Fine. But if you start handing out hair ties instead of cash again, I’m not pitching in for the bill.”

Hobi chokes on his drink. “You what?”

“She tipped a cab driver with pastel scrunchies once,” Mark says, deadpan. “Three of them. Said they were limited edition.”

“They were,” you mutter, grabbing your bag.

He grins. “She blinked twice and called him a national hero.”

“Did not.”

Jimin’s already pulling you toward the elevator. “Definitely something you’d do.”

By the time the city wraps itself in night, you're walking into a bar – walls pulse with bass-heavy music, sticky tabletops, all neon haze and lights smearing across floors. It smells like citrus and vodka, crowd packed in and pressed close. The music thrums deep in your chest—loud enough to make you forget why you needed to come here in the first place.

Mark secures a booth near the back, but it’s barely enough to keep the group together. Hobi’s already nodding along to the beat, shoulder-rolling with someone from another table.

Jimin returns with drinks, grinning like a thief. “Don’t ask what’s in these. Just trust me.”

You take the glass, the cold damp against your fingers. Sip, cough, and laugh—too sharp, too quick.

Mark watches you over the rim of his drink. Doesn’t say anything, just clinks his glass gently against yours, like a nudge. Like he knows.

The music’s heavy with bass pulsing through the floor and bodies moving like they’ve got nowhere else to be. You’re tucked in a booth with the others, nursing something that tastes vaguely like lime and trouble. Your cheeks are flushed from the heat, maybe the alcohol — hard to tell.

Jimin’s off in the crowd, still dancing, his shirt clinging to his back. Hobi’s yelling at the bartender about the injustice of watered-down whiskey. The chaos keeps spinning around you.

Mark returns with a bottle of water, sliding it in front of you without a word.

You give him a look. “No more fruity disasters?”

“Your face is pink, and you’re blinking like the lights are talking to you. Figured hydration might be smart.”

You crack a smile, fingers curling around the cold bottle.

“You good?” he asks, all teasing disappears in the air.

You nod, too quick. “Having fun.”

His eyes linger on you for a second longer than they should, but he doesn’t say anything else. Just leans back, letting his arm rest on the back of the booth, fingers tapping along to the beat — slow, relaxed.

“Still can’t believe you’re out drinking,” he says after a beat. “Thought you swore off alcohol after trying to tip that cab driver with your hair tie stash.”

You groan. “I thought they were coins.”

“You tried to convince him you were paying in ‘emotional value.’” He’s laughing now, full-bodied and loud, and you can’t help but laugh too.

“Still think he should’ve taken the deal.”

“Yeah, well. I think he did out of fear.”

He bumps your knee gently with his. No big deal. Just enough to remind you you’re still here — not stuck in your head or somewhere else entirely.

The tray keeps refilling, and so does the laughter. Something about the loud music, the spinning lights, and Hobi trying to choreograph a dance routine with two strangers at the bar makes everything feel distant, easier. Lighter.

You’re halfway through a very passionate explanation about why mozzarella sticks should be a food group when you decide — loudly, proudly — that it’s time to get your life together.

“Okay, okay, wait—shhh,” you hush the table like you're about to deliver breaking news. You dig through your bag like there’s treasure buried beneath the receipts and lip balm. “I need to call Jin. Like, right now. I’m making big-girl choices.”

Mark side-eyes you. “You’ve had three drinks in the past thirty minutes and tried to high-five a coat rack.”

“I meant to,” you insist, already tapping at your screen. “No more waiting. No more maybe-this, maybe-that. We’re finalizing the divorce. I’m done.”

Hobi nudges the bottle of soju away from your reach. “I vote we give it till tomorrow, when you’re not quoting Taylor Swift between shots.”

“Thought you wanted me to get rid of Ggukie?” Your cuteness usually does the trick of easing your friends. Guess mixing it with drunkenness was not as effective as you thought it’d be.

“Babe, that’s enough.” Jimin tries taking the two shots you’ve stolen from Mark but you’ve already drowned it before your thumb scrolls past half your contact list. You squint. The letters blur a little. It start’s with a ‘J’. That’s good enough. Green button. Press. Done.

It rings once.

Twice.

Then clicks.

“Hello?”

You don’t wait for confirmation.

“Jin! Listen to me. I’m ready. Let’s just finalize it. The divorce. The thing. You know. The huge emotional mess I’ve been dancing around like it’s a part-time hobby?”

There pause on the other end encourages you to go on.

“No, seriously, like—what am I even doing anymore? It’s been dragging on and on and now I’m out here at Seoul Clubhouse, in case you need to send backup—and I’ve had, like, three drinks and a fry that might’ve been someone else’s, and I’m just—tired, Jin.”

You tap your nail against your glass, looking anywhere but at your friends. “It fucking hurts. Pretending everything's okay fucking hurts.”

Hobi watches you closely. Mark pretends not to. Jimin’s stopped trying to grab the phone from you.

“Thought I was stronger than this. This was supposed to make me happy,” you mumble, softer now. “But here I am, making emotional speeches to my lawyer like a rom-com extra.”

You pause for breath, lifting the phone to say more—maybe something about closure, or freedom, or how weirdly loud the DJ’s playlist is tonight—but all you get is a click.

The call ends.

The blurry call log stares back at you, vague and impersonal. You drop your phone into your bag, reaching for another drink as Mark leans closer, steering the conversation back toward something safer.

The lights blur like streaks of color, and the bass is thudding through your shoes. You don’t even feel your legs anymore. Just warmth—in your cheeks, in your chest, maybe in your throat, too, where the last round of drinks is still trying to settle.

You’re laughing at something Jimin said, though you’re not sure what it was, and your body leans a little too far to the side. Mark catches you with a steady hand on your back. He says something, but the music swallows it whole. You don’t hear him. Just feel the steadiness of him.

Your hand finds his. Without thinking, you lace your fingers together like it's nothing. Like it’s normal.

Mark stiffens a little, glancing at you—but you don’t meet his eyes. Just leaned your head against his shoulder, letting your fingers rest there in his. He doesn’t move away. Your breath is warm against his neck, and then your hand is brushing his jaw as you lift your face. The space between you pulls thinner. You lean in—

He pulls away before your lips get too close.

"Nope," he says, half-laughing, half-sighing. "Don’t go handing out kisses like drink coupons. I’m flattered, but also not trying to get sued by future you. Plus, you're not going to be like him."

You squint up at him. "You’re no fun."

"I’m plenty fun. Just also not a complete idiot."

He smiles at you, but his eyes say something softer. Excuses himself to get more napkins from the bar before you notice anything. Or maybe you’re too far gone you’re seeing things.

Jeongguk’s not sure what made him come. Maybe it was the call. Maybe it was the silence that followed. Maybe it was your voice on the other end, slurring things he didn’t know would break him.

His eyes adjust slowly to the dim lights and flashing neon. The music hits him first—loud, messy, alive. Then he sees you.

You’re at a booth, slumped a little, smiling faintly, blinking slow. Your makeup’s a little smudged at the edges. Mark sits beside you, arm draped across the booth behind your shoulders. Casual, but close.

He leans in to say something near your ear and you tilt your head, eyes closing like it’s the only way to stay balanced.

Jeongguk watches from where he stands near the door, half-hidden behind a group laughing on their way out. It should be easy to walk away. You’re surrounded by friends. You look… happy. Or at least like someone trying to be.

But his jaw tightens, and something keeps his feet planted.

Hobi spots him first. There’s no welcome in his stare. Just the faintest wrinkle between his brows. A silent question. Or maybe a warning.

Jeongguk nods once, barely.

And then your eyes find him. Even through the haze, something sobers in your face.

“We’re leaving,” he says once he’s close enough. His voice cuts through the haze like a thread—steady and low.

You blink, slowly. “We are?”

“Let’s go,” he replies simply.

“I came with them.”

Jeongguk looks at the group. Hobi’s arms are crossed, unreadable. Jimin’s chewing on his lip. Mark’s the last to glance up, his jaw clenched.

“She’ll be alright,” Mark says, but it lacks conviction.

“Respectfully Hyung, fuck off.” Jeongguk says, gaze flicking toward him. “She called me. This conversation is between me and my wife.”

“She’s your wife now?”

That pulls a shift in the air. Everyone exchanges glances, and it hits you with a wave of confusion.

“I didn’t…” you trail off, brows pulling in.

“Go,” Jimin leans over, pressing his palm to your back. “You’ll feel better if you talk.”

You look back at Jeongguk. His face isn’t angry. Isn’t soft either. Just still.

Your mouth opens to argue, but Hobi already helping you stand. “Call us if anything happens.”

Jeongguk takes your coat from the booth, drapes it gently over your shoulders. The moment you step into the cold air outside, it bites at your skin, but the tension in your chest is sharper.

You’re not sure how Jeongguk’s here. How he even knew where to find you. Not sure why your friends wanted you to do this as if they knew it’s something that the two of you needed right now.

But you’re walking beside him anyway, under the streetlights, your steps unsteady but sure enough to follow.

Jeongguk drives out of the city, past the closed shops and quiet streets, until the lights thin out and the trees start replacing buildings. You don’t know where he’s taking you at first. Just know that you want to get out of the seat that was occupied not too long ago by someone you wish you never get to see in this lifetime.

But you don’t smell that awfully familiar expensive, sweet, citrus fragrance that usually made your stomach churn. Then again, you’re too drunk out of your ass to know which of your senses were functioning right at the moment.

Jeongguk parks at the edge of an overlook, an old, tucked away spot you haven’t seen in years. A place people go to when they need to escape the harsh reality.

“Used to come here,” you murmur, eyes on the city lights below. “When the world felt too loud.”

“I know,” he says, leading you to the bench that’s still around. “You brought me here once. After your first runway show. Said the noise didn’t follow you up this high.”

Dropping onto the bench, you look up to the sky. “No one ever comes here this late.”

“That’s the point, right?”

Beyond the trees, a breeze stirs the leaves, brushing through the branches like a careful whisper. A few crickets sing from the grass nearby, soft and steady, like they’re keeping a quiet rhythm for the moment. The single lamppost nearby, casts long shadows that barely move. Everything feels like it’s waiting—for what, you’re not sure.

Jeongguk observes you, like he’s trying to find something in your expression he hasn’t seen before. “Any reason you chose a night of partying instead of dinner with me?”

“Thought maybe tequila, mojitos and shots of soju would help with forgetting – better than some truffle pasta that’s not even made with real truffle. And some noodles they probably boiled in the microwave.”

“Excuse me,” Jeongguk scoffs, then chuckles under his breath, trying to ease the tension between you. “That restaurant is Italian-owned. Verified and approved by Taehyung. You know how picky he is.”

You groan, your head falling back in laughter, nearly tipping off the bench—until Jeongguk catches your arm and pulls you close to his side. “Don’t make me add another regret to tonight.”

Jeongguk doesn’t say anything—just keeps his arm around your shoulders, steady and quiet.

“I’m sorry you had to come here,” you whisper, hoping he hears you over the wind starting to pick up. “Sorry if I messed up your plans for tonight.”

He exhales softly. “My plan was to take this beautiful woman to a little place called Eatanic Garden,” He glances down at you, voice playful. “She was supposed to have her favorite truffle pasta and a wine that was way too expensive for what it tasted like. Maybe laugh at my awful attempt to be the next best comedian in Korea.”

You smile, eyes barely open. “Sounds like she dodged a bullet.”

“Hope she didn’t,” he says, tugging your jacket gently. “She’d love that truffle pasta.”

You don’t answer. Just stare at the city beyond you. Jeongguk looks at you then, and his voice comes softer this time. “You okay?”

You nod, too fast. “Yeah… just a little foggy. Think I said some really dumb stuff earlier.”

“Yeah?” he asks, casual—but not really. You sense there’s something behind it, just couldn’t pin point what.

Shifting closer to Jeongguk, your body instinctively leans into his chest like it’s the only stable thing in your spinning world right now. “Last I remember, I picked up the phone. Meant to call Jin…probably to yell at him about paperwork or whatever.”

Jeongguk goes still like he’s holding his breath. You’re not sure. You’re too far into your head to name it.

“Didn’t even check if I dialed the right number,” you mumble, fingers now twisting in the hem of your sleeve. “Might’ve said things I didn’t mean…”

He swallows, his voice coming quieter than before. “Remember anything you said?”

You shrug against him. “Not really. Just that feeling like I was ready to... burn something down. Start over, maybe.” You laugh, but it comes out hollow. “Bet I sounded like a mess.”

“You didn’t sound like a mess.” Jeongguk says. Shrugs off the surprised look on your face, looks away with a forced kind of ease. “I mean…I can just imagine. You’re not really the screaming type, rambling maybe, but never yelling, even drunk. Probably just another sad and dramatic episode of yours.”

You narrow your eyes at him, half-joking. “Wow. Thanks.”

“Must’ve been a weird conversation, though. For the person who picked up, I mean.”

“Yeah. Wonder if I even got through Jin.” You tried looking for your phone in your bag, eyes still clouded. Relieved you got to find it quickly. Only for Jeongguk to snatch it away from you. You frown, not expecting him to take it. “Hey—”

“Maybe don’t check it right now,” Jeongguk holds the phone just out of reach. His voice is gentle, almost coaxing. “You’ve had enough for tonight.”

You blink up at him, confused. “What? Why?”

He hesitates. “Because I don’t think you’ll like seeing the call log.”

Your stomach dips.

He doesn’t hand the phone back.

You look at him suspiciously, your senses suddenly coming together when you start to move away from him. “It was you, wasn’t it? I called you.”

Jeongguk taps against the phone once. Doesn’t answer.

The ripple in your chest feels like a shoot set has collapsed. “That’s why you’re here. Fuck, I called you. What did I say?”

He hesitates, shakes his head, thinks he can keep the truth from you. “Doesn’t matter.”

“Gguk.”

There’s a long pause but he couldn’t keep up with the way you were looking at him. “You said you were done holding on. That it was time.” His voice cracks there, so faintly you almost miss it. “You didn’t say my name. Didn’t have to.”

Silence pools around you. The wind brushes past your cheek, cold now. “I was drunk.”

“You sounded sure. Of finally letting go.”

You pause, glance at him with a tired smile. “That'd be a relief for you. Your final freedom.”

There’s a flicker in his expression—gone almost instantly, but you catch it. A tightening around the eyes. “Sure, whatever you say.”

“I’m sorry for whatever other stupid shit I said.”

His fingers twitch slightly where they still rest near yours, like they want to reach for you again but think better of it. “You said what you felt. That’s not stupid.”

You observe how composed he looks, how carefully he holds himself together. It strikes you, strangely, how calm he is right now. Or rather, how hard he’s trying to look like it.

“You’re being weird,” you mutter, resting your head against the back of the bench.

“I’m always weird,” Jeongguk says, but there’s no bite to it. Just quiet. A stillness too long between his answers. “Come on,” he says gently, brushing a loose strand of hair from your face. “Let’s get you home.”

The air is too warm, too still. The silk sheets tangled around your legs feel like they’re trapping heat instead of offering comfort. Light cuts through the curtains in soft gold streaks, but there’s nothing gentle about the weight pressing against your chest.

Your skin’s damp — not from sweat, but from something deeper, like your body’s been fighting a quiet war all night and lost.

Every breath feels heavier than it should. Your limbs ache, not the kind that disappears after stretching, but the kind that lingers under the surface. Dull. Faintly buzzing. Like a warning that’s easy to ignore until it isn’t.

Somewhere downstairs, you hear muffled footsteps. A door opens, closes. Then silence again. Must be your mother leaving for grocery errands. You hoped it was. Wouldn’t want her seeing you like this again.

You shift onto your side, half hoping it’ll ease the tightness in your head, but it doesn’t. Instead, it sharpens — a pulsing reminder of everything you poured into last night like it wouldn’t matter come morning.

Your phone vibrates against the nightstand. Once. Twice. You painfully reach for it. Read the messages through hazy vision.

Tuanzy 👴🏼: You alive? Or did Soju win?

🌞💛: Barely. Think I’m actually dying.

Tuanzy 👴🏼: Joke like that again, and I’m firing you.

🌞💛: Can’t fire me. I’m the boss. Just not today. Think you can handle off-site alone?

Tuanzy 👴🏼: Already on it. Sending help. Hate me next time.

You don’t argue. Don’t have the strength to. Just go back to sleep at some point before the heat becomes worse. Not from the blazing afternoon sun. No, you love those. Loved how it’s a comforting warmth on your skin. This time, it burns from the inside. Your bones feel like they’re melting and freezing at the same time.

The knock is soft when it comes. Two taps and a pause.

“Let me guess,” you mumble hoarsely. “Doctor delivery service?”

The door opens. Yoongi steps in — long black coat, silver chain peeking beneath his collar, a familiar bag slung over his shoulder. “You look awful.”

“Always know how to greet an old friend huh?”

He drags a chair to your bedside, sinks into, starts pulling things from his bag. “I should start charging Mark Hyung at this point.”

“I’ll pay you in cough drops and poor life decisions.”

“Pass.” He checks your pulse first, fingers cool against your wrist. His brows knit slightly. “Heart’s too fast.”

“Guess it missed you.”

Yoongi doesn’t smile. Just presses a thermometer under your tongue and sets his watch.

“Thought I felt bad last night when I got home.” You mumble. “Turns out that was just the preview.”

“Didn’t even change out of your clothes.” His tone’s flat, but still gently works the blanket over you. “That’s not ‘preview’ bad. That’s post disaster.”

“Was cold. Too tired to change, to do anything else.”

The thermometer beeps, and he checks it with a short sigh. “High. Not dangerous yet, but pushing it.” The stethoscope goes against your chest next. “Breathe.”

Shallow breaths. Deeper. Again. Yoongi listens for too long. Finally, he pulls back and leans in his chair, rubbing his jaw. “You’re paler than usual.”

“Thanks. Been trying this new foundation—thought we could use it for the Paris models. Not for my skin though.”

Yoongi doesn’t even blink. “Well, your new foundation’s reading a 41.2°C and counting.”

You groan and drop your head back into the pillows. “Maybe I’m just glowing.”

“If by glowing you mean burning alive from the inside out, sure.”

Your fingers tighten around the edge of the blanket. “It’s just a fever.”

“You’ve had three in two weeks.“

“I danced in the rain and drank poison. What else do you want from me?”

Yoongi leans back, crosses his arms. “To stop being reckless hoping the damage resets overnight.”

You look away. “It didn’t. So boo me.”

Yoongi shifts forward, reaching for your wrist again to check your pulse a second time. “I’m prescribing rest, fluids, and for you to stop pretending this is fine.” He begins repacking his bag slowly but doesn’t leave.

“Not pretending.”

“You are,” he reaches over and brushes the damp hair away from your forehead. “Can’t keep burning both ends. Sooner or later, it’s going to catch up.”

You pretend not to hear him. And he pretends not to notice.

Then Yoongi's gone. The silence that follows is louder than anything he left behind.

The gym smells like metal and sweat — the kind that sticks to your skin, soaks into your clothes, and clouds the mirrors. Jeongguk moves through his warm-up before the sun is even visible, breath steady, arms coiled tight under the weight of the barbell. The plates clink against each other like a metronome. Clean. Predictable. Easier than the mess in his head.

He lifts until his muscles burn and his palms sting. Until the thoughts go quiet.

Across the room, Mingyu waves, a playful grin on his face. They slip into an easy back-and-forth — set for set, sweat for sweat — until the hours pass, and they’re both leaning by the water cooler, shirts stuck to their skin, hearts still pounding.

“Bulking again?” Mingyu jokes, flicking his towel at Jeongguk’s side.

Jeongguk just shrugs, glancing away. “Just staying busy.”

Mingyu smirks, eyes unreadable. “That’s a lot of protein powder for someone who’s just passing time.”

Jeongguk doesn’t explain. Wouldn’t know where to start if he tried.

By the time he gets home, the sun’s high enough to throw soft shadows across the hardwood floor. He lets the gym bag fall by the stairs. The house greets him the same way it always does now — too still, too neat. Like a place where nothing lives anymore.

His eyes land on the scuff mark on the wall — the small dent from when you’d tried to carry that too-big box upstairs, laughing as you bumped into everything. He always said he’d fix it. Never did.

The fridge clicks open, cold light spilling over shelves lined up too neatly. No jars of sauce shoved in the corners. No half-empty cartons of almond milk pushed to the back. Just neat rows of containers he doesn’t remember filling. He shuts it again, the sound sharp in the quiet air.

A purple tulip sits on the counter in a slim glass vase — yesterday’s, technically, but the petals still hold their shape. His fingers graze the stem as he walks by. He changes the water. Watches it settle.

The streets of Seochon hum with life. Rain from the night before clings to the stone, and the scent of something sweet drifts from the café on the corner. Jeongguk walks beside Taehyung, listening — mostly — to a monologue about some artist who paints sadness in nothing but blues and grays. Taehyung calls it moving. Jeongguk can’t decide if it sounds lonely or honest.

His thoughts keep slipping sideways. To the curve of your shoulders under his jacket. To how small you felt, pressed against his side. To the way your voice cracked — just once — when you said you were ready to let go.

“You’re distracted,” Taehyung says, lightly shoving the younger to the sidewalk.

Jeongguk lets out a soft laugh, shaking his head. “I’m okay.”

“Sure,” Taehyung drawls, but he doesn’t push. That’s the thing about old friends — they know when to let the quiet be.

They stop beneath a green awning, where a street stall overflows with peonies, ranunculus, and there, bold and bright — purple tulips. Jeongguk goes still, the movement small, almost easy to miss.

Taehyung leans in, his voice low. “Coincidence?”

Jeongguk doesn’t answer. Doesn’t have to.

There’s a shop tucked behind the record store — tiny, too warm, a little cluttered. He trails his fingers along the edge of a display until they stop on a postcard. Tulips, faded and bleeding at the corners like a memory that won’t stay whole. It’s just a card. Just paper. He keeps telling himself that as he brings it to the counter, as he slips it into his pocket.

Back home, it rests between his fingers longer than it should before he tucks it into a book you loved. The Little Prince. Right at the part with the fox —the part you always stopped at, smiling softly when you read it out loud.

Somewhere in between folding the laundry too neatly and fixing the bookshelf for the third time, the stillness starts to feel heavy. His eyes drift to the window — to the sky that stretches wide and quiet. He doesn’t name the feeling, but it tightens in his chest. It’s not longing. It’s not regret. He doesn’t know anymore what it is.

It’s nothing, he tells himself. Just the pull of an open day.

Almost without thinking, Jeongguk grabs his keys. The tulip on the counter watches as he walks past. The door clicks shut behind him. Though the house doesn’t speak, it feels like it knows exactly where he’s gone.

The afternoon drapes itself softly over the garden. You tip the watering can, slow and steady, watching droplets gather on the leaves, the scent sharp and familiar. Somewhere near the trellis, a bee hums lazily through the air, darting between lavender blossoms, unbothered by your presence.

From the veranda, your mother’s voice floats across the stones, light with amusement. “Careful — you’re going to drown that poor basil.”

You glance back, lips curving, the sun catching in your hair. “I’m practicing moderation,” you call, the words lilting, playful.

She steps onto the path with practiced grace, linen robe brushing her ankles, arms folded loosely in front of her. “You’ve been out here all morning.”

“Figured I owed the basil after nearly drowning myself with cocktails the other night.”

Her brow arches. “Drowning yourself and calling the wrong number, apparently.”

You don’t answer, just lean over to pat soil around a drooping sprig, movements a little too careful.

Your mother watches you for a moment longer. “You know, sweetheart, it’s okay to rest. You don’t have to work it off like penance.”

“I’m not,” you say quickly, too quickly. “I’m just—”

“—fine,” she finishes, a faint smile at the edge of her lips. “You always say that when you’re not.”

You blink down at the planter, pretending to check the stems again. Your hands smell of thyme and dirt, and there’s a tight pull in your shoulder that won’t quite stretch out. “It was one stupid night.”

Her hand brushes your hair back, a mother’s touch — practiced and full of quiet worry. “You walked in the rain in a blazer too thin for the season. Skipped meals if it weren’t for your friends. Then burned through your tolerance like you were nineteen again.”

You huff, a little defensive. “I’m only thirty-three. I’m still allowed to be a mess sometimes.”

Her thumb smooths over your temple. “Not this kind of mess.”

The words land heavier than you expect. You try to brush it off with a laugh, reaching for the watering can again. “Come on. You said I needed fresh air. This counts.”

“You’ve had enough fresh air,” she says, fingers curling gently around your wrist. “Let the gardeners do the rest.”

“I’m not fragile,” you say, too soft for it to sound convincing.

“Never said you were.” But she holds your wrist a moment longer before letting go.

You sit back on your heels, breath coming thinner now. The sun is warm, but there’s a faint chill that clings to your spine, like it knows something you don’t. Still, you press a palm to the planter’s edge and slowly push yourself to your feet.

“I’m fine,” you repeat, forcing a smile. “Just went overboard a little, that’s all.”

Your mother doesn’t press further, but her eyes flick over you once more — the way your skin looks slightly paler today, the subtle flush that’s not from the sun. She lets it go, for now.

“You’ll come in soon?” she asks.

“In a minute,” you promise, already turning back to the herbs.

She nods once, then makes her way back toward the house, her robe trailing softly behind her.

The wind shifts. A breeze filters through the garden, carrying the scent of earth and rosemary, and something else — a hint of something familiar. You don’t notice it at first. You’re too focused on getting the soil just right, on grounding yourself in this routine that feels easier than thinking.

But then — the faint creak of the garden gate.

You glance up, startled.

Jeongguk stands at the edge of the path, the sun catching on his dark hair, a paper bag in one hand, the other tucked into the pocket of his coat. He looks like he wasn’t sure he’d find you here. Like he wasn’t sure he should’ve come at all.

You straighten slowly, heart thudding, unsure if the warmth rushing through you is from the heat or something else entirely.

He lifts the bag slightly, something sheepish in the tilt of his mouth. “Brought croffles.”

“It’s Sunday.”

His gaze flicks over you, pausing at your flushed cheeks, your hands smudged with soil. “Yeah,” he says softly. “I know.”

[tacoguacamole]

ANOTHER TIME | JJK - 3

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

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

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

[Theme: Marriage AU. BF2L2S]

[Warnings: Major Angst, Multiple Flashbacks and Time Jumps, Mature Theme, Smut, Mature/Explicit Language, A lot of fluff, Romance, Slowburn]

[Older JK, Older OC, Older Bangtan, Lawyer Seokjin and Namjoon, Doctor Yoongi, Event Planner Hobi, Solo idol Jimin, Secretary Taehyung, Brief cameos of Seventeen Mingyu, GOT7 Mark, Kook's a jerk and mean for the earlier chapters]

[Status: Ongoing]

[Part 1. Part 2. Part 3. Chapter Word Count: 7k+]

[Chapter Summary: Some things return in quiet ways — a coffee, a crooked smile, the way his arms still know where to hold you. It isn’t the past, not really, but it lingers at the edges. And as you sit across from him again, you start to wonder if memory alone is enough to make something feel like it’s still here.]

[MINORS DNI! 18+]

The morning air feels different today — crisper somehow, even though the sky outside the kitchen window glows the same pale blue as every other morning.

You don’t flinch when the doorbell rings. You knew he’d come.

When you open the door, Jeongguk is standing there, awkward in his usual work button up and slacks, a small bouquet of purple tulips in his hands. He looks like he wants to say a thousand things but can’t settle on a single one. His eyes flicker down to the purple tulips, then up to you.

For a second, neither of you moves. Then, with a quiet sigh, he leans forward and presses a brief kiss to your forehead, his arms coming around you in a hesitant, practiced hug — one that used to mean comfort, but now it’s just obligatory. His grip is gentle, almost too careful, like he’s afraid of breaking something that’s already cracked.

Still, you hold on to him a little longer, hanging on to the bit of happiness your heart feels.

Stepping aside, you let him in. The scent of eggs and toast floats lightly from the kitchen, where your mother busies herself with the stove. Her clattering is pointedly loud, each clang sharper than necessary. She doesn’t greet him. Doesn’t even glance his way. Stays silent. Keeps her promise. Lets you have this.

Sitting across from him at the dining table, a plate of toast is left untouched between you. There's a heavy silence, like you're both waiting for someone to call cut on a campaign shoot you’re both working on. He twirls the tulips nervously in his fingers before you gently reach over and take them from him, burying your nose into the petals.

"You remembered," you say softly, a little laugh escaping.

“I’d get sued if I forgot,” he murmurs, lips curling into a faint ghost of a smile—one you haven’t seen in a long time.

Neither of you speak. It's just the clinking of silverware filling the awkward space between you. There’s no pressure to talk, not yet. The list said conversations are optional, and maybe that’s mercy for both of you this morning.

So you just observe him. He doesn’t look at you at first. Just keeps his eyes on the table or the clock or the edge of his coffee mug. But his hand twitches a little, like he's trying to grasp for something. Finally, he asks,

“Am I…” He pauses, clears his throat. “Am I allowed to ask why you’re doing this?”

You knew this question would come at some point. The revised and signed agreements that Seokjin brings to you by morning after you had them delivered to Jeongguk's lawyer, made you figure out just as much. Your own lawyer was shocked with how fast things were progressing.

Setting the fork down carefully, wiping your fingers with a napkin, you reply, “No. No questions throughout the days. You signed, had the chance to counter, but you didn’t.”

Jeongguk swallows hard but says nothing else. Simply goes back to the breakfast he has a hard time digesting.

You breathe in deeply, searching for something easier to talk about. “Wanna tell me about work? What’s been going on lately?”

That pulls a reluctant smile from him. “Mingyu’s the new face of Calvin Klein. I’ve been working on the campaign with him.”

You grin, genuine this time. “Look at you. Still the golden boy.”

He chuckles under his breath, tapping his fingers against his mug. “Just trying to do my job. You know how it is.”

You nod, sipping your coffee. “Work’s just about to get crazy for me, too. Seora’s landed a spot at Paris Fashion Week again.”

His eyes widen, a spark of pride flickering there. “Seriously? That’s…that’s huge.” The excitement he shares almost feel real. “Two years in row. Congratulations.”

“Thank you. Mark’s been working really hard to keep getting us the spot. He’ll head to Paris soon with the team to prep.”

His gaze softens a little at the mention of your business partner. “You’re not going this time?”

You shake your head, casually swirling the coffee in your cup. “Someone’s got to hold down the fort here.” The lie comes out smoothly.

“But… Paris is your favorite,” Jeongguk says, quieter this time. “You used to call me at three a.m. just to show me the Eiffel Tower lights.”

Your heart skips a beat, hearing how he remembers the better times of your lives, the soft smile across your lips you don’t hide. “Things change, Gguk. Priorities, you know?”

He watches you longer than necessary, like he’s trying to see through your carefully placed calm. “And Mark’s okay with you staying back?”

There’s a shift in his expression you don’t quite pin point. Jealousy? Sadness?

You laugh, ignoring the possibilities, shaking your head. “Mark’s job is to travel and secure global opportunities for us. It’s what we pay him to do. He’s always been my business partner. You know that.”

Leaning back in your chair, cheek resting on your knuckles, you study him. There’s a hint of relief on him that you catch.

“Were you hoping I was secretly dating him?” The faintest shade of red on his ears makes you chuckle. “Or…wait, Jeon Jeongguk, are you jealous?” That thought would’ve been a miracle. But for now, it’s just a good joke to share over breakfast.

He chuckles, shaking his head, voice barely above a mumble. “No. Just… curious.”

It breaks some of the remaining tension between you. The rest of the breakfast is filled with easier conversations. Updates about mutual friends, industry rumors, the chaos of wrangling Seventeen’s troublemaker into a shoot.

“Thought photographers were supposed to be calm under pressure,” you tease, tapping your spoon lightly against your cup.

He leans back in his chair, arms crossed, mouth twitching into a reluctant smile. “Try staying calm when your model’s flexing so hard he knocks over the entire backdrop.”

You laugh harder than you should, and for a moment, it feels like you're twenty something again — sitting cross-legged on your old apartment’s rooftop at midnight, talking about dreams and futures you thought were set in stone.

The scent of iris, white musk, and soft leather clings to the air — the signature fragrance of Seora, your second home for so many years.

Your mother walks beside you, silent but steady, her presence a pillar against the invisible weight pressing down on your chest. She’s dressed sharply, as always — an elegant blazer, pearl earrings, her posture straight and proud. But you see the way her hands tighten briefly around the strap of her handbag.

You pretend not to notice.

Employees bow as you pass — some with genuine warmth, others with careful restraint. Still, you return every bow with a polite smile, polished and practiced, a mask you've worn too long to forget.

Mark is already waiting just outside your office – leaning lazily against the wall like he owns the place, as usual.

“There she is. Queen of Seora.” He greets you with wide grin, sweeping into an exaggerated bow. “Her Royal Highness finally graces us with her presence.”

You huff a laugh, and even your mother’s lips twitch with reluctant amusement. She’s long since accepted your dynamic with Mark — chaos and comfort stitched together.

“Flattery will get you nowhere, Tuan,” you reply, brushing past him.

He shrugs, falling into step behind you. “Worth a shot.”

Inside, your office is unchanged — glass desk, curated shelves, years of framed achievements, the photo of you and your mother at your first gala.

But something feels off today. The air, maybe. Or the way the room echoes in silence a little too much.

Setting your bag down, you smooth the creases out of your skirt, take a seat after behind your desk. Your mother sits across from you – dignified, composed – her eyes scanning the folders Mark has already placed neatly at the center of the table.

“Preliminary turnover documents.” He explains, voice light, still professional. “Contracts, executive summaries, shareholder agreements. The ones needing your signature are flagged.”

You nod, flipping open the top folder. The pages blur for a moment before your vision clears.

You focus. One step at a time.

Across from you, your mother doesn’t speak. But you feel her eyes — weighted, patient. This was her legacy, once. Then yours. Now returning to her hands again only because it was necessary.

Forgetting the folder, she takes your hand in hers. Gives a hesitant but assuring smile as much as she can. “I’ll take care of it, darling. Don’t worry about a thing.”

You swallow thickly as you try to return a smile.

Mark leans back in his chair, trying to break the heaviness taking over the room. “So,” he says, stretching exaggeratedly, “does this mean I get majority of the shares now that the queen is abdicating?”

You laugh, the sound bubbling up brighter than you expect. “If you’re willing to handle future meetings with Jeongguk. He’s getting a nice chunk once the papers go through, in case you’re forgetting.”

Mark groans, dragging a hand down his face. “So he gets the shares and visitation rights to you?”

“Didn’t realize this was a custody battle.”

Your mother chimes in dryly, eyes still on the new folders spread across your desk. “Funny how he always ends up with the best part of things he barely worked for.”

Mark’s expression tightens, a mix of humor and something sharper. “Always been the lucky one.”

The next hour is all motion. Documents reviewed, initials scrawled, strategies adjusted. You talk vendor relations. You approve final budget notes. When the paperwork is finally stacked neatly in three clean piles — Pending, Signed, Review Again — you lean back in your chair with a sigh.

Your mother rises, smoothing invisible wrinkles from her blazer. “We’ll go over the audit reports tomorrow. For now, let’s go home.”

Her gaze lingers on you for a moment — searching, aching — before she composes herself again.

You stand too, brushing your fingers lightly over the edge of your desk.

Mark doesn’t move. You look at him. The silence stretches too long — too full. “I’ll handle the Paris accounts. Send you photos soon.”

You manage a soft smile, grateful for everything he’s doing without saying it. “Make sure the lighting at our booth doesn’t wash out the models this year.”

“I’m offended you’d even think it.”

You roll your eyes.

But you’re grateful — so grateful — for the way he keeps the edges of this afternoon from cutting too deep.

The evening settled quietly over the house. No peace lingering – more like a tension waiting for the first person to break. The table was already set when Jeongguk arrived. Steam rose from the dishes laid out — galbi, japchae, kimchi jjigae, and a small stack of neatly rolled egg omelettes.

Picking up his chopsticks, he hesitated before speaking. “So…how was work today?”

You chew slowly, buying yourself a little time before answering. “Busy. Meetings here and there. Some finalizing needed for fashion week. A few contract turnovers. You know, the usual things when companies shift hands.” You shrug like it’s nothing, like you didn’t spend the entire afternoon sorting years of hard work.

Jeongguk’s brows furrow slightly. “You’re…handing things over?”

You’re too quick to answer. “No, no—just…just creating a little space to breathe. Was thinking I want some time to myself.” The assuring smile you give Jeongguk was convincing enough for him to move on to lighter things. “Nothing major.”

“Mark still driving you crazy with last-minute changes?”

"Who else do you know works with me, that loves throwing in new ideas when deadlines are hours away?”

Jeongguk’s mouth quirks into a smile, the first genuine one since he sat down. “Mark. Mark Tuan. Yeah, that sounds about right.”

The night falls into a soft stillness, the kind that follows when the laughter fades and the last dishes are cleaned. Soft light spilled from the kitchen, casting a warm glow that barely reached past the doorway, leaving the front hall in shadow.

Jeongguk stands by the doorway, his hand resting on the frame, fingers lightly touching it like he needs something to hold onto. His eyes drift – over the neatly hung photos on the wall, the soft rug that shows signs of time, the wide staircase that curves the way he remembers.

One photo catches his eye—bigger than the others and set a little apart. Two people in white, laughing like nothing could ever go wrong, with the ocean in the background—Gwangalli, if he’s really looking. You wonder if he missed it this morning. Don’t blame him if he did. The nerves must’ve been burying him six feet under.

“Sorry. I’ll have Eomma take it down,” you clear your throat, breaking the quiet.

“It’s fine,” Jeongguk shifts. Glances at you and then away. “So…the hugs and forehead kisses,” You notice the small smile tugging on the corner of his lips, feeling thankful for the shift from the awkwardness. "That really had to be on the list, huh?"

A soft laugh slips from you, unguarded. “It did.”

“Was it a punishment?” It’s a joke, but you don’t miss the uncertainty flicker in his eyes.

“Is that how you feel?”

Your bluntness catches him off guard. Guilt flashes. The breath he lets out like a quiet surrender.

Slowly, he steps forward, arms coming up in a hesitant, careful hug. His chest brushes yours, his forehead resting lightly against your temple – a touch familiar, but no longer easy.

Your eyes slip closed as you let yourself lean in, not because it feels natural, but because for a moment, it’s enough to remember how it once did.

“Goodnight,” Jeongguk murmurs, his voice low and close.

You smile, the kind that’s felt more than seen. “Goodnight, Gguk.”

He lingers just long enough to press the lightest kiss to your temple — so fleeting it’s almost not there, and yet, when the door clicks shut behind him and the quiet stretches in, it’s the one thing that stays.

You sit on the edge of the bed later, hair still damp from a quick shower, your fingers curled around the corner of the old photo album you'd told yourself not to open tonight.

The room is filled with nothing but the soft hum of the air purifier and the faint ticking of the wall clock. You don’t know what you’re hoping to find in these pages. Something soft, maybe. Something easier than the quiet goodbye at the door.

The pages smell like dust and faint vanilla — the kind your mother used to tuck into the drawers when you were younger. You flip until your fingers still on a picture, one that had always made you laugh.

You’re on a picnic mat, legs stretched out, shoes kicked off beside you. Jeongguk’s in the next one — lying flat on his back with his arms thrown wide, squinting at the sun. There’s a juice box pressed to his cheek like it’s the only thing keeping him alive in the heat. He’s smiling wide, without shame or thought. His hair’s longer, lighter — summer had bleached the tips — and his shirt has ketchup on it.

You can almost hear it again.

"You're the worst picnic planner ever," he groans, dragging the back of his hand over his forehead dramatically.

"You said you wanted hot dogs."

"Not molten lava ones!"

You laugh at the memory. Remembered, he’d still eaten two more after that. Said they were terrible with his mouth full and asked for a third.

You remember how he used to love loudly. How he’d pull you into hugs like he never wanted to let go. The way he’d lean in to kiss your forehead in the middle of a crowd without caring who saw. The time he ran to the other side of the beach where the ice-cream kiosk was, just to bring you a mint chocolate cone he badly wanted you to try, holding it above his head like it was sacred.

"It’s ugly and green."

"You love ugly things."

"That’s why I’m dating you?"

"Exactly," he’d said, grinning, rain dripping from his lashes, "you’ve got great taste."

You close the album slowly.

Tonight, his arms were careful. His kiss, light as a breath. Back then, there was no hesitation. No pause before he touched you, no weight between your names.

You lie back on the bed, pressing your palms over your face, hoping to bury the pain that feels like it has made a home in your chest.

You didn’t think the time would come that you’d have to miss a version of Jeongguk who used to laugh into your shoulder and whisper stupid things to make you snort in public. The version who always held you a little longer, like he could make time stop if he tried hard enough.

You always thought that version of him would stay for a lifetime.

Now, the only way you get to see that side of him is through a list—through something he feels he has to do.

But you’ll take what you can. For now, you’ll accept whatever life hands you.

The sun hasn’t climbed high enough to chase away the gray. The streets are still damp from the night, and your breath clouds faintly as you step outside, coat collar turned up against the early chill. There’s something about mornings like this — quiet, half-lit — that makes everything feel softer around the edges.

You hadn’t slept much. Rest felt like a visitor you forgot to greet last night, slipping past you somewhere between the click of the door and the ache that settled deep in your chest. Still, your steps are steady as you make your way through familiar streets, ones your feet could trace even blindfolded.

The shop appears like a memory made solid — tucked between a florist and a tiny dry cleaner, its awning still a little crooked on one side. The glass is fogged near the bottom, and someone’s taped a doodle of a smiling sun on the door.

Inside, it’s warm. Familiar.

The left wall is still lined with notebooks and sketchpads in soft neutral tones, racks of pastel washi tape, pens arranged by gradient. You let your fingers skim the edge of a purple sketchbook on display — the same brand you used to hoard during finals week. The same ones Jeongguk used to scribble dumb little nothings in just to annoy you.

You claim your usual seat by the window, near the radiator that still hums faintly when it kicks on. The light here is gentle, and the table still has the faint outline of a coffee ring etched into the wood. The café counter sits snug beside the stationery section, and for a second, it’s easy to believe no time has passed at all.

You order for two. Wait. Don’t check your phone. Know Jeongguk’s on his way. Not like you’ve given him a choice.

Your gaze drifts — over the shelves, to the corner where a worn beanbag still sits, slouched as always. Something about the moment folds in on itself, slipping back in time.

You were running late. Again. Hair barely brushed, laces undone, your tote bag unorganized and overflowing with books needed for classes today, jammed under your arm.

The bell above the door had barely finished ringing when you stumbled in and spotted him already there, halfway through a chocolate croissant and bent over your sketchbook – the one you’ve been looking for hours this whole morning, the reason why you were late.

“Seriously?” you’d huffed, dropping into the seat across from him. “Flipped our dorm upside down looking for that and it was with you this whole time?”

“Page 14,” Jeongguk ignored your dramatic flair, eyes not even lifting. “Your mannequin’s missing a head.”

“That’s on purpose,” you muttered, grabbing the sketchbook and flipping it shut. “It’s avant-garde.”

He finally looked up, eyebrows raised in mock seriousness. “Ah. The Headless Collection. Bold.”

You rolled your eyes, but couldn’t stop the smile pulling at your mouth. “You’re annoying.”

“Thank you. I rehearse.”

You’d kicked him lightly under the table. He’d stolen a bite of your sandwich in retaliation. You’d retaliated harder, dropped three sugar cubes into his coffee knowing he only liked it black and snatched the entire croissant off his plate.

“Hey!” he’d gasped, scandalized, mid-chew. “That’s a war crime.”

You shrugged, all innocence as you took a deliberately slow bite, crumbs tumbling down your chin. “Shouldn’t have touched my sandwich.”

His eyes narrowed. “That croissant had layers.”

“So did my patience,” you replied, mouth full.

He leaned forward, elbows on the table, lowering his voice like he was delivering a threat. “You realize this means war.”

You grinned. “Then choose your weapon wisely, Jeon.”

“Fine. Sketchbook turned doodle board it is.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Oh, but I would.”

And just like that, he was scribbling something on your sketchbook, tongue poking out in concentration while you lunged to grab it back. 

The stationery café had always been your reset button — notebooks open, drinks warm, pencils rolling off the table because Jeongguk couldn’t sit still. He always left little doodles on your margins – stick figures with six-packs, dramatic cape swirls, and when he’d feel to be more annoying, he’d scribble a crown your head.

“This one's you,” he said once, pointing to a tiny sketch of a girl shouting at a sewing machine.

“She looks like she hasn’t slept in three days.”

“Art imitates life.”

You snorted into your latte. “I’m replacing you with someone quieter.”

“Impossible,” he grinned. “You’d miss me by lunchtime.”

He was right.

You always did.

And now, it wasn’t just during your chaotic uni lunch breaks that you missed him

The chair across from you slides back gently.

You don’t look up right away — just fumble with your phone before meeting his eyes.

Jeongguk shrugs off his coat with one hand, ruffles his hair like the wind annoyed him, then sits. Tie loose around his collar, shirt wrinkled just enough to tell you he dressed in a hurry. He glances around, then places a single stem of purple tulips on the table, the soft color a little too bright for the morning. “They still sell those overpriced gel pens?”

You nod, sipping your drink. “They’re too smooth to resist.“

His eyes flick toward the shelves. “I used to steal yours.”

“You used to steal everything.”

He smiles faintly — just the corner of his mouth lifting. “You let me.”

“Was being generous.”

The waitress sets down your orders — one pastry each, two drinks. You watch as Jeongguk breaks a corner off his croissant. Eats it with quiet precision. He never used to do that. Used to make a mess.

You don’t comment on it.

“So,” he says after a moment, brushing crumbs from his fingers, “still designing things with no heads?”

You didn’t think he’d remember. A smile slips across your lips. “Wow. Callback.”

“I’m nostalgic.”

Your eyes meet. There’s something light there, flickering — not quite the warmth from before, but you’re glad to see something at least.

You reach into your bag and pull out a thin sketchpad, sliding it across the table. He lifts the cover slowly, eyes scanning your latest work. “You gave her a head this time.”

You lean back, arms crossed loosely. “Growth.”

He chuckles under his breath, fingers smoothing the paper. “She looks like she’s running.”

“She is.”

Jeongguk doesn’t ask from what. Doesn’t say anything at all. Just taps the edge of the page twice, then closes it.

The silence is comfortable. A little cautious. But not cold.

You tear off a small piece of your pastry, drop it on his plate like old habit. Used to do it when you still had some left from his that you’d stolen. Even if you’d stolen his precious croissant, you never actually finished it, always left most of it for him – knowing breakfast was the only time he’d actually eat properly, your favorite meal of the day – before the two of you start your own classes.

You knew he’d run on caffeine and stubbornness alone until evening. Then he’d video call you during one of his lectures looking like a grumpy, overgrown bunny with a camera strap digging into his neck and a frown set between his brows.

He blinks at it, then at you. “What’s that for?”

“For luck,” you simply reason.

He raises an eyebrow. “You don’t believe in luck.”

“Thought maybe I could this time.”

Jeongguk looks at you as if he’s trying to read you. Like there’s something else he wants to say. Ends up not saying anything. Just eats the piece.

Your drink’s gone lukewarm, still you sip away hoping to drown in the energy it’s supposed to give with the day that’s waiting ahead of you. Jeongguk’s gaze lingers out the window for a moment, watching a cyclist roll by, the soft clatter of gears audible through the glass.

“You still come here often?” he asks, voice casual.

“Every now and then,” you say softly. “Some places just… stick.”

Jeongguk doesn’t press. You’re thankful he doesn’t.

“I used to think the owner hated me,” he says instead. “Always caught me doodling on the napkins.”

“She didn’t hate you,” you reply. “She thought you were wasting perfectly good napkins.”

A small chuckle rumbles in his chest. “I was creating modern art.”

You roll your eyes. “You drew a chicken with sunglasses.”

“Exactly. Groundbreaking stuff. I’m the direct descendant of Van Gogh.”

The laugh that escapes you is softer this time — real, but quieter than it might’ve been years ago. You catch him watching you then. Not intensely. Not curiously. Just… there. Present. It slips away quickly when he looks down, wiping off his side of the table in random circles.

You glance over your shoulder at the display shelf by the counter — a glass case where people leave notes, scraps of things from past visits. It used to be empty. Now it’s cluttered and full of lives layered on top of one another.

Jeongguk follows your gaze. “We never left anything in there.”

“No,” you murmur. “We never needed to.”

He nods slowly, and you wonder if the weight in your words settled somewhere in him too.

You reach into your coat pocket and pull out a pen. Those smooth gel types you always fell for even when you promised yourself you wouldn’t spend another won on stationery. You slide it across the table toward him.

He looks at it, then at you. “For me?”

“Figured you’d want to deface another napkin.”

Jeongguk tears off the corner of one of the paper placemats and scribbles something. You reach over and take the pen back before he can set it down, slipping it into your pocket like it was nothing. He folds the scrap once and tucks it into his jacket.

“You’re not putting it in the case?” You ask, confused why he’d even want to keep something like that – something you’re sure doesn’t matter to him anymore.

“Maybe next time.”

You finish the last sip of your drink as the hour pulls closer to what’s next — work, the rest of the day, the return to whatever this routine is becoming between the two of you.

You stand, slipping your bag over your shoulder, grabbing on to the purple tulip after.

Jeongguk rises too, fingers brushing the edge of the table like he’s grounding himself again – a new habit you started noticing from him.

“Thanks for showing up,” you say lightly, adjusting your scarf.

I had to. He doesn’t say it, but you can see the words hovering in the hesitation behind his eyes — quiet, but impossible to miss.

The sky’s a little brighter when you both step out. The cold still clings to your skin, but the café warmth lingers at your back.

As you turn to go, Jeongguk calls out, “Hey.”

You glance back.

“I liked the new sketch,” he says. “She looked like she knew where she was going.”

“She doesn’t.”

He smiles faintly. “Neither did we.”

You don’t say anything. Just tuck your hands into your pockets, gave one last nod, before walking away.

As you pass the glass, you catch a glimpse of something slightly out of step, tucked into the reflection. You, a little lighter, and the boy beside you who used to draw chickens with sunglasses and mumble dumb jokes just to see you pretend not to laugh.

And for a moment, it’s easy to pretend this is just another morning in the middle of an old life that never cracked at the seams.

The office is a mess. Papers piled up like threats, some teetering close to the edge of his desk. The inbox blinks like a warning light. Jeongguk sits in the middle of it all, elbows pressing into the surface, fingers rubbing at his eyes. The screen blurs. Photoshoots. Edits. Meetings he’s already missed. His coffee’s gone cold. The tremble in his hand says it’s his third cup — or fourth. He’s lost count.

And on top of it all, a notification from Taehyung flashes across his phone.

K. Taehyung: Lunch date with Jiwoo.

Jeongguk swears under his breath, chair scraping against the floor as he stands. He grabs his coat on the way out, not bothering to fix his hair in the hallway mirror. As he shrugs it on, something light slips from his pocket and lands near the leg of the desk—a torn bit of paper, edges smudged faintly with purple petals drawn from a gel pen. He doesn’t notice. Leaves the office without checking if he’s forgotten anything else.

The drive to the café blurs by. Taehyung’s voice crackles through the speaker, rambling about a rookie group, a broken light, a late shoot — but Jeongguk only half-listens, mind drifting far away.

Muted light through tall windows. The smell of ground coffee, old novels, and notebooks. The gentle scrape of a cup across a wooden table. A sketchbook lying open.

His hands tighten slightly on the steering wheel.

The café he pulls up to now is different. Newer, glass and steel, designed for aesthetics more than comfort. Inside, everything gleams. Clean lines. Polished floors. The hum of conversation blends with quiet jazz in the background, curated to feel effortless.

Jiwoo’s already at the table when he enters. She stands when she sees him, her smile brief, eyes scanning his face like she’s trying to gauge the weather. She leans in for a hug, light and cautious.

A waitress appears, takes their orders — sandwiches, two coffees. Then the silence settles between them, brittle and careful.

 “You texted me,” Jiwoo speaks first. “Didn’t say much.”

Jeongguk exhales, straightens the napkin on his lap. “It wasn’t something I could explain over the phone.”

She nods slowly. “I figured.”

He runs a thumb along the rim of his water glass. “She found the divorce papers.”

There’s a pause. Jiwoo’s gaze drops for a moment, something unreadable settling in her expression before she nods again. “I thought that might happen. You waited too long, Gguk.”

“I know.”

“How did she take it?”

Jeongguk stares at the edge of the table. “She didn’t cry. Didn’t yell. Just… agreed. Agreed to sign on her terms.”

Jiwoo raises an eyebrow. “What kind of terms?”

“Meals together. Flowers. Staying close. Old habits. Forehead kisses,” he finishes, voice lower now. “Just… things we used to do.”

The words sounded simple when laid out like that, but they weren’t. They were heavy, drenched in old love and broken memories.

She looks down at her drink, stirring it even though it doesn’t need stirring. “And you agreed?”

Jeongguk nods. “I owe her at least that much.”

The noise in the café comes like a blessing. Somewhere behind them, a coffee grinder whirs to life. A baby laughs. Jeongguk’s eyes flick toward the window, to the glint of sun on glass, anywhere else except on Jiwoo, too scared of what he might find — anger, jealousy, resentment.

But he finds none of it when he finally turns to her. Only sadness. And love. And guilt.

“I hate that we hurt her,” Jiwoo says after a moment, her voice thick with guilt. “I never meant for it to turn out like this. I hope I can tell her that.”

Jeongguk’s gaze drops to her hands, still, folded tightly together. There’s a quiet ache in the way they sit, almost like they’re waiting for something. He doesn’t pause to think—just moves, his hand gently covering hers. It’s not an answer. Not an apology. Simply a comfort he hopes she feels is enough from his touch.

“I know,” he murmurs. “Neither of us did.”

The words hang in the space between them, soft but solid. Like stones dropped into still water, rippling outward. They don’t shatter anything. Not yet. But they make everything shift.

Jiwoo lets out a breath she’s been holding. Her eyes glisten, but she doesn’t cry. “Sometimes I think maybe I deserve to lose everything.”

“You didn’t make me love her less,” Jeongguk says. “That’s on me. And you’re not losing anything. I’m here. I’m still here.”

His words are calm, certain—like if he says it gently enough, it’ll stop the noise in his head.

The hard office couch pressing into your back wakes you up with a sharp breath and neck sore from where you’d curled up with your throw blanket. The room is dim and quiet, the evening air is calm and something warm and tasty drifts through the air.

Your eyes flutter open, confusion tightening in your chest.

Jeongguk.

He’s there, kneeling by the coffee table, unpacking takeout containers with quick, careful movements. The soft crinkle of paper bags and the light tap of chopsticks on plastic fill the still of the room. His hair falls over his forehead, his sleeves pushed up, jaw tight and sharp in the fading light.

“Jeongguk… what—” you rasp, voice rough from sleep, “what are you doing here?”

He stills for half a second, fingers pausing on the lid of a box.

When he looks up, his eyes flick across you quickly — too quickly.  “You’re kidding, right?” His laugh is soft, faintly bitter. “You called me here. Dinner. List.” He lifts a takeout box slightly, then lets it fall back with a soft thud. “Just following orders.”

There’s a heaviness in the way he holds himself, something tense in his shoulders, in the tired set of his mouth. But you can’t name it. Only know it’s been this way for the past few days.

Silence was acceptable, clearly you stated that on the list, but meals lately went on without your slight playful banter. Just when you thought your conversations could last more than five sentences now.

Jeongguk was never the type to waste food – something about a silly belief that the Gods would take away his perfect sculpture if he even dared – but you’ve been cleaning up for him lately, giving away his leftovers to the homeless you’d find after your dinners.

He drags a hand through his hair, exhales sharply. “Shit,” he mutters under his breath, voice rougher now. “Forget it.”

Jeongguk doesn’t look at you. Just pushes a pair of chopsticks toward your side of the table, carelessly, like he doesn’t want to talk. Then you catch it – subtle, but present.

A scent that doesn’t belong here. Sweet, citrus, expensive – far from the lavender one that sticks to your blazers for weeks – one that you’d sense clinging onto his shirts when he came home too late. The same scent hovering in the car when you borrowed his since yours was in the shop one time. The scent that told you something had shifted before the universe decided to slap you with the truth.

You shift your legs beneath the blanket, voice gentle. “You were with her today, weren’t you?”

Jeongguk stops mid-movement. Doesn’t turn. Doesn’t answer. Doesn’t have to.

Still, you smile—small, sad, and real. “It’s okay. I just… noticed.”

He exhales, short and stiff. “You always do.”

“You’re acting like you got caught doing something wrong.” It’s meant to tease, to warm the cold edge creeping in – a light touch to remind him that he doesn’t have to walk on egg shells around you anymore.

He finally turns to face you, expression tired. “Didn’t I?”

“No,” you say, quiet. “Not really.”

Jeongguk stares at you, like he doesn’t know what to do with the kindness you’ve been showing. Eyes flicking away for a second like he’s searching for a reason to deserve it. But there’s nothing—just you, sitting there, still choosing to stay soft when it would’ve been easier not to.  

You pat the spot on the couch beside you. “Sit down. Eat something. Then talk to me.”

“Kind of hard to do when our wedding rings are right here and well –“

A small laugh echoes from you, unsure if it’s meant to ease the tension or just fill the silence.

“Think about you and me, back in Uni, two dumb teenagers whose biggest crisis was whether to stock up on strawberry or banana milk for finals week."

There’s a twitch at the corner of his mouth, a glimmer of the old Jeongguk you remember. “Banana Milk wins, by the way.”

“Nuh-uh. Strawberry milk.” You chuckle, slowly drifting back to your point. “You’ve got to let out whatever you’re holding in there, Gguk. Sulking through the remaining twenty-two days will make you feel like there’s twenty-two years left. I can’t have you hating me for that long."

It’s a soft joke, still, it curls in your chest like smoke.

“I don’t hate you.” he says, like it never even crossed his mind.

Eyes focused on the blanket, you nod, holding onto the words quietly—they’re not much, but they’re more than you thought you’d get.

“If it helps, I’ll turn around and you can talk,” Shifting slight, folding your legs beneath, you face the other way. “You won’t get to see me, won’t get to worry about how I’ll react. Maybe I’ll nod, just to let you know I’m listening, and promise, I will.”

The air is filled with stillness. You think Jeongguk might’ve left you in the office but you hear his soft breaths as he lowers himself beside you, slowly but heavy with the weight he’s been carrying for the past few days.

“I was with her today.” He starts, quickly stops, unsure if he should continue but does anyway, the weight burning in his chest. “We talked earlier this week. About you. About…everything.”

You wait. Because if there’s one thing you still know how to do, it’s wait for him to speak when he doesn’t want to.

“She feels guilty,” he goes on. “Wants you to know that she never meant for it to happen this way. That we hurt you.”

You nod slowly, not because it helps, but because you’re too tired to hold it against her, against them. Most importantly, if it eases something in Jeongguk, then that’s more than enough.

Your heart stumbles but you let him continue, keeping that promise to listen.

“Told her about the list you set up before we…”

“Divorce. You can say it.” There’s a quiet laugh that escapes you.

“Right. That. Uhm…so I told her that and she’s scared.” Jeongguk says, voice cracking in between. “Thinks she’s going to lose me.”

“Will she?” You question a little sharp. Didn’t mean to. Just blurted it out in the spur of the moment.

“No.” he answers too quickly. Your heart silently cracks too quickly. “I mean…fuck, I don’t mean to sound –” You begin to hear sniffs and the slight tremble of his hands that are too close to your back now, as if he’s trying to reach out to you, trying to apologize to you.

“Hey, Gguk, breathe. It’s okay. It’s just me. Eighteen-year-old me, strawberry milk. Focus. I know you’ve got this.” You smile even though he can’t see it. Hoped he hears it in your voice the comfort you want to give him.

And you think it might’ve worked when you catch that soft, boyish laugh, just like the one he had at eighteen.

“It’s why I’ve been seeing her more often these days. Wanted to make her feel that I’m not going anywhere.”

“That’s good you’re trying for her,” you manage to say. “But you sound more exhausted than relieved that you’re trying.”

He lets out a breath, ragged. “Because I am exhausted. Feels like I’m not trying enough. Feels like I broke something." He pauses. "No, I know I did. Her. You. Me. And now I feel stuck pretending like I know how to fix it.”

“You don’t have to fix anything, Gguk.” You say softly. “Not for me.”

The quiet in the room makes you hear him clearly swallow the lump in his throat. “What do I do?”

“Focus on you and her, if that’s what you want. Save what you can. Fight for what you can. Don’t carry all of the weight.” You pause, staring ahead, on the shelves behind your desk. “You may be the golden boy, but you’re not God.” The words sit between you for a second. “Can’t save everybody. Simple as that.”

A small silence settles, like peace finding its way.

Behind you, the shift is clear when you hear Jeongguk move closer; leans in just enough to press a soft kiss to the side of your head. His arms wrap around you, gentle, like old times. You’d like to think it is and not because of some stupid terms you listed on paper.

“You always knew how to keep me off the ledge.” His grip around your waist tightens for a second. Your heart tightens too. “Why did you let me talk to you like this?”

You let out an unintended shaky breath. “Because you’re trying.”

“Trying what?”

“To be good.” You don’t move, just sit there with him holding on, blanket in between, your hands curled into the fabric to keep them from shaking.

You wanted this—for him to feel lighter, even just a little. And you meant every word. You really did.

But each word that slipped out left a mark, small and invisible, like paper cuts. You blink, slow, but a tear still slips free, soaking into your lap before you can stop it.

Jeongguk doesn’t see. You don’t let him.

The deal was for him to open up to you. No one said anything about you needing to open up in return.

And some things are better left quiet.

[tacoguacamole]

ANOTHER TIME | JJK - 2

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

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

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

[Theme: Marriage AU. BF2L2S]

[Warnings: Major Angst, Multiple Flashbacks and Time Jumps, Mature Theme, Smut, Mature/Explicit Language, A lot of fluff, Romance, Slowburn]

[Older JK, Older OC, Older Bangtan, Lawyer Seokjin and Namjoon, Doctor Yoongi, Event Planner Hobi, Solo idol Jimin, Secretary Taehyung, Brief cameos of Seventeen Mingyu, GOT7 Mark, Kook's a jerk and mean for the earlier chapters]

[Status: Ongoing]

[Part 1. Part 2. Chapter Word Count: 8k+]

[Tag List: @iamstilljk | @captainchrisstan | @kokoandkookie | @rexana19]

[Chapter Summary: Some days feel like beginnings, even when they come too late. A glance, a question, a flicker of something you almost forgot to hope for — it stirs quietly beneath the routine. But even the softest shifts carry weight, and as night falls, you're left wondering if it's the start of healing… or the calm before the break.]

[MINORS DNI! 18+]

The morning light fills the room, warm and steady, like a soft blanket over everything. A familiar, rich smell drifts through the air — savory and comforting. For a moment, it feels like you're still dreaming.

Then you turn your head and see him.

Jeongguk sits beside you, back resting against the headboard, a food tray balanced on his lap. Makguksu and Samgyeopsal — the dinner you spent hours preparing the night before — now half-eaten as he absently twirls the noodles around his chopsticks, eyes glued to the flickering screen where Iron Man 3 plays.

For a long second, you just stare. You don't move. Don’t speak. Simply watched, heart clenching painfully at the sight of him – relaxed, at ease, eating something you made, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

It shouldn’t feel like a miracle, but it does. You can’t even remember the last time Jeongguk touched a meal you cooked.

 “Uhm...morning?”

Jeongguk flinches slightly, startled, and looks at you with wide eyes. “Is it too loud?” his voice a little rough. “I was going to watch in the living room, but… it was too hot down there.” There’s a brief flash of panic on his face.

The sight tugs at something deep in you, almost painful. “It’s fine,” you murmur, voice rough with sleep. “Was about to get up anyway.”

You sit up, grabbing the robe hanging by the bedpost and pulling it over yourself. The fabric slides over the old, worn T-shirt you slept in — one of Jeongguk’s from his college photography club days, when his dreams were still caught behind the lens of a second-hand camera.

You wonder if he even remembers it. Wonder if he’d find it pathetic that you still wear it — clinging to pieces of him when everything else feels so far away. You wonder too much these days.

You tie the robe loosely, pretending you don't notice his gaze flicker toward you for the briefest second — before snapping back to the TV.

Silence stretches between you, the kind you've gotten used to.

Until Jeongguk speaks. “Any plans for tonight?”

The question throws you off. The last time he asked about your day, about anything that wasn’t transactional — groceries, bills, errands — you can’t even remember.

His words hang in the air, strange and unfamiliar.

Still, you answer. Because even now — especially now — you crave any scrap of normalcy he offers.

“Dinner with the Tuans,” you say, keeping your voice light. “Their flight's landing late from Paris, but they want to meet right away to discuss the deal we closed.”

Jeongguk nods slowly, still focused on his tray. “What time will that end?”

“Maybe 10? 11? Depends how much they want to go over.”

There’s a pause, filled only by the muffled explosions from the movie.

Then he speaks again, softer this time. “Can we meet after? Maybe grab a midnight snack... or coffee? Anything, really.”

It hits you harder than it should — how careful he sounds. As if he’s asking permission to step into your life. The sting comes fast and sharp. But you push it down. You push everything down. Because above the sadness, above the aching cracks in your chest — something small and stubborn flickers back to life.

Hope.

Maybe... maybe he remembered. Maybe this was his way of making up for last night. For all the nights he had forgotten.

You swallow down the emotion clogging your throat. “Sure.” You try not to let your smile show too much, try not to look pathetic in your own happiness. “I can meet you after or—"

“No.” He cuts you off gently, setting his chopsticks down. “I’ll come to you. Just text me the address.”

You nod, feeling a little breathless, hands trembling slightly as you fidget with the belt of your robe. Without another word, you slip off the bed and head toward the bathroom, shutting the door behind you.

A small, giddy sound escapes your lips — half-sob, half-laugh — and you press your hand to your mouth to stifle it. Tears prick at your eyes, but this time they don’t burn the way they usually do.

Because for the first time in what feels like forever...

You smile. A real, honest-to-God smile.

Jeongguk’s day moves painfully slow, wearing down his patience bit by bit. He’s checked off plenty from his planner — finished reports in the first hour, helped train interns even if the seniors were around to do that job, gave notes on concept proposals, approved shoot locations, updated campaign boards that aren’t due till the next season — but the time on his laptop still feels like a joke. 4:00 PM. Only.

A loud knock breaks the silence.

"Come in.”

His secretary walks in, arms full of contracts. Normally, Jeongguk would toss them in a tray and forget about them for a week or two. Today, he forces himself to focus. Reads carefully before signing through each page, like paying extra attention might help calm his busy mind. Minutes later, he pushes the signed stack back across the desk.

"Gunning for Employee of the Year?" Taehyung jokes lightly. "Nominations don’t even open till November, you know."

Usually, Jeongguk would bite back with some sarcastic remark. Not today. His temper is already hanging by a thread.

"Don’t start with me," the words were harsher than intended.

Taehyung raises a brow but doesn’t argue. Has long grown used to Jeongguk’s moods — especially the bitter ones.

Their friendship was built not just on the grind of corporate life, but also on the pauses in between — the after-hours confessions, the tiredness that had settled into Jeongguk over the years.

Taehyung knows the truth, the ugly, heavy parts Jeongguk never says out loud.

How the man he respects stays late not for ambition, but to avoid the coldness of home. How Jeongguk puts on the mask of a devoted husband at office parties because their CEO pushes "family values" — only to curse quietly later, slumped in the passenger seat of his car.

How coming home feels more like serving a sentence than seeking comfort.

Taehyung remembers when it was different. The endless searches for anniversary ideas. The worried questions about how to keep the love alive after years of being together.

He remembers how Jeongguk's voice had cracked when he passed along the message no friend ever wants to deliver, "She's in the hospital. She's fighting for her life. You need to go — now."

Photoshoots. Endless meetings. The paperwork that buried his silent phone back then.

The guilt was a chain Jeongguk never managed to slip free from.

So when Taehyung hears the clipped anger in his friend’s voice now, he already knows.

Another fight. Another scar added to the ones that never healed.

Still, he asks gently, "Another one?"

Jeongguk doesn't answer immediately. Just drops his gaze to the edge of the desk, fingers tapping a restless, erratic rhythm.

When he finally speaks, it’s quieter. Different. "I'm taking her out tonight.”

The words hang in the air, almost fragile. Taehyung blinks, caught off guard. That... wasn’t what he expected. A glimmer of something — hope, maybe — rises inside him. Maybe the cracks weren’t permanent. Maybe there was still something worth saving.

Taehyung tries to sound casual. Cracks a joke to ease the mood. "About time. You’ve missed enough anniversaries already."

But Jeongguk doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t even smile.

Instead, he reaches into his desk drawer and pulls out a folder Taehyung had almost forgotten about. A folder that had been shoved away, gathering dust, no matter how many times Taehyung hinted that it was better to just get it over with. Inside, the papers wait — sharp-edged, cold to the touch, heavy with everything unsaid.

Taehyung’s throat tightens as he watches Jeongguk lay them flat on the table. He knows what they are. Remembers setting the appointments with Namjoon. Hearing Jeongguk’s hollow voice tell the lawyer what he wanted. What he couldn’t bear to want but felt trapped into choosing anyway.

"I'm telling her tonight," he says, barely a whisper. Almost like a plea, like he's sealing his own fate.

A year had already slipped by since then.

Taehyung knew Jeongguk hadn’t even hesitated to sign once the documents were handed over. His name written neatly beside the empty space meant for yours. That blank space had remained untouched, day after day, a cruel reminder that while Jeongguk had made peace with ending things, you still hadn’t — or maybe, couldn’t.

There had been countless nights spent practicing speeches, rehearsing apologies and explanations that never seemed enough. Taehyung had listened through them all — Jeongguk pacing across the office floor, torn between desperation and guilt, clinging to the hope that if he just found the right words, maybe it would hurt you a little less.

But Taehyung knew — they both knew — that was a lie.

Just meeting with the lawyer had already hurt you more than Jeongguk was willing to admit.

“Gguk…” Taehyung’s voice fades, the words he wants to offer catching painfully in his throat.

But Jeongguk cuts him off before he can even try.

“It’s killing me, Hyung,” he breathes out. “Do you know what it’s like? Sharing a bed just so she won’t notice the distance? Pretending everything’s fine so I don’t have to come up another lie? Keeping my clothes mixed with hers in the closet, so she doesn’t ask why I smell different every time I come home?”

Taehyung doesn’t answer. Can’t. Knows exactly what Jeongguk means. Knows the weight of the betrayal he’s been helping to bury.

He’s seen Jiwoo. Met her by accident once, but that was enough. Even now, every time he arranged a date or made a call under Jeongguk’s name, guilt twisted his gut into knots.

He still remembers the way your face lit up when you surprised Jeongguk at the office, eager for a lunch together. How your smile faded when you found his office empty. Taehyung remembers the lies that stumbled from his mouth — meetings, emergencies, schedule mix-ups — while he knew full well that Jeongguk was miles away, entangled with someone else in ways that had nothing to do with work.

But he never stopped it.

Because for the first time in years, he saw life return to Jeongguk’s dull eyes, at least that’s what he saw— a spark that hadn’t existed since the day everything fell apart. Since the day the small bundle of sunshine Jeongguk and his wife created had been taken away before her first breath even settled in this world.

Taehyung had made his choice. He closed his eyes to the damage Jeongguk was causing.

He let it happen. Told himself it was better than watching his friend rot from the inside out — pouring cheap whiskey down his throat at dingy bars, sleeping under his desk after too many bottles, slurring desperate voicemails at two in the morning.

Better this, he thought. Better a living sinner than a breathing corpse.

Taehyung voices out his hesitancy. “If you had just told the truth from the start, Gguk... you wouldn’t be stuck in lies now. You wouldn’t have to sneak Jiwoo around to places halfway across Seoul, just to avoid being seen. You wouldn’t be hurting both of them.”

Jeongguk’s fists tighten against the edge of his desk. The pressure builds inside him, snapping loose as his voice cuts through the air.

“I know, Hyung! I fucking know!” The tears barely held back. “I never wanted this. Never meant to hurt her. She wasn’t just my wife—she was my best friend. Seventeen years, Hyung. Seventeen fucking years together. I know her smile. Know her pain. I know every goddamn tear she tries to hide. And worst of all, I know I’m the reason for most of them.”

Taehyung swallows hard, feeling the weight of the truth neither of them can escape. “You’ve already hurt her, Gguk. No matter what you choose now... she’s going to be hurt.”

Jeongguk drops heavily into his chair, the fight bleeding out of him. His gaze turns distant, like he’s looking somewhere far beyond the four walls of his office.

“She made Makguksu last night,” he murmurs. “Samgyeopsal too. It wasn’t burnt. You know how she always overcooks the meat. But not last night. It was perfect.”

A bitter smile flickers across his lips, the memory cutting deeper than any silence ever could.

“You ate them?” Taehyung asks quietly, almost not wanting to know the answer.

“For the last time,” Jeongguk mutters, brushing off the heaviness in his friend's gaze with a dry, forced chuckle. He doesn’t tell Taehyung the truth — that each bite had tasted like guilt. That the food, prepared with so much care, had been harder to swallow than he let on.

Instead, his mind drifts to this morning. The way you quickly grabbed the robe to cover the old grey shirt you wore — his shirt, from a forgotten college club, frayed at the edges and stained with bleach. Jeongguk had seen it before you could hide it, the fabric loose on your body.

It wasn’t the first time.

There had been countless nights he came home late, the house quiet except for your soft breathing. He’d find you curled in bed, wrapped in his clothes like armor. That old Linkin Park sweatshirt, the one he wore during his teenage emo phase, worn thin but somehow still clinging to you for warmth.

Jeongguk always noticed. Always.

But he never said anything. Never pointed it out. Never asked why you chose to wear things that once belonged to a version of him that no longer existed.

Because recognizing it would give you hope, that those small gestures he noticed still meant something.

When it didn’t.

Not anymore.

“Jeongguk—” Taehyung starts, unsure if his friend even wants comfort.

But Jeongguk lets out a short, bitter chuckle, cutting him off.

“Why does she even bother?” His voice is sharp, edged with something close to resentment. “Why does she still celebrate our anniversary—her birthday—after everything? It’s like she wants to keep getting hurt.” His jaw clenches, fingers digging into the armrest of his chair. “I make sure to come home after it’s all done—after the candles are out, after she’s given up waiting—so she won’t have to be reminded. When will she get it, Hyung? When will she understand that I’m never going to be there for those days again?”

Taehyung exhales, running a hand through his hair. He could bite his tongue, hold back the truth Jeongguk refuses to face, but what would be the point?

“Because she still loves you.” The words land like a direct blow, knocking the air from Jeongguk’s lungs. “If those moments didn’t mean anything to her, she wouldn’t care. She wouldn’t spend hours making your favorite food. Wouldn’t set the table for two. Wouldn’t keep waiting.” Jeongguk swallows, throat tight. “She still sees you as the man who once thought she meant the world to him.”

Each syllable sinks into him like a slow, merciless blade, tearing open wounds he’s tried so hard to ignore.

For years, he’s dodged the truth—buried it beneath guilt. Beneath resentment. Beneath another woman’s touch. But now, it rises to the surface, raw and inescapable.

He sees you.

The memory of your smile, bright and effortless, the way your whole body shook with joy when he proposed. He sees you walking toward him in that breathtaking white dress, his heart pounding so wildly in his chest that he thought it might burst. He sees the way he once loved you—with everything, with all of him.

Those memories—once the light of his life—have become shadows he’s spent years running from.

And now, there’s nowhere left to run.

His voice is barely a whisper when he speaks again. “It’s time to let her go, isn’t it?”

The answer has been obvious for a long time, but saying it aloud makes it feel final.

With a heavy heart, Taehyung nods. “It has been. For a long time.”

Finishing dinner with your business partner had never felt more relieving. Normally, you would drag out a meeting, obsessing over every last detail. As a perfectionist, you were known to discuss a deal twenty times over, then triple-check your notes on your iPad to make sure nothing slipped through the cracks.

But tonight, you couldn't stop glancing at your phone. Couldn't stop the way your heart leapt when Jeongguk finally texted back “On my way” when you told him your meeting was almost done.

A shared location pinged a moment later, showing he was close. For the first time in what felt like forever, he was actually going to meet you. A small, excited hope stirred in your chest, fragile but real.

You tried to hide it, but Mark Tuan noticed anyway. He always did. Years of working together had made him an expert at reading you, and teasing you had long been his favorite pastime whenever business wasn't occupying the conversation.

"Congrats! You just set the Guinness World Record for fastest eater in South Korea!" Mark teased, leaning back with an easy grin.

"Sorry! I didn’t mean to rush," you said, feeling a little sheepish as you tucked your iPad away. "Tonight’s kind of a big deal."

Mark smiled, looking clearly amused. "And here I thought Seora getting a spot at Paris Fashion Week two years in a row would be the highlight."

“It is! Showcasing our collection again at one of the top fashion events in the world? That's huge!" You paused, fumbling for the right words. "It’s just—"

"Just messing with you. Honestly, we should’ve just saved this dinner for tomorrow’s meeting with legal. Mom and Dad aren’t even here. But you know how they are—one topic at a time, just to dodge—"

"Excuses like, ‘I was too overwhelmed with the information; it slipped my mind,’" you finished for him, laughing as the two of you shared a knowing look.

After all these years of working with the Tuans, you knew them almost too well. Even before the partnership was official, you had already immersed yourself in every detail of their business operations.

You learned that Mrs. Tuan liked to organize her designs carefully, sorting collections by season in separate binders instead of keeping them in one portfolio. Mr. Tuan, on the other hand, expected his financial reports on time at the end of every quarter — grace periods were, to him, a sign of weakness.

And then there was Mark Tuan.

Unlike his parents, Mark preferred a work environment that was laid-back but still precise. A strict nine-to-five man, he focused on completing daily tasks efficiently, leaving anything unfinished for the next morning — as long as nothing slipped past the contract deadlines.

Despite the age difference, you and Mark had clicked right away. As two young entrepreneurs, you shared the same drive for innovation and the same determination not to settle for safe or ordinary. While you were intense and detail-oriented, he balanced you with a calm, grounded energy that made brainstorming new ideas feel like an endless conversation about the future you both wanted to build.

Working with him felt easy. Safe. Comforting in a way very few things were anymore.

“Well, I won’t keep you any longer. Need a ride to your next stop?” Mark offered, casually tossing his keys in his hand as you both made your way toward the restaurant entrance.

You smiled, grateful but firm. “Thanks, but he’s meeting me here.”

“He?” Mark’s brows lifted, the word slipping out before he could stop himself, a little too eager, a little too sharp.

“Jeongguk.”

“Ah, the husband.” Mark’s laugh was light, but his smile didn’t quite match it. He reached for the door and held it open for you, his voice easy but slightly forced. “Always been the lucky guy.”

You paused for a second, sensing something beneath the surface, but chose to brush it off. Mark had always been playful, and tonight was probably no different.

“Have a great time,” he added, slipping his free hand into his pocket. “Don’t keep him waiting too long. Wouldn’t want to make a guy jealous.”

Just as he’s about to head for his car, Mark suddenly turns back. “Oh, before I forget—I got something for you.”

Confused, you watch him pull a small velvet box from his coat pocket. “Happy Birthday. I’m late, but better late than never, right?”

Curious, you lift the lid and find a delicate, white diamond pendant shaped like the Eiffel Tower, hanging from a fine silver chain.

Getting little surprises from Mark wasn’t anything new. You still used the custom iPad case he gave you last year, your name pressed neatly in one corner. You slept better these days, thanks to the memory foam pillow he had dropped off after you complained once about backaches at the office. Even now, your favorite pen—engraved with your initials—sat tucked in your work tote, a result of him deciding that bougie was the only way to go.

Mark had always been thoughtful like that. A little extra sometimes, but always thoughtful.

Still, this felt different. More personal. More... intimate.

Your fingers hesitated over the necklace. This time, it didn’t feel like a casual office gift. Jewelry like this wasn’t meant for business partners—it was something you gave to someone that meant more.

You glanced up at him, a slight panic bubbling in your chest. “Mark...”

He immediately caught the shift in your expression and waved it off with a laugh. “Relax! It’s not a big deal. Didn’t cost me anything. One of our clients gave a few out for promotion. Figured you’d like it — you know, since the Eiffel Tower is basically all you obsess over whenever we visit.”

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, feeling a little ridiculous for even hesitating. Of course. It was just business. Like always.

“Next time, start with that,” you said, shaking your head. “I almost thought—”

“What?” he teased, cocking his head with that familiar mischievous grin.

“You’re such an ass,” you muttered, laughing despite yourself.

The tension lifted, light and easy again. “Want me to put it on?” he offered casually, holding up the necklace.

You smiled and turned around, gathering your hair up without a second thought. You felt the soft brush of his fingers as he clasped the pendant around your neck.

The diamond caught the light when you faced him again, and for a second, Mark just looked at you, something unreadable flickering across his face. But then he was back to his usual self, giving you a mock salute.

“See you tomorrow.”

“Of course. Thanks again, partner. Drive safe.”

You watched him head to his car, the new pendant resting lightly against your skin, feeling nothing but grateful to have a friend like him in your life.

Alone now, you check Jeongguk’s message again. His location pin glows on your screen — parked somewhere nearby. Relief flutters in your chest.

He’s close. Any second now.

But the minutes drag on. Five. Ten. Thirty. The pin stays stubbornly still, unmoving in the dark.

Around you, the world shifts. The line that once buzzed with chatter has emptied out, replaced by new faces wrapped in jackets and scarves. The cold, damp air slips past your two coats as if you wore nothing at all. It's the kind of chill that bites at your bones, making you wonder if winter is already on its way.

You rub your hands together, hoping to warm them, but the ache that suddenly stirs in your joints isn't from the cold anymore. It’s something else.

Something deeper. Older.

You know this pain. It grows from within, heavy and bitter. It wraps around your chest, seeps into your fingertips, making even breathing feel fragile.

You try to steady yourself, counting slow inhales, slow exhales, the way the doctors taught you. You tell yourself it’s just exhaustion. Just hunger. Just the day wearing you down.

But even as you lie to yourself, your body knows better.

The weight in your head grows unbearable. The world tilts slightly, and panic surges up your throat. You glance around desperately for a seat, a place to land, but the small bench near the entrance is already full — laughter and conversation blurring around you.

With no other choice, you lower yourself onto the edge of the pavement, not caring about your clothes, not caring about the stares.

Your hands barely catch your fall. The pavement's roughness scrapes your skin, but it’s a distant thing — muffled, almost gentle compared to the roar building in your chest.

You close your eyes. Tell yourself it’ll pass. It always does. It has to.

But this time, the darkness rises faster than you can fight.

Jeongguk should feel at peace.

It’s been three days — three days of coming home to an empty house. Three days without seeing the coffee pot you always left ready for him, even though he never used it anymore. Three days without the packed lunches you still made, even when he stopped taking them. He should feel free. He doesn’t have to wash off the scent of someone else’s perfume anymore after spending the day with Jiwoo.

But no matter how much he tries, he can’t feel happy.

His mind keeps going back to three nights ago.

He remembers sitting in his car outside the restaurant, watching you with your business partner. He saw how Mark stood close to you, how he laughed with you, how he reached out and fastened a necklace around your neck.

Jeongguk tries brushing the thought away. Tells himself it’s no big deal. But somehow, the image still sticks. Shows up when he least expects it. Tugs at the edge of his mind.

Simple work tasks now take forever. Emails sit unanswered in his inbox. Feedback on important campaigns, which he usually gives quickly, is delayed. His desk is buried under a growing pile of work he keeps putting off. Every morning, he wakes up already dreading the day ahead.

Taehyung notices the change. He doesn’t usually question Jeongguk’s habits, even when work piles up. But with the Calvin campaign shoot coming soon, and Mingyu as the new model, things need to stay on track.

He thought Jeongguk would feel better after finally telling you the truth. He thought letting go would give him some kind of relief.

Instead, Jeongguk looks worse. Instead of feeling free, he just looks even more lost.

“Did it end up being worse than you expected?” Taehyung asked casually, leaning back in his chair.

Jeongguk paused, confused. “Huh?”

“Dinner with her. Did it really go that bad?”

Jeongguk understood immediately. “No. We never actually went out. I didn’t even get the chance to tell her.”

Taehyung frowned. “You’re not avoiding it again, are you? We’ve talked about this, Gguk. You can’t keep running from the truth.”

“I know, Hyung. I went there, swear. You saw me leave with the papers that day. I showed up... just never made it to her.”

“Why?”

“Saw her with Mark.”

Taehyung raised an eyebrow, surprised. “Tuan? Her business partner?”

Jeongguk nodded, his jaw tight. “Yeah.”

“And that stopped you?”

Jeongguk shifted uncomfortably. “They were outside the restaurant together.”

“So?” Taehyung shrugged. “Could’ve just been a work thing.”

“It wasn’t,” Jeongguk knew it was a work thing. You mentioned it during your brief conversation earlier that morning. Just knew his gut was the more reasonable thing to trust. “That guy’s been in love with her for a while. Knew it the first time I met him at an event. The way he looks at her during her speeches... it’s obvious. And all those little gifts she brings home after their meetings? That’s not just business.”

He recognized the signs too well — they mirrored the same things he used to do for you when your marriage still had warmth left in it. Jeongguk’s voice carried an unexpected bitterness.

Taehyung studied his friend for a moment, sensing more behind his words. “Not to be rude, but... why do you even care? If she’s moving on, then so be it.”

“I don’t. Seriously, if she’s happy, found someone new, that actually makes everything easier,” Jeongguk paused, staring down at his hands. “It’s just weird, seeing them alone together like that, for the first time.”

Taehyung didn’t argue, but he didn’t look convinced either. “You shouldn’t be feeling anything, you know that, right? You haven’t felt anything for her in almost three years.”

The words hit harder than Jeongguk expected.

But he nodded, trying to ground himself in the decision he had already made.

After days in the hospital, you were finally going home.

The new agreement you signed with your lawyer left them with no choice but to release you. When your mom dropped you off, all you could think about was your own bed, your room filled with that soft lavender scent you missed so much. You just wanted a real shower, clothes that didn’t feel like paper, and a night of sleep without nurses checking your vitals every few hours.

You looked for one of Jeongguk’s old sweatshirts buried at the back of the closet. That old Linkin’ Park sweatshirt was always the comfiest, giving you the warmth of late-night talks and reminders of when you’d tease him for his broody music taste and soft, wide-eyed pout that made him look like a moody bunny.

As you pulled the sweatshirt free, something bumped against your hand—a soft thud, then a few papers slid out from the side of Jeongguk’s briefcase. Papers that looked too clean, stiff, and far too careful to be forgotten.

The sight made you stop cold. Your heart felt like it stopped too.

Maybe the universe thought it was funny — throwing one hit after another your way, just to see if you could survive it. Maybe it believed you were strong enough to take everything.

But even the strongest people get tired. Even they reach a point where they can’t keep going.

The universe clearly didn’t care. Because how else could you explain everything? The love you watched fall apart. The terrible news Dr. Min gave you. And now, these divorce papers scattered across your bedroom floor, already stained with the tears slipping down your cheeks.

You knew the marriage had been over for a long time. You felt it in the way Jeongguk drifted farther from you with every passing day.

But seeing it written down — seeing it official — still crushed something inside you.

You weren’t ready. Not today. Not after everything else.

But as you glanced down at the date typed at the top of the agreement, a bitter truth settled in. 

Maybe it wasn’t too soon after all. Maybe it was long overdue.

Because it had been three years now — three long years of being invisible. Of being nothing more than a shadow in the life you used to share with him.

Seeing the divided assets listed on the paper, you barely paid attention to the money he chose to split. It didn’t matter now. If anything, you thought Jeongguk had done a decent job of being fair.

What hurt was seeing his signature already stamped on it. It was realizing how easily his name stretched across the page, the faded ink, proof, that this decision wasn’t something he wrestled with. It hurt more knowing he had made the choice without even talking to you first.

Years of knowing his laugh before you even knew what falling in love with him felt like. Of sharing secrets under morning skies and sunlight that filtered through café windows. Of sneaking out of back-to-back meetings just to see each other for ten stolen minutes, coffee in one hand, his tie half-loosened, your heels in the other, saying nothing important—just “I missed you.” And meaning it. Of birthdays and anniversaries spent trying to outdo each other with handwritten letters, and slow, quiet mornings where nothing mattered except the way he looked at you like you were his favorite view.

You built a life with him. Chose him through every season. You held him when he broke down, he held you when your world went dark. You thought a love like that was untouchable. That all those years were proof of something unbreakable. That if anything in the world was real, it was you and him.

You thought that kind of history meant something. Thought it would keep you safe. Thought it would be enough.

But it wasn’t.

And maybe that’s the most painful part – that all those memories, all that love, all those years, not even the friendship you’ve built, was enough to stop him from letting go.

Seventeen years of love and memories, tossed aside like they didn’t matter.

The ache inside you wasn’t sharp anymore. It had settled into something heavier, deeper — a kind of grief that didn’t leave room for tears.

This was it.

The end of everything you once believed would last forever.

The soft creak of the bedroom door pulls you out of your thoughts.

Jeongguk steps inside. His eyes find the papers scattered around you, and for a second, you catch the panic flashing through him. "Where did you find that?"

The question is so cliché, you almost laugh. But you can’t even feel that anymore. There’s nothing left. Just emptiness.

You don’t bother answering him. Instead, you ask quietly, “When do you need it?”

His forehead creases. "What?"

"I’ll need some time to review it with Jin," you say, your voice steady, too steady. "But I’ll have it back to you before you know it."

You gather the papers neatly, ignoring how your hands tremble. Forced yourself to keep going, acting like none of it matters.

Jeongguk stares at you like he’s seeing you for the first time — and he doesn't seem to like what he’s seeing.

“Wait—” he starts.

But you cut him off, stacking the documents back into the folder. "Just tell me if you want it sent to you directly, or through your lawyer. Either way works. If there’s anything you want to change, send it back to me."

Your calmness seems to knock the air out of him. You can see it — the way his shoulders stiffen, the way his mouth opens but no words come out at first.

“That’s it?" he finally chokes out. "You’re just going to accept that I lied to you? That I kept this from you? You’re just... letting it go? You’re not even going to fight?"

You lift your gaze to him, tired, defeated. “Fight for what, Gguk?”

He doesn’t answer.

And you realize he has nothing left to give you.

“It’s over," you say, barely above a whisper. "You’ve won. You’re getting what you wanted."

You rise to your feet, feeling the weight of everything you’ve ever carried pulling harder now.

But there’s one thing you have to know.

You owe yourself at least that much.

"If you won’t mind..." you add, voice breaking just a little, "I just have one question." He watches you carefully, guarded, almost scared. "For once, Gguk... please be honest with me.”

You swallow the lump rising in your throat, then finally ask the question you’ve been burying for too long.

"Do you love her?"

Jeongguk’s face went pale. Sweat collected along his forehead, catching the light. His eyes—lately that’s been hard to read—were filled with panic now, darting between the folder on the floor and your face. He didn’t expect that question, not tonight.

He opened his mouth, but all that came out was a quiet, shaky, “When... when did you find out?”

“A while ago,” you said, voice steady but cold. “I went to your office one afternoon to see you. Brought lunch, thought maybe we could eat.”

You looked away, your gaze settling on the wall, anywhere but him.

“Taehyung said you were in a meeting, so I waited. Figured I’d stay at the café nearby in case you had time later. It was Ha-yun’s second death anniversary.”

You paused, the name alone pulling something deep from inside your chest. “We didn’t get to see each other that morning. Thought we could at least talk... remember her together.”

Jeongguk’s shoulders tensed, but he said nothing.

“But when I saw you walking out of the building later that evening, you weren’t alone.” You let the words hang in the air, suffocating.

“She was with you. Was wearing your coat – the faded navy one with the frayed cuff. The one I spent hours stitching together, gave it to you on your first day for your new role. Told me it made you feel like you could conquer everything at that time.”

“And there she was, wearing it like it was just another coat. I saw you laughed at something she said – it’s that same laugh you used to share with me.”

“Then, she kissed you. You kissed her back like you had nowhere else to be.”

You paused, forcing yourself to breathe as the image flooded your mind again. “And then you both got in a cab. Left off to wherever it was you were going. Looked like you didn’t even care that you had me, that you had a wife and a home that was waiting for you.”

He flinched. A small, almost invisible movement—but you caught it.

“I stayed at the café a little longer,” you went on, voice quieter now. “Watched the street like an idiot, hoping maybe I was wrong. That you’d come back, even if I saw everything. Thought maybe you’d call me, apologize, tell me you loved me, that I still mattered to you. Thought maybe it was just a one-time thing. I was going to let it go for that one-time thing. Told myself something stupid that it might’ve been one of your drunken mistakes.”

You let out a shaky laugh, bitter and sad all at once. “But you never came back. It wasn’t a one-time thing. Because I’d seen all of it already it before. The scent on your shirts. The lipstick stains I kept finding. The lemon cake mixes you started buying even though you hated them. The tattoo—God, even the tattoo.”

His eyes widened, and for a moment, something flashed there—maybe guilt, maybe fear. You don’t know anymore.

“I saw the moon and stars on your wrist and realized you’d erased me. Replaced the sun—our sun. The one you said reminded you of how I made everything feel warm.”

You looked back at him, met his eyes, hoping to find even a flicker of regret—nothing. Just silence where love used to be.

“You didn’t even remember what that day was, did you?”

 “I’m so—”

“Don’t,” you cut him off, voice breaking. “Don’t say you’re sorry. You’re not.”

Then, you asked again, the one question you hadn’t dared to say out loud until now. “Just tell me. Do you love her?”

The way his eyes dropped to the floor, the way his lips stayed shut—it told you everything you needed to know. He didn’t have to answer. Because he already had.

You don’t say anything else. Just walked away with the weight of the papers still in your hand. Every step toward the closet feels heavier than the last, like your body is finally reacting to the emotional collapse you’ve been holding back. You open the door quietly, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of seeing you break, even if your heart already has.

The space smells like both of you—faint traces of cologne and lavender, memories clinging to folded sweaters and hanging jackets. You grab the first largest bag you can find and begin packing what you can—just the essentials. A few changes of clothes. Some things for work. The rest you’ll deal with later, on a day when Jeongguk isn’t around, or maybe you’ll ask your mom to send someone for it.

You move on autopilot, focused on finishing before the lump in your throat can rise too high. Zipping the bag feels final, like the sound seals something off inside you.

When you step outside with the first load, Jeongguk is already there, standing near your car like he thinks he has something to say that could change the outcome. You don't look at him. Don’t have the strength to.

Another trip inside, another bag. Still, he’s there, hovering close like he’s waiting for you to fall apart in front of him. But you won’t—not here, not now.

You toss the last bag in the trunk and slam it shut. He takes a small step forward, eyes filled with something you can’t read anymore.

You pause before opening the car door, glancing back at him one last time.

“There are some conditions I want to add to the papers,” you say, your voice steady despite the storm inside. “But don’t worry. I promise, you'll get what you want."

And with that, you slide in, start the engine, and drive off—leaving him behind in the house that no longer feels like home.

Jeongguk sits at the bar, a glass of his usual whiskey resting in front of him. The ice has started to melt, untouched for too long. He knows he should be enjoying himself. Should be out there with Taehyung, laughing over stupid things, pushing through crowds, stepping outside to smoke and complain about the music being too loud.

But tonight, none of that feels right.

His hand stays curled around the silver ring resting in his palm. The wedding band he once wore every day without a second thought. Now, it’s just something he keeps in his wallet—close enough to hold onto, but not close enough to wear. He hasn’t figured out if that’s guilt, denial, or something in between.

It’s only been a week since you left.

The silence in the house is heavier than he expected. He thought he’d welcome the space, the quiet, the freedom. For years, he told himself things would feel lighter once it was over. And yet, all he’s felt since that night is the slow weight settling deeper in his chest.

The papers still haven’t come back. But he doesn’t mind. Told himself he’d wait however long it took. You deserve that. After everything, it's the least he can do. He’s not holding out hope that you’ll change your mind. Your last words still sit in his mind — your promise to finally let him go.

What haunts him is the way you sounded that night. Blank. Too blank. Like you’d already cried all the tears you had left and didn’t see the point anymore. That steady voice — wrapped around the pain you tried so hard to hide — plays in his head every time he closes his eyes.

In the mornings, it’s the marks on the closet floor that hits him. The faint skid of your luggage dragging out of the house feels louder than anything. A reminder that you left without looking back. That you made it easy for him, even when you shouldn’t have.

The missing car keys by the door breaks his heart the most. The keychain — the one with the little sun he bought you when you first moved in together — is gone too. Just an empty hook now. Every time he sees it, he’s dragged back to the moment to how you left.

Not just that you left, but how easily you did. You packed what you could, walked out the door in the middle of the night, and left him with everything—comfort, safety, warmth—when you were the one who deserved it more.

The vibration of his phone on the bar table pulls him out of the thought.

For a second, he welcomes it—grateful for anything to take him out of the spiral. But when he glances at the screen, the relief disappears just as fast.

Atty. Kim Namjoon: Divorce papers got delivered. On my way to the office to pick up. Let me know if you want to keep this off for tomorrow or if you want to meet up now.

Jeon Jeongguk: My house. Ten minutes.

He lets out a slow breath before grabbing his jacket.

Shoving his way through the crowd, he finds Taehyung still glued to someone on the dance floor. “Let’s go,” Jeongguk says, voice low. “I’ll buy you breakfast.”

Taehyung groans in protest, but when he catches the look on Jeongguk’s face, he doesn’t argue.

Outside, the cold night hits his skin, but it doesn’t wake him. He’s already too alert. Too aware of what’s waiting for him.

The house is quiet—too quiet—but Jeongguk barely notices. He’s sitting at the kitchen table, staring down at the revised divorce agreement spread out in front of him like it’s written in a language he doesn’t understand.

Every asset under both your names will be transferred to him. The Cheongdam apartment—originally meant for rent— will be his, along with any future rental income. Your joint account? Expected to be emptied into his name. Your personal savings, too. Business shares you once celebrated over dinner? All will be redirected to him, including your shares in Seora— the company you’ve poured your heart into. Even the insurance policies, meant to protect you both, will stay with him. You’d even signed the car title transfer.

The only things you requested to keep were the vacation home in Busan, every photo you’d taken together, and both wedding rings.

That’s it.

Jeongguk leans back, the paper feeling oddly stiff. He doesn’t understand. He knows the agreement he'd made. Knows what was on the original papers. None of this makes sense.

“There’s a catch,” Namjoon says, opening a separate folder and handing Jeongguk a new document – a single list, yet the paper feels heavier than it should, as if every word on it carries a weight of its own.

Taehyung, seated across from them, leans in.

“What’s this?” Jeongguk asks.

“Her conditions. She had them delivered with the revised agreement,” Namjoon explains. “Said the divorce won’t be final until these are met.”

Jeongguk reads the page slowly, each point sinking deeper into his chest.

Namjoon watches the way Jeongguk’s expression tightens, the weight of the situation settling heavy on his face. It’s not a new look—he’s worn it often since the divorce talks began—but it still makes Namjoon uneasy.

“You good?” he asks quietly.

Jeongguk doesn’t answer right away. His eyes stay on the paper in front of him, the list of conditions still fresh in his mind.

“Why is she giving everything to me?” His voice is low, like he’s talking to himself more than anyone else. “Why is she making this so easy? What's with this list?”

Namjoon straightens. “We can counter. These conditions? They’re emotional leverage. Anyone can see that. This could easily be thrown out or adjusted. If you want to—”

“I don’t want to fight back, Hyung.” Jeongguk cuts in before Namjoon can finish. His tone is calm, but it makes both Namjoon and Taehyung freeze. There’s something cold in it. Resigned. “She doesn’t deserve that. Not after everything.”

He leans back, fingers tightening around the edge of the table.

“If this is all she’s asking for, I’ll do it. I just don’t understand why.” He shakes his head. “I did most of what’s on this list for fourteen years. The rest… I’ve been doing for three. And now all I have to do is repeat it for thirty days, and she signs everything over?”

Namjoon stays quiet. He knows where this is going.

“She’s not angry. She’s not asking for much in return. She’s not even trying to fight me for the things we built together. Why?” Jeongguk’s voice drops. “Why is she still being kind to me after all the shit I’ve done? Why is she making it easier for me to walk away from this?”

Taehyung shifts in his seat but says nothing.

“I don’t deserve easy,” Jeongguk mutters. “I’m not supposed to deserve easy.”

Namjoon knows the answer. Years working through countless divorces, he’s seen this kind of case more often than he'd like. The ones that settle the fastest, the ones that end quietly without dragging each other through the mud.

Taehyung knows it too. Having known you for over a decade, he’s watched how even through all the pain and disappointments, you never stopped choosing Jeongguk.

The unspoken answer hovers between them, heavy and bittersweet.

Namjoon and Taehyung share a look but say nothing, both silently agreeing to keep their thoughts to themselves.

Jeongguk isn’t ready to hear it.

Maybe he never will be.

[tacoguacamole]

ANOTHER TIME | JJK - 1

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

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

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

[Theme: Marriage AU. BF2L2S]

[Warnings: Major Angst, Multiple Flashbacks and Time Jumps, Mature Theme, Smut, Oral [m/f] Mature/Explicit Language, A lot of fluff, Romance, Slowburn]

[Older JK, Older OC, Older Bangtan, Lawyer Seokjin and Namjoon, Doctor Yoongi, Event Planner Hobi, Solo idol Jimin, Secretary Taehyung, Brief cameos of Seventeen Mingyu, GOT7 Mark, Kook's a jerk and mean for the earlier chapters]

[Status: Ongoing]

[Chapter Summary: You remember how it all began — a summer day, a camera, and Jeongguk’s steady presence slowly becoming your everything. From stolen laughter to whispered vows, your love once felt infinite. Now your marriage is a quiet ache, filled with the echo of all that’s been lost and the haunting hope that maybe, somehow, he’ll choose you again.]

[Part 1. Chapter Word Count: 8k+]

[MINORS DNI! 18+]

Summer has always felt like a quiet promise to you. There’s something about the way the morning light slips through your curtains—soft and golden—that makes everything feel a little easier, even the things you keep inside. The heat never bothered you. It felt like warmth you could hold onto, like being hugged by the world when no one else could see you slipping.

Maybe that’s why summer became your favorite.

Or maybe it was him.

Because it was summer when you met Jeon Jeongguk.

You remember the sun that day—how it blazed unapologetically over the shoreline, how the heat curled around your ankles as you sat in the sand, watching yachts slice lazily through the water like moving sketches on a canvas of blue. The world felt slow, easy.

Until it didn’t.

A few feet away, he was there. Camera in hand, lens pointed right at you. Bold. Unapologetic. Not even pretending to look away when your eyes met his.

“What the hell? Are you seriously taking pictures of me right now?” you’d snapped, jumping to your feet, brushing sand off your shorts with all the anger a sixteen-year-old could manage. “Do you even get how creepy that is? You freaking pervert—”

“Wait—wait! No! It’s not like that!” he had stammered, hands raised like the camera was some weapon he never meant to pull. “It’s for a portfolio—college applications! I swear! I was just trying to catch the mix of people and nature, you just—uh—you fit into the scene—”

He’d fumbled with the camera strap, trying to explain between nervous laughs and rushed apologies.

And you? You were mortified. If the ocean had opened up right then, you would’ve let it pull you under without a fight.

But somehow — between his flustered panic and your still-burning anger — he said something about not even knowing if the picture turned out, and you couldn’t help but laugh.

That was the beginning.

That summer, Jeon Jeongguk became your best friend.

It was a summer night when everything smelled like pavement heat and distant jasmine, and all you wanted was to peel off your work clothes and melt into the couch. The kind of night where even your bones felt tired.

You hadn’t expected the light. Not the soft glow flickering from dozens of candles tucked across shelves and countertops, or the trail of flower petals curling like a secret through the apartment. It felt surreal—like walking into a dream set up by someone who had memorized all the quiet corners of your heart.

And then you saw him.

Jeongguk stood in the middle of the living room, his hands clasped behind his back, shoulders a little stiff, like he wasn’t sure how to breathe. He looked like a boy caught between fear and flight, only staying because he wanted this more than he feared the fall.

You blinked. Because for weeks—months—he’d been telling you about a girl.

The girl who made his chest tighten. The girl he wanted to impress without looking desperate. The girl he asked you about late into the night, as if your advice were gospel. And you, being his best friend, had answered every question with a brave smile and a cracking heart. You told him what flowers to bring, what not to say, how to read a moment without overstepping.

You played the part. You always did.

You had been there through all of it—those messy college years with coffee-stained notes and shared deadlines, the victory of your first job offers, the tiny celebrations and the quiet disappointments. You watched girls chase him and get turned away, every time.

And every time, he turned to you, his safe space.

“You’re just easier to talk to,” he’d say, kicking at the floor. “You get it.”

And maybe that’s when the lines began to blur.

You weren’t sure exactly when your chest started to tighten at the sound of his laughter. When his name, unspoken in your head, started to feel different. Maybe it was never a single moment. Maybe it was all of them, stitched together into something steady and impossible to ignore.

So that night, when you stepped into that room—into the flickering candlelight and the warmth he’d tried to contain—you thought, she’s coming. The girl he’s been talking about. He’s going to tell her everything.

You even turned to leave.

But then he said your name.

And three words that didn’t belong to anyone else. “I love you.”

At first, you stood frozen, trying to understand. Trying not to hope too hard.

Then he stepped closer, and from behind his back, he pulled a bouquet of tulips. Purple. Your favorite.

“I love you,” he said again, quieter this time, like he was afraid you’d disappear.

And in that moment, the world quieted. Not in some big, movie-like way—but in that gentle, everyday pause when everything just feels right. Like letting out a deep breath you didn’t know you were holding.

You remember thinking, So this is what it feels like. To be chosen. To be seen without having to ask.

That summer, at twenty-one, with candlelight brushing his skin and tulips in your hands, your best friend had become something else entirely.

The love of your life.

The summer you had turned twenty-three, you expected nothing. Life was moving too fast to pause for birthdays.

Jeongguk had spent almost a year working toward a promotion to Creative Director, buried in late nights and never-ending deadlines. You had just quit your job— nervous but determined—to begin preparing for something bigger, taking over Seora. Your mother had wanted to retire, and you, with your heart pounding, said yes to stepping into her place.

That year, you hadn’t made any big promises to each other. Just a quiet understanding. Takeout and sweatpants, maybe a quick kiss over leftovers, and the real celebration could wait until life calmed down.

So when Jeongguk texted you that afternoon, “Leaving work early. Be downstairs in ten,” you hadn’t expected much. You figured he’d forgotten a gift and was making up for it with a last-minute dinner somewhere quiet.

What you hadn’t expected was the way he grinned the second you opened the car door, eyes bright despite his exhaustion, hair slightly messy from the wind. Or the way he said, as soon as you settled in, “It’s going to be a long drive,” like he had a secret folded up in his chest.

You spent the first twenty minutes badgering him with questions, poking at his side at every red light, demanding clues. But he only laughed. Reached into the glove compartment. Pulled out your favorite snacks like weapons in an old, familiar war.

“Here,” he said, placing a candy bar in your hand. “Eat this and be quiet.”

It worked.

And somewhere between city roads and country silence, between the music humming low and the smell of tulips that hadn’t yet touched the air—you stopped trying to guess.

You didn’t expect the garden. Didn’t expect the burst of color in the middle of nowhere. The sunset lighting up each petal like it was meant to happen right then. You didn’t expect the table, softly set under hanging lights, or the quiet sound of your favorite song drifting through the air.

You hadn’t even known a place like this existed.

“Happy Birthday, my love.”

Jeongguk’s voice was gentle in your ear, his lips brushing your temple as his arm slipped lightly around your waist. Two years in, and somehow the sound of his soft nicknames still made you melt, still lit up something warm and tender in your chest. It was proof that the spark hadn’t faded. That time had only made it deeper, more real.

Dinner unfolded like something out of a dream, somewhere between romance and playful banter. You’d barely taken your first bite before launching into a full-on interrogation, bombarding your boyfriend with questions, how he found this place, when he had the time to pull it all off.

Jeongguk only laughed, stealing a bite of your food and shaking his head. “Just eat, baby. You ask too many questions.”

You smirked, leaning in as you wiped a bit of sauce from his lip with your thumb. “Look at you evolving. Feels like just yesterday you were panicking about how to flirt with a woman.”

His expression crumpled into mock outrage. “That was my first time! I was going to declare my undying love for you! Had to get it right for the perfect woman.”

That nervous boy, fumbling with his feelings and petal trails—it was hard to believe this confident man in front of you had ever stuttered through a sentence.

“You’re still so cheesy.”

“And you still love me,” The grin that followed, soft and certain.

“I do,” you whispered. “I love you, Gguk.”

By the time dinner was over, your stomach was full and your heart even more so. You leaned back in your chair, soaking in the breeze, the stars above, the warmth of his hand in yours.

Then came another surprise — a small birthday cake, carried over by one of the garden staff with quiet, careful steps. You raised a brow, laughing softly. “You already fed me dessert.”

“Can’t have a birthday without cake,” he said, already lighting the single candle. “Come on, make a wish, baby.”

You smiled, the flicker of the flame reflecting in his eyes. For a moment, everything slowed.

A safe home. A stable career. A loving partner. A healthy life.

What more could you ask for?

And yet, as your eyes fluttered shut, you wished anyway. Not for something new, but for this—this exact moment, this exact love—to last. And if change ever came, may it be the kind that blooms, never breaks.

You opened your eyes, ready to blow out the flame—

But what you saw wasn’t the candle anymore.

Jeongguk. Down on one knee. A ring shinning between his fingers. Eyes locked on yours, trembling, hopeful, sure.

“That day you called me out for being a stalker?” his voice wavered slightly, his smile laced with nostalgia. “That was actually the happiest day of my life.”

You blinked, caught off guard.

“It was the day I met you. You were yelling at me, face all red. I honestly thought you were going to explode.” He let out a breathy laugh. “But there I was—sixteen, camera in hand—completely mesmerized by this girl who didn’t even know she looked like she’d stepped out of a painting. Your hair was flying with the wind, and your eyes… they looked like the galaxies. The sun hit just right, and you—” He paused, eyes softening. “You looked like the start of something.”

Your chest clenched, but in the best way. You tried not to smile too hard. Tried not to cry. Tried not to melt under the memory he was bringing to life.

“That day marked the beginning of a beautiful friendship,” he added, his voice gentler now. “One I never thought would turn into this.”

Your fingers were damp with sweat; you quietly wiped them on the back of your dress, hoping to steady yourself.

Jeongguk’s words kept flowing, low and sincere.

“You stood by me when I had nothing figured out. When I failed, when I fell short, when I let things get to me—like that time I cried over failing an exam, or losing my camera bag like the world was ending—” he chuckled, and you did too, tears prickling now from laughter and longing all at once.

“You were just always there. You were my calm. My constant.” He looked at you with such deep care it almost ached. “And you cheered me on through everything. Even the small wins—like that two-hundred-dollar incentive I got from pitching that campaign.”

You laughed again, that memory coming back in crisp detail. Jeongguk had burst into your office, practically bouncing, holding up his bonus slip like it was a golden ticket. He hugged you so tight he nearly lifted you off the floor.

Those small wins… they had felt like the peak of the world back then. Not because of the money, but because you’d been in them together.

And just when you thought your heart couldn’t take more—

“You know me better than I know myself,” Jeongguk said, voice steady but eyes a little too bright. “When I can’t figure out which tie to wear, or what shoes go with my pants, you pick them out instantly. And just like that, everything feels easier. You always look after me. Even when you’re tired. Even before we got together, you were already putting me first.”

He reached for your hand then, softly, like he could sense the storm inside you. And oh, how it churned—your stomach tight, your breath uneven.

“I know you think I’ve done the same for you,” he continued. “That I’ve made you my priority too. And I have. Always have. Always will. But deep down…” he swallowed, thumb brushing over your knuckles, “I still feel like I could do more. As your husband. If you let me.”

You froze, your pulse loud in your ears. You told yourself to stay calm—but they gave you away, trembling against his warm hands.

“Today is for your wishes,” he said softly, drawing you closer. “But I have one of my own.”

And just like that, your world shifted.

“I want to be your husband. Your forever partner. To love you endlessly, for as long as time will allow. Will you marry me?”

Tears spilled before you could stop them. Your voice wouldn’t come, not at first. But your body answered for you—nodding quickly, sinking to your knees, wrapping your arms around him like you’d just found the safest place in the world.

He laughed—half breathless, half crying—and pulled back just enough to cup your face.

“W-wait, babe, I need to hear you say it,” he whispered, grinning so wide it almost hurt to look at. “You’re saying yes, right? This is real?”

“Yes,” you finally breathed. “Yes, Gguk. I’ll marry you. I love you. I love you so much.”

Jeongguk threw his head back with a yell of pure, unfiltered joy. It echoed into the tulip fields like a promise. “I can’t wait to call you my Mrs. Jeon,” he beamed. “Or—hell—I’ll take your name. As long as you’re mine forever.”

And when he kissed you, it wasn’t delicate. It was wild, eager, soaked in love. You tasted it in every press of his lips—every wave crashing into you like a vow unspoken.

“I love you, baby,” he murmured again, forehead to yours, as the tulips swayed around you like they, too, were celebrating.

The sun dipped a little lower, casting gold across his skin. You thought time might stop for you both, just for a while.

And somewhere in the soft drift of laughter and love, you found yourselves in another season, another golden evening—one where the air smelled like grilled food and summer fireworks, and Jeongguk’s hand was laced with yours under a different kind of sky.

The following summer, on the day you turned twenty-four, the world felt still in the best possible way.

You and Jeongguk had come a long way since that quiet birthday dinner in the tulip garden. What once felt like a distant dream—building a life together while chasing your own ambitions—was slowly becoming reality.

Jeongguk had earned the promotion he worked tirelessly for, settling into his new role with newfound ease. The stress that once creased his forehead had begun to fade. And you, with steady determination, took over at Seora, walking the path your mother had gently prepared for you.

Everything started to fall into place. The late nights, the risks, the struggles—they all suddenly felt worth it.

You moved out of the tiny apartment that once held all your early memories and into a house that reflected how far you’d come. It was larger than you needed, tucked away in a quiet compound, but it was yours. Every corner felt like a fresh page.

Jeongguk had picked your birthday for the wedding. “It’s poetic,” he once said, lightly running his finger along your palm. “I get to celebrate the day you were born and the day you chose to stay with me forever.”

And he truly meant it. That choice—so thoughtful and deliberate—wasn’t just romantic. It was the kind of gift you’d hold in your heart always, something only he could give you.

And so, that summer day became more than just a birthday celebration.

It became the beginning of something timeless.

The air smelled of sea salt and lavender as the ocean breeze drifted through the half-open window of the bridal suite.

Your dress shifted softly with each breeze. Light ivory silk with thin layers of tulle that floated like water. The bodice hugged you just right, with lace stitched in soft, wave-like patterns that reminded you of all those summers by the Busan shore. A short train gathered behind you like a memory waiting to happen. Your hair was pulled back in a loose, low twist, with a small pearl comb set gently above your ear.

You had been ready for over an hour. And still… you waited.

A gentle knock broke the quiet.

Hobi’s familiar face peeked into the room, his voice warm. “Ready, Mrs. Soon-To-Be Jeon?”

You tried to smile. Tried. “Hey.”

He stepped inside, practically shaking with unspoken feelings. “You look stunning,” he said, placing a hand to his chest. “Like, Jeongguk-is-gonna-lose-it stunning.”

You laughed, barely. Your fingers kept picking at the hem of your dress. “Hobi…”

“Yeah?”

“What if this… changes everything?”

The question hung in the room like fog. He paused, eyes gentle as he stepped toward you.

“What if we ruin it?” you whispered. “What we had. What we have. We've always been best friends first. What if marriage breaks that?”

He walked over and sat beside you at the edge of the dresser bench. Without hesitation, he took your hand — grounding, warm, familiar. His thumb traced slow circles against your skin.

“You’re scared love might erase the friendship."

You nodded. “Or twist it into something we can’t come back from. What if we lose what made us, us?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at you with the kind of knowing only someone who had seen every chapter could offer. “You know what I see when I look at you and Jeongguk?” he said at last. “Two people who always find their way back. Every detour, every almost. You always chose each other, even before you knew you were choosing.”

A shaky laugh slipped out of you, soft and a little unsteady.

“And listen,” Hobi continued, gently but firm. “Love didn’t come to take the place of friendship. It grew from it. You really think that’s something that falls apart easily?”

You shook your head slowly.

“No,” he said. “It’s the strongest kind. You’re not losing anything today. You’re building something new — on top of everything that already made you strong.”

And in that moment, something eased in your chest. Just a little. Just enough.

You finally smiled. This time, it reached your eyes. “How’d I get lucky with you as my man of honor-slash-wedding planner-slash-therapist?”

He grinned, already misty-eyed. “No idea. But I’m billing you later.”

The sun dipped low not long after, golden light spilling over Gwangalli. Purple tulips arched overhead at the altar, swaying gently as the sea whispered behind them.

A hush settled over the small crowd as soft music started. You stepped into sight.

And Jeongguk — waiting at the end of the aisle — looked like he’d forgotten how to breathe. His lips parted, eyes wide and bright, hands shaking just enough to make yours start to tremble too.

You walked to him, everything else falling away. He let out a breathless laugh, like he couldn’t quite believe you were real.

The officiant’s voice faded into the background — because your hearts had already started speaking.

When it was time for the vows, Jeongguk reached for your hands. His grip was warm, steady, even as tears swelled in his lashes.

“I don’t remember the exact moment I fell in love with you,” he began, voice thick. “Because it wasn’t just one moment. It was all of them. Every inside joke, every late-night walk, every time you looked at me and saw more than I thought I was. Every dumb argument about ramen flavors.” A soft wave of laughter rose from the guests. “You were my best friend before anything else. You still are. And I promise, no matter what love turns into, I’ll never stop choosing you.”

You could barely breathe. Still, you found the strength to speak.

“I never imagined we’d end up here,” you said, voice trembling, “but I’m so grateful we did. You’ve seen every part of me — even the ones I tried to hide — and loved me anyway. I promise to keep choosing you. Even when you leave your ridiculous toe socks all over the house.” More laughter. More tears. “I vow to be your rock, your hope, your home. I’m thankful for every moment we’ve shared and every one we’ve yet to live. I love you — always and forever.”

The officiant didn’t even get to finish. “You may now—”

Jeongguk was already moving, hands cradling your face as he kissed you. Soft. Sure. Fierce with every vow spoken and every one unspoken.

The applause, the waves, the music — all of it disappeared.

There was only you and him.

Still standing. Still choosing.

The night folds around you both like a velvet ribbon — warm, private, endless.

You hardly remember making it to the suite — just bits and pieces. His hand holding yours a little too tightly. The soft thump of your bodies pressing into the door as it closed behind you. The way Jeongguk looked at you like you were his whole world — eyes wide, a little out of breath, his smile unsteady with all the feelings he was struggling to hold in.

You’re laughing when he scoops you into his arms — a clumsy, chaotic lift that has you squealing.

“Can’t believe you’re mine,” he says, voice rough with awe as he carries you to the bed. The words spill out messy and honest — pure, aching truth. “Finally. All mine.”

He sets you down like you’re the most fragile thing in the world. You’re still laughing, fingers skimming the strong line of his jaw, then the chain of his necklace as it disappears into the hollow of his throat. His pupils are blown wide when he leans down, pressing a kiss to your forehead. Then your nose. Then your mouth — slower this time, savoring.

It feels like the kiss from the ceremony never ended. Like it just melted into this one — deeper, heavier.

“You’re staring,” you tease softly when you pull back, trying to catch your breath.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, resting his forehead against yours. “Can you blame me?”

His hands find your waist, thumbs tracing small, careful circles against the silky fabric of your dress. He’s trembling slightly, you realize — a tremor in him, delicate and charged, like he’s terrified of doing this wrong.

You brush his hair back from his forehead. “We can go slow,” you whisper. “We have all night.”

His answering smile is boyish, crooked, devastating. “No,” he says, tugging you closer until your noses brush again. “We have forever.”

When you finally pull him down onto the bed with you, there’s a flurry of limbs and laughter — the kind of ridiculous tangle that only happens when two best friends try to be lovers and forget, for a moment, how to breathe.

“Wait, wait,” Jeongguk’s laughing into the crook of your neck as he fumbles with his jacket, then your dress. “I’m doing this wrong. I had a plan. It was a very sexy plan.”

You giggle, breathless, reaching for the buttons of his shirt with trembling fingers. “We’re not doing plans tonight.”

“No plans,” he agrees, voice low and giddy, “just... you.”

He kisses you again, harder now, a little clumsy from how much he wants you. His hands map every inch of you they can reach — shoulders, arms, waist — like he’s memorizing you all over again. Like this time, the stakes are different. Higher.

When he finally peels your dress from your shoulders, he moves slow. Painfully slow. Like unwrapping a gift he’s dreamt about but never thought he could touch. His fingers ghost down your skin, his gaze drinking you in like he’s starving.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, almost like he doesn’t mean for you to hear. His voice is thick, frayed at the edges. His hands shake when he cups your face again, grounding himself with your skin.

“You’re not wearing the socks, are you?” The tease slips out before you can stop it.

Jeongguk snorts against your shoulder, biting gently at your skin in retaliation. “Married five hours and you’re already picking on me.”

“I love your dumb socks,” you promise through a breathless laugh.

He hums, trailing kisses down the slope of your shoulder. “Yeah, well. Tonight, I’m wearing nothing but you.”

The teasing fades into something quieter when he lays you back against the pillows, his body covering yours, warm and solid. You feel every place he touches, every place he doesn’t, like they’re marked on your skin. His mouth moves slowly, in awe — kisses pressed to your chest, the curve of your waist, the soft swell of your hips. Wherever his lips go, his hands follow — stroking, coaxing, making you feel it all.

And God, you do. You feel everything.

You arch into him instinctively, a soft, helpless sound slipping from your lips. His breath stutters at the noise, and he lifts his head just enough to look at you — really look at you.

“Tell me if you want to stop,” he says. His voice is raw, scraped-down, stripped of anything but restraint. “I’ll stop. Anytime. Anything.”

“I don’t want you to stop,” you whisper back. You cup his face in both hands, thumb tracing the soft curve of his bottom lip. “I want you.”

A low sound — almost a whimper — slips from him then, and he nods, lowering himself until every inch of him is pressed against you. His hips shift against yours, experimental, a little awkward.

You both gasp.

“Shit,” he mutters under his breath, burying his face against your shoulder. “Okay. We’re... figuring this out.”

You laugh again, breathless and deliriously happy. You tilt your hips, guiding him, and he groans — grateful, needy.

The first time is clumsy, achingly sweet. There are moments you miss each other, teeth knocking, soft curses murmured between kisses. But there’s laughter too, and whispered encouragements, and the kind of heat that comes from knowing someone so deeply, so completely, that the vulnerability feels natural — like breathing. Like coming home.

“You’re doing so good, baby."

“Fuck,” he groans, voice breaking, “say it again.”

You smile against his skin, wrapping your arms tighter around him. “You’re doing so good, Gguk.”

He moves with you, guided by instinct and the quiet understanding you’ve built over years together. Every thrust, every kiss, every shaky moan feels like a new promise — I love you. I want you. I’m yours.

When you both finally fall apart, it’s not with fireworks or grand declarations. It’s quiet, almost sacred — his name on your lips, yours on his, whispered like prayers into each other’s mouths.

Jeongguk refuses to let you go. His arms band around you, tight and unyielding, even as your skin cools and the room settles into a sleepy hush.

“You’re my best friend,” he murmurs, pressing a lazy kiss to your forehead, your cheeks, your chin. “And now you’re my wife. How the fuck did I get so lucky?”

You smile, heart so full it aches. “Guess you’re stuck with me... forever.”

He grins against your skin, already half-asleep. “Good. I never wanted to be anywhere else.”

You reach for the blanket draped over the chair, wrapping it around yourself like a shield — or maybe a memory. A soft, bittersweet smile touches your lips as a gentle warmth fills you.

The laughter that muffled into pillows, the way he used to look at you like the world disappeared when you walked into a room. You think of those tangled nights in bed, when wanting each other turned into something deeper, where you'd both go again and again — not for pleasure, but to prove, in the only language you both spoke fluently back then, who loved the other more.

You close your eyes.

And for a moment, you're back there.

You remember the second you stepped through that door. How everything else had faded away.

The house had felt alive somehow, even in its quiet—sunlight spilled generously through the wide windows, the air tinged with fresh paint and the sea salt that clung to Busan’s breeze. It had been perfect. Everything you two dreamed of and bled yourselves dry to build.

You could see it all—lazy mornings tangled in white linen, coffee still warm in hand as the waves crashed just beyond the terrace. No urgent calls from both your jobs in Seoul. No blinking notifications. Just this. Him. The two of you, in your own little world.

You hadn't meant to cry, but of course you did. A single, stupid tear betraying you the moment the front door clicked shut behind you.

Jeongguk noticed before you could pretend. "My love," he’d murmured, pulling you close, thumb brushing the wetness from your cheek like it hurt him to see it. "We did it."

You nodded, burying your face against his shoulder, breathing in the comfort you always found there. "We really did."

He kissed your forehead like he was sealing it in—this moment, this house, this dream you’d both chased until your feet bled. For that second, there was no future to fear. Just him, his hand in yours, and a home filled with quiet hope.

But of course, Jeongguk couldn’t stay soft for long.

"You know we have to break it in," he’d murmured against your lips, eyes already dark with intent.

You’d laughed, pulling back slightly to raise an eyebrow. "Already? We’ve been here for five minutes."

He smirked, cocky and shameless. "Five minutes too long. Been thinking about fucking you in this house since the day we signed the deed."

Your fingertips tailed down his neck. “Don’t remember signing up for this version of you.”

“Maybe I’ve been holding back. Maybe you just bring out the braver side of me.”

You remember how you shoved him playfully in the chest, only for him to catch your wrists and spin you against the wall, pinning you there with his hips. You’d felt him, already hard, pressing between your thighs through your clothes, and it set something wild sparking in your veins.

Your breath hitched. That grin—the wicked one that meant trouble—lit up his whole face. "Obsessed," you murmured.

He didn’t even pretend to deny it. "With my wife? Always."

You slipped away, dancing into the kitchen with a smirk. Jeongguk followed like a man chasing salvation, jeans already undone, tattoos on display as he stalked toward you.

"You think you love me more than I love you?" you called over your shoulder, hopping onto the counter.

"Baby," he said darkly, eyes trailing over your body like a promise. "I know I do."

"Then prove it."

He’s between your thighs in an instant, hands gripping your hips so tight you know you’ll have bruises tomorrow—and you want them. His mouth crashes onto yours again, messy and heated, stealing every ounce of air from your lungs. His hands work with urgency, tugging at your clothes, until your blouse and bra hit the floor and his tongue is tracing the swell of your breast like he’s worshipping you.

“Fuck, you’re so pretty,” he groans, pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses down your sternum. “So mine.”

You tug at his shirt, yanking it over his head, nails raking down his tattooed arms. “Still waiting for the proof, Gguk,” you whisper against his jaw.

He growls again. Real. Feral. Sinks to his knees in front of you like you’re something holy. His hands slide under your skirt, shoving it up, baring you completely. The first sweep of his tongue over your core makes you gasp, your head tipping back, hand flying to his hair. He groans into you, like just the taste of you is enough to ruin him.

“Tell me who you belong to,” he rasps against your soaked skin.

You tighten your thighs around his head, breathless. “Make me.”

And he does.

His mouth is relentless, tongue and lips working you until you’re writhing on the countertop, whimpering his name like a prayer.

But you’re stubborn. You don’t give him the satisfaction of hearing you surrender. Not yet.

When you finally yank him up by his hair and drag his mouth back to yours, he tastes like you—filthy, desperate—and you wrap your legs around his waist, grinding against him through his jeans.

“You need me that bad, babe?”

“Need you always,” he pants, fumbling with his jeans, too wild to care about anything but being inside you. When he finally pushes into you, it’s fast, almost rough with need, and you both groan—loud and raw—as he bottoms out.

“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he hisses, forehead pressed to yours as he thrusts deep, slow, savoring every inch. “No one... no one loves you like I do.”

You moan into his mouth, biting his lower lip, nails digging into his back as you meet his thrusts, desperate to match him, desperate to win.

“We’ll see about that,” you whisper fiercely, clenching around him just to hear him whimper.

And he does—beautiful and broken—and it spurs you both on, the pace rough and messy, your moans filling the empty house like a chorus. By the time the sun dips lower, you’ve christened the kitchen counter, the living room sofa, the hallway wall. You’re both half-dressed, half-wild, bruised and kissed within an inch of your lives.

When he finally collapses onto the bed with you tangled in his arms, sweaty and wrecked, Jeongguk still doesn’t let go.

“You,” he whispers hoarsely, voice wrecked from moaning your name too many times. “You’re it for me. Always.”

You press your lips to the center of his chest, feeling the frantic thud of his heart. “Then you better be ready to spend forever proving it.”

His laugh was ragged, but full. "I’ll spend my whole life proving it."

And you believed him. Of course you did.

Because in that house, in that life—you’d been sure you were winning. Together.

Somewhere beyond the walls of your home, Seoul moves on without you – light rain falling in the garden, leaves moving in the breeze, the faint sound of a gate opening somewhere in the compound. In the distance, you heard a neighbor’s dog bark, a car door close.

But in here, everything was still. Silent.

Maybe it was the rain. Maybe it was the quiet ache you didn’t dare name. Either way, your mind slipped, without meaning to, back to another time.

A warmer time.

You could still feel it if you closed your eyes—the sunlight in Busan, the salt on your skin, the weight of Jeongguk’s body against yours, the way he had looked at you like there was no one else in the universe. The way he laughed when you challenged him. The way he kissed you when he thought you weren’t looking.

The memory came back easily. His hands on your waist, the two of you laughing, you playfully refusing to let him have his way even as he kissed every bit of you against the kitchen counter.

You smiled faintly, tracing the rim of your mug with your thumb.

It felt like another lifetime now. Like it had happened to different people.

The quiet pressed heavier on your chest, so you let yourself sink further, slipping into an old memory you hadn’t visited in a long time.

Somewhere in the middle of Seoul, in a small, cozy restaurant he loved because they made the kimchi just like his mother’s.

You had been picking at your bibimbap when Jeongguk put down his chopsticks, cleared his throat dramatically, and leaned across the table with that wide, mischievous grin that always meant trouble.

“Wife,” he said grandly, ignoring the side-eye from the ajumma at the next table.

You arched a brow, amused. “Yes, husband?”

He held out his hand like he was about to make a toast at some royal event. “I have a very important statement to make.”

You snorted, trying not to laugh. “Right now? In the middle of lunch?”

“Very serious. Life-altering.” His eyes were shining. Boyish. So in love it almost hurt to look at him.

With an an exaggerated sigh, you set down your spoon. “Fine. I’m listening.”

He straightened, cleared his throat again—overdoing it just to make you roll your eyes—and then said, with theatrical seriousness. "I do promise you, Mrs. Jeon, that no matter what love turns into, I’ll never stop choosing you.”

You blinked, caught off-guard by the raw sweetness of it.

He wasn’t laughing anymore. Was just looking at you, like he was falling for you all over again.

Your heart stuttered. Then, quick as a snap, you leaned across the table and flicked his forehead.

“Ow!” He jerked back, clutching his forehead dramatically. "This is why people write their vows once and never bring them out again!”

“You’re lucky you're cute."

He pouted, rubbing at his forehead like you’d truly injured him. “See if I ever get sappy with you again.”

Laughter bubbled up, warmth blooming in your chest, your cheeks hurting from smiling so much. “Please. Nothing’s going to change with you until the kids are running around the house. Maybe even until they grow up. You’ll be that embarrassing dad crying at every school event.”

Discussing children felt natural. Familiar. Without even needing to plan, you both held an unspoken promise that when the time came, you’d face it together, ready to give all your love. Even mundane things—like folding laundry—turned into whispered conversations about baby names, arguments over whose genes would dominate.

Jeongguk groaned like you’d stabbed him. "God, you're right. I’m doomed. Gonna be that dad with the 'I love my kid' bumper stickers all over the car. Jeongguk Jr. or Little Ha-yun will have to live with it.”

"Bet you’re going to come up with matching shirts,"

He pointed his chopsticks at you. "If I ever show up in a 'World’s Best Dad' T-shirt, it's on you."

You laughed until your sides hurt, while he just stared at you, like you were the answer to a prayer he hadn’t known he was whispering.

The memory dissolved as the cold, damp present crept back in.

The rain soaks into the loose weave of your sweater, the tea now forgotten and stone-cold in your hands. The hedges bent low under the weight of water. The petals of the camellias you once planted together lay bruised against the earth.

Absently, you pulled your phone from your pocket, the screen lighting up in the muted gray light.

The wedding photo stared back at you. Frozen in time.

There you were, standing with Jeongguk at the altar, laughter bubbling from your lips, his hand linked firmly with yours. His eyes had been impossibly bright that day—full of promises that felt too big, too boundless to ever fade.

You traced the outline of his face on the screen with a trembling finger, wishing you could reach through the glass. Wishing you could fold yourself back into that moment. Hold onto that feeling just a little longer. Maybe if you had clung tighter, believed harder, things wouldn’t have slipped away.

Change is something no one can escape. You knew that well—everyone does.

Still, when it came, it hit hard at thirty, turning you and Jeongguk into strangers.

The rare mornings you find him in the kitchen, he walks past you on the way to the coffee maker. Casual vows exchanged easily over meals, had turned into clipped, tired arguments about who forgot to take out the trash. Whose turn it was to restock the empty egg tray.

You knew when everything changed. You wish you hadn’t.

You knew the exact moment Jeongguk stopped seeing you as the light in his life. When his love for you became a burden, he didn't know how to carry anymore.

You wished you could erase that night. Wished that when he chose you, it hadn't come with the weight of resentment that now lived between you.

Just because he had chosen you.

When the hospital room spun in blinding, sterile white. When the machines screamed warnings and the doctors begged for a decision—he chose you.

He chose you over Ha-yun.

And in some cruel twist of fate, you survived while your daughter didn’t.

You pressed your forehead against your knees, curling tighter on the rain-damp bench. The garden blurred into a smear of color and gray.

The life you had once imagined for the three of you—Jeongguk’s hand around a tiny fist, your laughter filling the house—died the same night she did. And no matter how much he smiled at you after, no matter how tightly he held you while you cried, a wall had already been built between you. Thick. Unscalable. Brick by agonizing brick.

You were no longer his home. You were his reminder of what’s been lost.

It didn’t begin with shouting. It began in the quiet — in the half-finished conversations, the way his hand hesitated before touching your back, the way you stopped asking, just to spare yourself the disappointment.

Then came the nights where he didn't come home at all.

Like that night.

You had only wanted for him to stand beside you. To support you. To be proud of you again. To be that husband who believed his wife would conquer anything if she puts her heart into it.

But even then, you were already losing him.

"Tomorrow’s the contract signing for the Tuan partnership. Hope you can be there. Eomma’s expecting you to," your voice was careful, like walking a thin line that could snap any second.

You wiped your makeup off mechanically at the dresser, your eyes catching his reflection.

His back was turned to you, the bathroom light glowing behind him as he tugged over his shirt.

The distance between you wasn't just physical. It hadn't been for a long time.

"It’s just a contract signing," His tone’s cold, almost bored.

The words stung more than they should have. More than you let on.

Jeongguk knew the weight of this partnership for you. It was more than another business move. It would be a stepping stone to expand your mother’s clothing line to Europe. Tuan Elegante had years of experience in the fashion world. Their reach was global, with a million-dollar-selling line in Italy and Paris. You and your mother had dreamed about this for as long as you could remember.

Yet here was your husband, treating the conversation, like it revolved around what to buy on the next grocery errand.

“It’s not just another event, Gguk.” You held the cotton pad a little too tight, blinking fast to hold back the sting. “I want you there.”

He didn’t turn around. Of course he didn’t.

"And do what exactly?" he muttered, pulling his towel off the hook. "Play the perfect husband? Show off a perfect marriage? Smile for the cameras so they have more to gossip about? Like they haven’t torn our lives apart enough already.”

Your throat burned, but you forced yourself to stay steady. "Could’ve just said no," you mumbled. "I would’ve understood. No need to be such a dick about it."

"I did say no. More than once." The towel hit the floor with a dull thud. "You just never fucking listen."

You whirled on him then, anger rising sharp and fast. “Maybe I was hoping. Hoping that you’d still care enough to show up. That you’d still want to stand by me.”

His laugh was bitter, mocking. "You really think standing next to you in a room full of strangers will fix this?"

"This isn't about fixing anything!" You cried, voice cracking. "This is about you showing up! Being there for once, instead of finding another excuse to stay away!"

Jeongguk’s face twisted, rage flashing for just a second before something else — something worse — flickered behind his eyes.

"You’re not even supposed to be working yet," he bit out. "Yoongi Hyung told you to rest. Told you not to push yourself. But no, you’re back at it again, throwing yourself into work like it’ll patch up everything you lost."

"Don’t," you whispered, chest heaving. "Don’t you dare put that on me."

He shook his head, jaw clenched so tight you thought it might snap. "You never knew when to stop. Even when it meant risking everything."

"Losing Ha-yun wasn’t on me," you said, barely above a whisper. "You had a choice that night. Be a father, or stay my husband. You chose."

Pain twisted across his face, raw and sharp. "If you had just—" he started, voice rising, but he broke off, breathing hard. " If you had just looked after yourself better—”

"Say it," you snapped, fists trembling at your sides. "Say it. Say you blame me."

He didn’t. Couldn’t. Didn’t deny it either.

The silence between you was loud enough to drown everything else out.

“If you regret it that much,” Your words trembled, "then maybe you should have let me go that night."

"Never said I regretted it.”

“Yet you can’t even look at me like you love me anymore."

That was what hurt the most. Not the anger. Not the fighting. The absence. The part of him that had once looked at you like you were the sun shined bright on a new hopeful morning.

Jeongguk stared at you for a long moment — then turned away.

“I’m going out,” he said. Cold. Detached. As if you were nothing more than a ghost. Grabbing his wallet and phone off the nightstand, not sparing you another glance, he leaves the room. Leaves you behind.

Sleep was impossible when tears drowned any chance for you to rest. The argument from earlier echoed in your mind, like a song stuck on loop. 1:00 AM. 2:00 AM. 3:00 AM. You stared at the clock, each tick mocking you. Your heart sank every passing hour.

Where was he? Why hadn’t he come back? The silence weighed heavily in the room, your anxiety only growing. Daylight crept through the curtains, a reminder that sleep was futile. You tossed and turned, anxiety gripping you about the big event today. Preparations demanded your focus.

Arguments with Jeongguk had piled up since you both lost Ha-yun. You'd lost track of how many. Yet, he always found his way back home. You lay side by side, even with the chill creating distance. But tonight was different.

You woke up to an empty side of the bed. Cold and untouched sheets lay there, unwrinkled – a reminder of the restless night you had endured. As you prepared to leave for work, Jeongguk returned from a long night. His presence felt heavy. The harsh words from the previous night loomed over you.

Fear gnawed at you. A reality you wanted to escape. You didn’t want this to become your new routine but you knew this was a change you had to bear with from now on.

Stepping back inside the house, your heart sinks at the sight of another untouched dinner on the table. Candles burned low, wine glasses untouched, the dinner you spent hours preparing now rests cold and forgotten under the soft glow of the kitchen lights.

Still, a tiny, stubborn part of you dares to hope.

You glance at your phone. 11:40 PM. There’s still time.

Maybe — just maybe — Jeongguk would walk through the door, the way he used to.

Maybe he’d see everything you put together, maybe he’d smile, call you ‘baby’ in that soft, lazy way, maybe he'd pull you into his arms like no time had passed at all.

Maybe you’d sit together and talk about meaningless things — which coffee you picked up that morning, the weather, the fact that you were both overdue for another Marvel marathon even though you could quote every line.

Maybe, for just a little while, you could pretend the distance hadn’t swallowed you whole.

You set your phone down, pressing your hands against the table to steady yourself.

But hope is cruel when it has nowhere left to go. It eats at you — a sick reminder of everything you've lost. Because if your marriage were still alive, you wouldn't need to hope so hard. You wouldn’t be left pleading to the universe for scraps of what once came so easily.

Years have passed since you and Jeongguk celebrated your wedding anniversary, and your birthday. You can’t recall the last time you celebrated his birthday either. Life has often pulled you both in different directions, especially back when your careers were just starting to build up.

But somehow, even through the chaos, you'd find your way back to each other. Maybe after dancing barefoot in the kitchen, maybe falling asleep mid-conversation, but you’d end the day in each other’s arms

That terrible night was a constant reminder that forgetting these moments was part of the change you didn’t want to face.

The first anniversary after it all fell apart, you got a text. 'Happy Anniversary. Happy Birthday.' No ‘love you.’ No pet names. Not even a damn emoji to soften the blow. Just a clinical message from the man who once promised you forever.

Chuseok later in the year came with another lifeless apology. ‘Sorry, can’t make it.’ No explanation, no efforts to make it right. You faced both your families alone that night, forcing smiles, while you quietly fell apart. Scrambled up with excuses to keep them in the dark. To preserve the illusion that their children were still wrapped in that perfect little bubble of an unbreakable love.

Christmas was worse. No calls. No messages. Just a note on the fridge in his rushed handwriting, ‘Will be back late. Don’t wait up.’

And when New Year's came, a foolish hope lit up inside you once more.

Breakfast together — the first in months — and when you asked him to have dinner at Namsan Tower, he said yes.

You clung to that ‘yes’ like a lifeline. You believed.

But belief is brutal when it betrays you.

Because you sat there, alone at a table for two, staring at the unopened bottle of wine and the empty seat across from you.

The fireworks exploded outside the window, showering Seoul in glittering light. The restaurant staff cheered, kissed, laughed.

And you… you cried into your hands, wishing the year could just swallow you whole.

Now, the clock ticks mercilessly toward midnight.

12:00 AM. Another year gone. Another anniversary forgotten. Another birthday abandoned. You pull out a chair and sink down, the untouched meal staring back at you like a cruel joke.

Cruel, how the day you chose him as much as life chose you, has become a reminder of how much you can hold in your heart — and how easily it can break.

“Happy anniversary. Happy birthday to me.”

[tacoguacamole]

ANOTHER TIME (Teaser) JJK

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

[Theme: Best friends to lovers to strangers. Marriage AU]

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

[Future Warnings: Long one-shot, Major Angst. Multiple Flashbacks and Time Jumps, Mature Theme, Eventual Smut]

[MINORS DNI! 18+]

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The soft hum of ocean wind curls through the half-open window, brushing against the layers of your dress — light ivory silk and whisper-thin tulle that moves like the tide. The bodice hugs your frame with gentle structure, hand-stitched with lace resembling seafoam swirls. A short train pools behind you like a gentle echo of waves. Hair pinned back in a soft, low twist, a single pearl comb tucked above your ear.

You’ve been ready for an hour. And still, you wait.

A knock breaks the silence.

Hobi peeks his head in. “Ready, Mrs. Soon-To-Be Jeon?”

You give a weak smile, the kind that doesn’t quite touch your eyes. “Hey.”

He steps in, holding his hands together like he’s going to burst. “You look stunning. Like, might make Jeongguk cry before you even make it to the aisle stunning.”

You laugh, but it comes out breathy. Your fingers fidget with your dress. “Hobi…”

“Yeah?”

“What if this… changes everything?” He straightens, eyes softening. Allows you to go on and share your worries with the look he sees on your face. “What if we ruin it? What we had? What we have? We've always been best friends before anything else. What if being married ruins that?”

Walking over to you by the dresser, he sits beside you. “You’re scared that love will erase the friendship?”

You nod. “Or twist it. Or make it... different in a way we can’t undo. What if we lose what made us, us?”

Hobi is quiet for a second before he takes your hand and gives the warmth of someone who’s walked beside you through every heartbreak and happy hour, like he’s always done. “You know what I see when I look at you and Jeongguk? Two people who chose each other. Again and again. Through confusion, bad timing, the whole messy ‘do we ruin the friendship’ crisis—hello, I’ve had front row seats.”

You huff out a laugh, watery and small.

“And yet,” he continues, “you still found your way to this moment. Love didn’t replace your friendship. It grew from it. If anything, it’s the strongest damn foundation two people could ever ask for.”

Taking a deep breath, you realize he’s right. He’s right. You know it. You feel it — even now, when doubt tries to knock.

Your chest loosens just a little.

“You’re not losing anything,” he finishes. “You’re building something new — on everything that already made you strong.”

A smile appears. Real this time. “How did I get lucky with you as my second best friend-slash-man of honor-slash-wedding planner-slash-therapist?”

He grins. “Dunno. But I’m billing you later.”

The sun dips low as golden light spills over Gwangalli Beach. Purple tulips sway above the arch over the altar, the sea whispering close behind. A hush falls over the small, intimate crowd as soft music plays and you step into view.

Jeongguk’s breath catches the moment he sees you.

He looks like he’s been waiting his whole life for this.

You walk toward him, and for a moment, everything else fades. Just him — shining in the sun, eyes already glassy, hands slightly trembling. He lets out a breathless laugh, like he can’t believe you’re real.

The officiant speaks, but your hearts are already speaking louder.

When it’s time for vows, Jeongguk reaches for your hands — his grip warm, steady despite the tears threatening in his eyes.

“I don’t remember the exact moment I fell in love with you,” he says, voice thick. “Because it wasn’t just one moment. It was all of them. Every inside joke, every late-night walk, every time you looked at me and saw more than I thought I was, every stupid argument we’ve had over ramen flavors.” The crowd laughs softly. “You were my best friend before anything else. You still are. And I promise, no matter what love turns into, I’ll never stop choosing you.”

Your chest tightens. You try to smile through the tears.

“I never imagined we'd end up here, but I’m so grateful we did,” you begin softly, “You’ve seen every part of me — even the ones I tried to hide — and loved me anyway. Today, I promise to keep choosing you. I promise to love you, even when you leave your outrageous toe socks all over the house.” Another soft laughter comes from the crowd. “I vow to be your rock, your hope and your home. I’m thankful for every moment we’ve shared and I can’t wait for the many more to come. I love you – always and forever.”

The officiant smiles. “You may now kiss—”

Jeongguk doesn’t wait. His hands cradle your face as he leans in, lips meeting yours – soft, sure, filled with every promise you just spoke and the ones you didn’t have to. Everything around you fade. The applause, the waves, the soft music — it all dissolves into the feeling of his arms around you.

Because in that moment, it’s just you and him.

Still standing. Still choosing.

Always.

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You think of the love and happiness that once filled your marriage, a flicker of warmth igniting as you glance at the wedding photo set as your phone’s wallpaper. The photo where you and Jeongguk stood by the altar, laughing, eyes bright with promises that felt endless. His hand linked with yours, a simple touch that once felt like home.

You trace his face on the screen, wishing you could go back to that moment, hold onto that feeling, that warmth.

But all you’re left with is the fading memory, slipping through your fingers.

[tacoguacamole]

COMPLETED JUNGKOOK FF RECOMMENDATIONS

Because I enjoy angst, here are some highly recommended reads:

ONE SHOTS

DECALCOMANIA 1 & 2 by floralseokjin

MATURE by jiminrings 

FIFTH WISH by jiminrings

HOW LONG WILL WE FALL by jiminrings

WHEN SHE LOVED ME by jungkookstatts

STOIC by blue-jade

LIKE YOU NEVER DID by bratkook 

THIS IS HOW YOU FALL IN LOVE by jeonqkooks 

STRICTLY PLATONIC by jeonqkooks

ONCE THE THRILL EXPIRES by alphabetboyluvr

A JAR FULL OF US by jincapableoflove 

SERIES

BITCHIN' by kinktae

HOTTER THAN HELL by chateautae

FOUR SEVEN EIGHT by jiminrings 

CRAZY OVER YOU by spideyjimin

[tacoguacamole]

COMPLETED JUNGKOOK FF TUMBLR READS

ONE SHOTS

IDEALIZATIONS CONCERNING REAL LIFE RELATIONS by venusiangguk 

COLD NIGHTS & BLURRED LINES by awrkive

OBVIOUS by lovieku

STRICTLY BUSINESS by adonis-koo

BUT WE LOVED TOO YOUNG by jl-micasea-fics

LETTING FEAR RUN THE SHOW by focusonkayjay

FIVE DATES by kpopfanfictrash 

HOLD ON TO ME by kooklovee

SERIES

AT YOUR SERVICE by untaemedqueen

LOWKEY by xpeachesncream 

TEASE by adonis-koo 

CHASING CARS by oddinary4bts

THE FORGOTTEN SPACES by oddinary4bts 

WHEN THE END COMES by oddinary4bts (Sequel to The Forgotten Spaces)

ANTI-ROMANTIC by armpirate

THE LOVE PROGNOSIS by awrkive