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jungkoode · 26 days ago

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𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐌𝐄 𝐔𝐏 | 23

˗ˏˋmatching threads ˎˊ˗

"You didn’t expect Jungkook’s birthday to end with soft talks about Mayer, thunderstorms and stupid craft projects. And yet, here you are."

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⋆｡°✩ chapter details ✩°｡⋆

word count: 9.5k

content: delayed gifts, hand brushing, subtle comfort, emotional hypervigilance, miscommunication, clashing attachment styles, slow understanding, quiet intimacy, unexpected softness, bittersweet memories, trauma-informed reactions, symbolic objects, real conversations, familial grief undertones, perceptive but clueless boys, warmth in small gestures, psychological contrast, vulnerability denial, casual closeness, accidental meaning, rain metaphors.

Kiki Nation’s official discussion thread for FMU 23

✧ author's note ✧

This chapter made me feel some type of way, and not in the thirst-posting way for once (shocking, I know). There’s a softness to it that snuck up on me. Like I sat down to write what I thought would be a moment of transition, and ended up face-planting into the kind of quiet, delicate intimacy that’s so often overlooked both in fiction and real life. So here I am, feeling dumb and raw and tender over two forks.

I’ve been thinking a lot about Chapter 21, specifically that hand-touch moment—how subtle it was, and how I never explicitly addressed it in the narration because I didn’t want to. That’s the thing with psychologically driven writing: you’re not meant to be spoon-fed emotional meaning. You’re supposed to notice the tiny things. The almosts. The unspoken. The instinctive kindness that isn’t necessarily romantic, but still manages to get under your skin. That’s what that subway touch was. Not Jungkook being in love. Not a declaration. Just him, in his purest, most unaware form—being soft. Gentle. Deeply perceptive in a way that hurts because it’s so unconscious.

And that’s what this whole chapter is circling around. It’s not about a confession. It’s not even about clarity. It’s about conflict—internal, relational, unintentional conflict between people who are shaped by opposite emotional mechanisms.

Jungkook isn’t emotionally open, but he acts open because he’s thoughtful. Reader is emotionally hyperaware, but she reacts closed-off, because she’s scared and guarded. He acts without thinking deeply about it. She thinks deeply and then doesn’t act. They miss each other again and again not because they don’t care, but because their blueprints don’t match. And yet—they try. Or maybe, they accidentally try. And isn’t that so real?

One of them touches without thinking. The other flinches while overthinking. One gives a gift like it’s nothing. The other interprets it like it’s everything. They’re both right. They’re both wrong. That tension? That’s the story.

This chapter doesn’t show love blooming. It shows understanding struggling to sprout in barren soil.

They have so much ahead of them, so many versions of themselves they haven’t grown into yet. This moment is not culmination—it’s foundation. It matters. It matters more than if they’d just fucked again. Because emotional timing? Matters. And this wasn’t the time for sex. It was the time for emotionally loaded shit I can’t name because you haven’t read the chapter yet, but is now haunting me forever.

Read slow. Read deep. Look for the invisible thread. That’s where the truth is.

⋆｡°✩ read on✩°｡⋆

ao3

wattpad

Walking back into the karaoke room feels like entering a different dimension—one where rooftop confessions and ex-girlfriend confrontations don't exist.

The noise hits you first, a wall of sound that's almost physical in its intensity. Hobi is mid-Mariah, belting out a note that should probably be classified as a war crime, while Ryan and Seth egg him on with increasingly chaotic dance moves. Tessa's doubled over laughing on the couch next to Diana, both of them recording the spectacle on their phones. Yeji and Irya are engaged in what appears to be a heated debate with Jimin over whether Britney or Christina had the better 90s catalog. Yoongi watches it all from his corner seat, expression caught somewhere between amusement and exhaustion.

"Holy shit, he's alive!" Kevin shouts when Jungkook steps through the doorway.

The room erupts in cheers and catcalls, like they're welcoming a returning champion rather than someone who disappeared for half an hour.

"Dude, we thought you fell in," David calls out, raising his drink in salute. "World's longest bathroom break."

"Nah, he was definitely sneaking in a Clash Royale marathon," Kevin argues, tossing an empty cup that Jungkook easily dodges. "Probably hiding in a stall like a true gamer."

"You wish your stats were as good as mine," Jungkook fires back, slipping effortlessly into the friendly banter like he wasn't just having some kind of existential crisis on the rooftop.

It's impressive, really—the way he can flip that switch, become this version of himself that fits perfectly into the chaos around him.

While everyone's attention is focused on Jungkook's triumphant return, Taehyung makes a beeline for Yoongi and Hobi, who've gravitated toward each other in a corner of the room.

You're not trying to eavesdrop, exactly, but you happen to be standing close enough to hear the urgent whisper:

"He was on the roof."

The effect is immediate. Both Yoongi and Hobi snap their heads toward Taehyung, their expressions shifting so quickly it's almost comical—except there's nothing funny about the naked fear that flashes across their faces.

"It wasn't like that!" Jungkook interrupts, appearing beside them with surprising speed. His voice is a harsh whisper-shout, barely audible over the music but intense enough to make all three of his friends freeze. "I just needed air. Seriously."

"Bro..." Yoongi's voice is low, the single syllable carrying more weight than it should.

"Jungkook, you know how that looks to us," Hobi says, softer but no less serious.

"I know. I'm sorry," Jungkook runs a hand through his hair, a gesture you're starting to recognize as his nervous tic. "But it wasn't... that. I swear. I just went there to think."

"After seeing her?" Taehyung presses, still tense.

"Yeah," Jungkook admits, "but it wasn't—look, can we not do this right now? It's fine. I'm fine."

There's clearly more to whatever ‘it’ is—something significant enough to make three grown men look like they've seen a ghost.

But Jungkook's expression makes it clear the discussion is over, at least for now.

You should probably stop pretending to be fascinated by the karaoke song list and move away before they realize you're listening.

But before you can, Jungkook abruptly changes the subject, his voice rising to a cheerful pitch that sounds slightly forced.

"Alright, alright!" He claps his hands together, turning to face the room. "So... birthday gifts for the birthday boy?"

The tension shatters as the crowd erupts in excited chatter. Seth whoops loudly, and someone (Ryan, you think) starts an off-key rendition of ‘For He's A Jolly Good Fellow’ that quickly derails into chaos. Jungkook's shoulders visibly relax as the attention shifts from whatever just happened to the much safer territory of presents.

One by one, people approach with gifts—some wrapped beautifully, others clearly hastily stuffed into whatever bag was available.

Taehyung goes first, handing over a sleek black box tied with a simple red ribbon.

"Don't make it weird," he warns as Jungkook takes it.

Inside is what appears to be a ridiculously expensive camera lens. You don't know enough about photography to identify it, but based on the way Jungkook's eyes widen and his mouth forms a perfect ‘o,’ it's something significant.

"Dude," he breathes, lifting it carefully like it might shatter. "This is—holy shit, Tae."

"Yeah, well." Taehyung shrugs, but you catch the pleased smile he tries to hide. "You've been whining about needing a better wide-angle for your urban shots, so."

Jungkook looks genuinely moved, holding the lens like it's made of gold. "I can't believe you remembered."

"I always remember," Taehyung says simply, and the way he says it that makes you think he means more than just camera preferences.

Hobi goes next, presenting a sleek box containing what looks like high-end wireless headphones.

“For all those late-night production sessions," he explains with a grin. "So we don't have to hear your trash music taste through the walls anymore."

"You love my music, asshole," Jungkook laughs, already testing them out.

"I love peace more," Hobi retorts, but he's beaming as Jungkook gives an enthusiastic thumbs up.

Yoongi's gift is less physical—a card containing what appears to be a voucher for studio time.

“Booked you sixteen hours at Blueline," he says with characteristic understatement. "For that soundtrack project you mentioned."

Jungkook looks up from the card, something like disbelief crossing his face. "Dude, Blueline is impossible to get into. How did you—"

"I know people," Yoongi shrugs. "Just don't waste it making crap."

"I would never disrespect the temple," Jungkook promises solemnly, pressing the card to his heart with mock reverence.

The gift-giving continues, a parade of thoughtful items that speak to genuine friendship: rare vinyl records, vintage film books, an artisan coffee setup that makes Jungkook actually bounce with excitement.

It's sweet, really—seeing him surrounded by people who clearly know him well, who've put thought into what he'd like.

And then it hits you.

Fuck.

The Mayer vinyl. Sitting on your dresser at home, still in its brown paper wrapping from that record store in Williamsburg.

Because okay, first of all—who brings a fragile vinyl record to MOMA and then a karaoke bar?

You simply had no way of bringing it without raising suspicions.

And maybe asking Yoongi for help bringing it over would’ve made it look like you cared, so.

The gifts are winding down, and Jungkook is making his rounds, thanking everyone with what seems like genuine gratitude. He looks happier now, more relaxed—whatever happened with Mia and on the rooftop temporarily forgotten in the warmth of celebration.

You're contemplating whether you should make up some excuse about your gift when suddenly he's right there, appearing in your peripheral vision like he materialized out of thin air.

"So," he says, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper as he leans just a bit too close. "Where's my present, Pyx?"

The nickname rolls off his tongue, familiar enough now that you've stopped rolling your eyes every time he uses it. (Mostly.)

"At home," you admit, trying to sound casual and not like someone who completely failed at basic gift logistics.

"Oh?"

His lips purse, fighting back what's clearly a smirk.

The glint in his eye is positively dangerous.

"At home?"

Your cheeks heat up against your will.

“Not—I don't mean it like that," you stammer, realizing too late how your answer could be interpreted. "I mean I literally left it at the apartment. It wouldn't fit in my bag."

"Big gift, huh?" he murmurs, leaning even closer. His breath brushes your ear, warm and smelling faintly of vanilla. "I'm intrigued."

"It's just a thing," you say lamely. "Nothing special."

"I'd honestly be happy with the other interpretation, for the record," he continues like you haven't spoken, voice dropping to a register that should be illegal in public spaces.

"In your dreams," you scoff, but it comes out weaker than intended.

"Every night," he confirms, that infuriating smirk spreading across his face now. "Detailed, technicolor dreams. Sometimes you even—"

"Boundaries, Rogue," you cut him off, pressing a finger against his lips. "We're in public."

"That didn't stop you earlier," he whispers, gaze flicking to your lips for the briefest second. "On the roof?"

"That was different."

"Different how?"

"We were alone then."

"We could be alone again," he suggests, voice casual but eyes anything but. "Plenty of dark corners in this building."

"You're incorrigible."

"You like it."

Before you can come up with a suitably cutting response, Ryan's voice cuts through the general noise of the room: "Yo, I'm gonna crash out! It's getting late!"

The announcement triggers a cascade of similar declarations.

Suddenly people are gathering coats, exchanging final birthday wishes, making plans to meet up later in the week. The energy in the room shifts from celebration to conclusion, that particular lull that comes at the end of a good night.

As people begin filing out, Seth materializes beside you, a confident smile plastered across his face that probably works on most girls but just makes you want to step back a foot or three.

"So," he says, leaning in close enough that you can smell the tequila on his breath, "I was thinking I should get your number. You know, to hang out sometime."

"Uhhh," you stall, searching for a polite rejection. "No thanks."

His smile doesn't falter. If anything, it widens.

“Come on, we had fun tonight, right? Just give me your number. I promise I'll only use it for emergencies." He winks, like this is some clever line that's going to change your mind.

"I said no thanks," you repeat, firmer this time.

"Don't be like that," he persists, stepping even closer. "Just your number. What's the big deal?"

You're about to tell him exactly what the big deal is when Jungkook appears at your side, his expression suddenly hard.

"Bro," he says, annoyance coloring his tone, "can't you see she ain't interested?"

Seth blinks, looking between you and Jungkook. "I'm just asking for her number, man. No harm in that."

"Except she already said no. Twice." Jungkook's tone is still light, but there's an edge to it now. "So maybe take the hint?"

For a moment, Seth looks like he might argue. Then he sighs, holding up his hands in mock surrender.

"Fine, whatever. Your loss," he adds, with a final glance your way before merging back into the departing crowd.

"How is that your friend?" you ask once he's safely out of earshot, genuinely baffled that someone like Jungkook would hang out with such a persistent creep.

"He isn't, technically," Jungkook shrugs, watching Seth's retreating back with a slightly disgusted look. "He's Ryan's friend, who sometimes hangs out with Ryan, and so with us too. Definitely not my pick for the squad."

"Thank god for small mercies," you mutter, and he laughs, the tension from the Seth encounter dissipating as quickly as it arrived.

Jungkook steps back from you, that heated moment dissipating as he slips back into social host mode. You watch as he makes his rounds, thanking everyone for coming, accepting final hugs and handshakes. He's good at this—making each person feel individually appreciated, remembered.

It's a side of him you are staring to recognize more and more often.

When he reaches Tessa, you notice how his posture softens slightly. He says something that makes her laugh, tucking that perfect auburn hair behind her ear in a gesture that's both shy and flirtatious.

"You need a ride?" he asks her, and you barely manage to overhear. "I can call an Uber."

"No need," she smiles, gesturing toward Diana. "We're sharing a car. Diana lives just a few blocks from me."

"Good," he nods, looking genuinely relieved. "Text when you get home safe?"

It's sweet, the way he's concerned for her safety. Not what you'd expect from the guy who leaves his dirty dishes in the sink for days and thinks changing the toilet paper roll is optional.

But then again, tonight has been full of surprises when it comes to Jungkook.

"Will do," Tessa promises, then hesitates before leaning in to give him a quick hug. "Happy birthday, Jungkook."

You watch them, something jittery settling in your chest.

His lucky ass might actually score someone genuinely nice and put-together, who seems to actually like him beyond just his face and body.

Good for him.

Good for her, even, if she can't see that she's way out of his league.

Ten minutes later, the room has mostly cleared. Only your strange merged group remains—Yeji and Irya saying their goodbyes to Jimin by the door, while Taehyung, Hobi, Yoongi, Jungkook, and you linger in a loose circle near the couches.

"Subway?" Yoongi asks, addressing both you and Jungkook with his usual economy of words.

Jungkook nods, glancing at his phone. "Still running for another hour."

"I'll walk with you guys to the station," Taehyung offers, but Jungkook shakes his head.

"Nah, you're uptown. That's the opposite direction."

"I don't mind."

"I'm fine, Tae," Jungkook says firmly, and there's a weight to the words that seems to carry a conversation from earlier. "Really."

Taehyung doesn't look convinced, but after a moment of silent communication, he relents. "Text me when you get home."

"Yes, mom."

"I'm serious."

"I know," Jungkook's tone softens. "I will."

The farewells are quick after that—Hobi heading uptown with Taehyung, Jimin walking Yeji and Irya to their car, and the three of you—you, Jungkook, and Yoongi—making your way toward the subway station that will take you back to your shared apartment.

It feels like you've been gone for days rather than hours—like the person who left the apartment this morning for her first day at Barnes & Noble somehow isn't quite the same one heading home now.

But that's a thought for another time, when your head isn't fuzzy with tequila and your feet aren't aching from standing half the night.

For now, you just follow your roommates through the city streets toward the subway station, the quiet between you comfortable in a way it hasn't been before.

The subway car at this hour is practically abandoned—just a few night owls and the occasional service worker scattered across the seats like human tumbleweeds.

Yoongi claims a seat by the door, immediately slipping his AirPods exactly like someone who's perfected the art of social avoidance. Within seconds, his head is tilted back against the subway wall, eyes closed.

Either he's fallen asleep that quickly, or he's just really committed to pretending the rest of the world doesn't exist.

Jungkook drops into the seat beside him, legs splayed wide in that uniquely male way that screams ‘my balls need their own zip code.’ You take the spot next to him, trying to claim whatever minimal space is left.

Like seriously? There are literally twenty empty seats.

You nudge your knee pointedly against his. "Do you mind?"

"Wha?" He glances down, genuinely confused.

"The manspreading, bro," you gesture at his legs. "You're taking up enough space for three people."

He grins, completely unashamed. "I need to air out the jewels."

"Are you fucking kidding me right now?" You swat his arm, genuinely annoyed. "That's exactly the problem with guys like you. Public space isn't designed for your testicle ventilation system."

"Guys like me?" He raises an eyebrow, still smirking but at least looking slightly less smug.

"Yes. Guys who think their comfort is more important than the space of everyone around them." You're on a roll now, the combination of lingering tequila and genuine irritation fueling your feminist rant. "Women are literally conditioned to take up as little space as possible, to cross our legs, to fold ourselves into tiny spaces, while men just spread out like they own the world. It's literally a physical manifestation of patriarchal entitlement."

His smirk fades slightly, replaced by something closer to actual consideration.

He glances down at his legs, then at the way you've automatically tucked yours together to accommodate his sprawl.

"Shit, I sound like a TikTok right now, don't I?" you mutter.

"No, no," he says, actually shifting his legs together. "You're not wrong. I didn't really think about it that way."

Wait. What?

"You're just saying that because it's your birthday and you think you get a free pass," you say suspiciously.

"No, I actually get it," he says, looking strangely thoughtful. "My mom used to call me out for the same shit. Called it 'man space disease.' Said my dad had it too."

And now you don't know what to do with yourself.

Because what the actual fuck?

How are you supposed to maintain righteous irritation when he just... listens? Takes criticism? Brings up his mom in a way that makes him seem like an actual human person with a past and stuff?

Goddammit. Now you can't even properly be mad at him, which somehow makes you even more annoyed.

"Anyway," you say, desperate to change the subject before you lose all moral high ground. "Happy birthday again or whatever."

"Thanks," he says, and then adds, "for everything. The museum was actually cool. Didn't know you had taste, Phee."

"I'm literally an English major."

"Yeah, but that just means you read boring-ass books from dead white guys."

"That's... not what English degrees are about," you sputter. "And I bet 90% of your film classes are just Scorsese and Tarantino circle jerks."

He laughs, a genuine sound that echoes in the empty subway car. "Fuck, you got me there. Though Tarantino is—"

"If you say 'ahead of his time,' I will push you onto the tracks at the next stop."

"I was gonna say overrated, actually. Everyone loses their mind over Pulp Fiction, but honestly? Mid."

You blink, genuinely surprised. "Okay, that's the most correct opinion you've ever had."

"I have tons of correct opinions. You just never ask me about them."

"Sure, like your opinion that coffee is better than tea?"

"Because it is!"

"That whole statement is a crime, is what it is."

He scoffs, rolls his eyes, and leans back, conversation over because he’s clearly not arguing over this.

So the subway rattles on, the rhythmic clacking of wheels against track filling the silence.

Your thoughts drift to earlier tonight—to that moment on the first subway ride when his hand had brushed against yours.

Just a whisper of contact, his pinky grazing yours on the metal bar.

Why did he do that? What was the deal with that?

The question nags at you, an itch you can't scratch. Not because it matters in any deep way—obviously it doesn't—but because puzzling out Jungkook's behavior is becoming something of a hobby.

A frustrating, often pointless hobby, but still.

"Hey," you say before you can talk yourself out of it. "Question for you."

He turns toward you, eyebrows raised slightly. "Shoot."

"Earlier, on the subway..." You hesitate, suddenly feeling stupid for bringing it up. "You kind of touched my hand on the bar? What was that about?"

"Huh?" He looks genuinely confused for a moment, then recognition dawns. "Oh! That."

He says it so casually, like it wasn't something worth remembering. Which it isn't. Obviously.

"I just noticed you had a panic attack this morning," he continues, his tone matter-of-fact. "In my room."

"What?" Your voice comes out sharper than intended, surprise making your pulse quicken. "How did you—"

"I passed by and heard your breathing," he explains, shrugging like this is a completely normal thing to say. "But I didn't want to intrude. Since it's something very personal and knowing you..."

He looks to the side as he gestures vaguely.

"Well, I don't think you'd have appreciated me barging in, so I just went back to cooking my super pancakes."

You stare at him, dumbfounded.

Who… Who the fuck is this dude? When did Jungkook develop this thoughtful, considerate side? Is he possessed? Should you be checking for pod people?

"So on the subway," he continues, oblivious to your internal crisis, "I dunno, I felt you had off vibes, and—"

"Again with the vibes?" You can't help but interject.

He laughs, the sound sharp and genuine. "Bro, you had this face like the sad hamster meme and I couldn't take it. That's why I brushed your hand. Reassurance, y'know?"

"The... sad hamster meme?" you repeat, incredulous.

He whips out his phone, types something, then shows you the screen: a round-faced hamster looking depressed as hell, its tiny eyes radiating existential despair.

"That's not—I don't look like that!" you protest.

"You literally did. One hundred percent emotional support hamster energy."

"I will actually murder you in your sleep."

His expression shifts, something vulnerable flickering across his features.

"My mom—"

He cuts himself off, suddenly looking down at his lap.

But somehow, he decides to continue.

"My mom used to do that for me, so I thought it might help. The hand thing. Not calling you a hamster," he clarifies quickly. "Just a small touch when I was stressed. Sorry if it was weird."

Oh.

"No, no, it wasn't weird," you say quickly.

The image of a younger Jungkook, being comforted by his mother with small touches, is annoyingly humanizing.

Couldn't he just stay a two-dimensional asshole? Would make life so much simpler.

"No?" He looks up, searching your face.

"...No." You clear your throat, trying to regain your footing. "It's kind of nice, actually. That you're this attentive."

You clear your throat then; but it’s like the air is getting stuck in your throat at the sudden sincerity of this conversation.

So you can't help adding: "I guess. Could've apply it to the household, you know? Like maybe notice when the trash needs taking out?"

He snorts at that, the weird moment breaking; and you couldn’t be happier.

“One step at a time, Pyx. One step at a time."

"So your observational skills only work when it comes to me having panic attacks, not when the dishes need doing?"

"I have selective observation abilities," he admits with a grin. "Like a very specific superpower."

"World's shittiest X-Man," you mutter. "'I'm Emotional Support Man. I can tell when you're sad but can't locate the broom.'"

He laughs, harder this time. "Fuck, that's actually my brand. Can I put that in my Instagram bio?"

"Only if you credit me."

"Deal."

The subway lurches around a corner, and you both sway with the movement. You catch Yoongi cracking one eye open, glancing at you both before apparently deciding you're not interesting enough to stay awake for and closing it again.

"So like, you must be psyched about the studio time from Yoongi," you say, genuinely curious about this part of Jungkook's life that you know almost nothing about.

"Dude, you have no idea. Blueline is like..." he gestures expansively, searching for the right words, "it's basically where half the top-charting albums from last year were produced. Their equipment is insane. Sixteen hours there is worth like, a month in a regular studio."

"And he just... got that for you? Just like that?"

"Yoongi knows people," Jungkook says, with a hint of pride. "He's lowkey connected as fuck in the music scene. Doesn't talk about it much, but he's got production credits on some tracks that went viral last year."

"Wait, seriously? Yoongi? Our Yoongi? The guy who speaks like four words a day?"

"That's his whole strategy," Jungkook whispers dramatically, leaning closer like he's sharing state secrets. "The less he says, the more people think he's some kind of genius."

"Is it working?" you ask, also whispering despite yourself.

He grins. "I mean, he got me sixteen hours at Blueline, so yeah, I'd say it's working pretty well."

"What are you gonna do there?"

"I'm scoring a short film by this director I know. Nothing major, just like a fifteen-minute thing, but I've been wanting to experiment with this sound for a while—like lo-fi beats but with some orchestral elements mixed in. Kind of a vibe Jonny Greenwood meets Nujabes thing, if that makes sense?"

It doesn't, really, but the way his eyes light up as he talks about it is surprisingly engaging.

Cute.

Because that’s Jungkook when he talks about something he cares deeply about. He just… gestures as he explains, hands moving expressively, and his entire demeanor changes.

"That's actually really cool," you admit before you can stop yourself.

"Yeah?" He looks genuinely pleased by your approval, which is weird. Since when does he care what you think? "You should come by sometime. Check it out."

"I didn't know you were into all that," you say, genuinely curious now. "The music stuff, I mean. I knew about the film major, but..."

"I'm a man of many talents, Phee," he says with an exaggerated wink that makes you roll your eyes.

"Okay, and we're back to you being insufferable. That was a nice five-minute break."

He laughs, not at all offended. "Can't let you get too comfortable. Gotta keep you on your toes."

The subway announcement system announces your stop is next.

Yoongi's eyes open immediately, like he has some kind of sixth sense for exactly when to wake up. He removes his AirPods, tucking them into his pocket as he stands.

"You coming?" he asks, directing the question to both of you but somehow making it sound like he couldn't care less either way.

"Yeah, yeah," Jungkook says, already standing.

He offers you a hand up, the gesture casual but unexpected.

You hesitate for just a second before taking it, letting him pull you to your feet. His hand is warm, the calluses from guitar playing rough against your palm. And then he drops it as soon as you're standing, no lingering, no loaded moment. Just a simple courtesy.

But it’s the normal, everyday nature of the gesture that throws you.

Like this is just what you do now—casual, friendly touches that mean nothing beyond basic human interaction.

The subway slows as it approaches your stop, and you grab the pole to steady yourself, pushing this strange new dynamic to the back of your mind to examine later.

When you're alone.

And preferably sober.

You've never heard Griffin meow that loudly outside of dinner time, and even then, it's not this fucking dramatic.

The elevator doors have barely slid open when the unholy feline screeching hits your ears—a sound that could only be described as a cat being simultaneously vacuumed and baptized against its will.

"What the fuck?" you mutter, already picking up your pace toward the apartment door.

Jungkook's reaction is instantaneous. One second he's trudging beside you, still talking about some obscure music producer, and the next he's bolting down the hallway like someone lit his ass on fire.

"Griffin!" His voice carries genuine panic as he fumbles with his keys, hands suddenly clumsy with urgency.

You follow right behind him, though your motivations are decidedly less noble.

The building has a strict no-pets policy, and the last thing you need is to get evicted because Jungkook's furry contraband is having a meltdown at 1 AM.

"Jesus Christ, let me do it," you hiss, shoving at his hands. "You're gonna wake up the whole floor."

"I got it, I got it," he insists, still struggling with the lock as Griffin continues his banshee impression on the other side of the door.

"Clearly you don't got it," you argue, trying to wrestle the keys from his grip. "You're making it worse!"

"Can you just—will you just—give me a second—"

You're both so busy fighting over the keys that neither of you notices Yoongi until he's physically shoving both of you aside with surprisingly pointy elbows.

"Move," he grunts, extracting his own key and long since given up on expecting basic competence from either of you.

The lock clicks open, and the door swings wide just in time for an orange blur to come rocketing out into the hallway.

Griffin shoots between your legs like he's auditioning for some Usain Bolt competition (but make it feline), though to no avail, because Jungkook's reflexes are impressively fast.

Three quick strides and he's scooping the cat up, cradling him against his chest.

"Hey, hey, buddy, what's wrong?" he murmurs, immediately checking the cat for injuries. "You okay? What happened?"

Griffin, now safely ensconced in Jungkook's arms, has miraculously stopped his caterwauling and is instead purring loud enough to vibrate the hallway.

The little shit.

"Oh my god, Jungkook, tell your cat to shut the fuck up," you hiss, glancing nervously toward neighboring doors. "You know the neighbors are gonna snitch if he keeps that up."

"No they won't," he says with the confidence of someone who's never faced consequences for anything in his life. "They all love me."

You blink. "You know all the neighbors?"

He just shrugs, already carrying Griffin back into the apartment like the entire dramatic episode never happened.

Yoongi, having completed his sole contribution to the crisis, is already disappearing into his bedroom, door clicking shut behind him with a finality that says ‘do not disturb under penalty of death.’

You stand awkwardly in the entryway, fidgeting with your keys, suddenly hyperaware that you're alone with Jungkook for the first time since... whatever that moment on the rooftop was.

He snorts, still cradling Griffin like a baby.

"So where's my gift?"

Of course. Of course he couldn't just let it go. Had to make things weird and awkward because god forbid Jungkook let any interaction proceed without maximum discomfort.

You grunt noncommittally and trudge to your bedroom, pointedly closing the door behind you.

There, sitting innocently on your dresser, is the crumpled paper bag from the flea market.

Inside is the stupid vinyl record you'd impulsively bought for fifteen bucks because it had "John Mayer" on it and you vaguely remembered Jungkook had a vinyl wall with what looked like Mayer albums.

It had seemed like a good idea at the time.

Now, you're not so sure.

But it's not like you have any alternatives, and you did promise him a gift, so...

You grab the bag and head back out, careful not to make eye contact. You have no idea why you're suddenly nervous about this. It's just a vinyl. Probably one he already has. No big deal either way.

"Here," you say, thrusting the paper bag toward him.

He quirks an eyebrow, clearly puzzled by the plainness of your offering.

What was he expecting? A fucking gift-wrapped Ferrari?

He sets Griffin down carefully on the armchair before taking the bag from you. The cat immediately curls into a perfect circle, clearly untroubled by whatever had sent him into hysterics five minutes ago.

Jungkook pulls the vinyl from the bag with deliberate slowness, like he's trying to extend the suspense. A small smile forms on his lips when he sees it's a record, but then—

His face contorts into an expression you can't begin to interpret.

It's like watching someone cycle through all five stages of grief in under five seconds, ending on some emotion that looks like he might either laugh hysterically or have a stroke.

Your stomach drops. Fuck. You knew it. He already has it. Or worse, he hates this album.

Great going, genius. You had one job.

"Nix," he starts, his voice strangled.

"It's fine," you interject quickly, already looking away and biting your lip. "I mean, if you already—"

"Phoenix."

Something in the way he says your nickname—your full nickname, not the shortened version—makes you reluctantly look back at him.

He's not... mad. Or disgusted. Or disappointed.

If anything, he looks... stunned?

His eyes are practically twinkling, like you just handed him the fucking Holy Grail instead of a dusty old record.

"Where the fuck..." he starts, then shakes his head slightly. "Where the fuck did you get this, Nix?"

You blink, caught off guard by his reaction.

"I—a girl has her secrets," you mumble, because no way in hell are you admitting you found it in a five-dollar bin at a flea market.

"This is Inside Wants Out," he says, staring at the record like it might vanish if he blinks.

"Yup. That's what it says," you confirm, pointing unnecessarily at the album title clearly printed on the cover.

Like, yeah. Thanks for confirming he can read. At least he’s not that stupid.

"It's John Mayer, right...? I thought... I mean since your whole vinyl wall is mostly—"

"This is Inside Wants Out," he repeats, more emphatically this time, like you're not getting the significance.

You nod slowly. "Yeah... I heard you the first time."

"Do you know how hard it is to get this shit, Nix?" His eyes are still wide with disbelief. "This is a collector's item."

Oh.

Oh wow.

Oh fuck.

You didn't mean to give him something with actual significance. You were just trying to not completely fail at basic gift-giving. But now he's looking at you like you just casually handed him a winning lottery ticket, and you have no idea how to respond.

"I mean... I knew you'd appreciate it," you lie smoothly, like you totally knew what you were doing. "You seem like the type to be into the rare stuff."

His eyes narrow slightly, like he's not entirely buying your sudden expertise in John Mayer collectibles, but he's too excited about the record to push it.

"It was his first EP," he explains, still handling the vinyl like it might explode. "Self-released in '99, before he got signed. There were only like a thousand copies ever pressed, and they never reissued it on vinyl."

"Oh," you say eloquently. "Cool."

"Cool?"

He laughs, the sound both incredulous and delighted.

"Nix, this thing goes for like three hundred dollars on eBay if you can even find one. How did you—" He cuts himself off, shaking his head again. "You know what, never mind. I don't even want to know. Just... thank you."

Three hundred dollars?

You almost choke. The grimy old man at the flea market had sold it to you for fifteen bucks, and even then, you'd thought you were overpaying.

Holy shit. You accidentally gave Jungkook the perfect gift.

You're still processing this bizarre turn of events when he does something even more unexpected. He steps forward and hugs you—a quick, one-armed embrace that's over almost before it begins, but still manages to short-circuit your brain for a solid three seconds.

"Seriously," he says, already stepping back. "This is... thank you."

"I—yeah, of course," you manage, still off-balance from the sudden contact. "Happy birthday or whatever."

He grins, already carefully examining the record sleeve for any damage.

"Or whatever," he echoes, but there's no mockery in it.

Just warmth.

A warmth that makes something in your chest twist in a way you don't want to examine too closely.

Jungkook flips the vinyl over in his hands, tracing the track listing with his finger.

"I started collecting his stuff in high school," he says, voice softer than usual. "Everyone gives him shit, you know? Like he's this basic white dude music or whatever."

"Isn't he, though?" You can't help asking, even as you drift closer to the couch instead of retreating to your room like you'd planned.

He looks up at you, expression caught between offense and amusement. "That's what everyone thinks. But his guitar work? Seriously underrated. The guy's technically insane."

You perch on the arm of the couch, watching as he continues examining the record.

“So you're into him for the... technical aspects?"

"Partly." Jungkook shrugs, a small smile playing at his lips. "But honestly? His music just hits sometimes, you know? Like when you're driving at night with the windows down, or when you just need to chill and not think for a while."

"Didn't take you for the introspective type."

"There's a lot you don't know about me, Phee," he says, but it's not a challenge or a flirtation. Just a simple statement of fact.

"Like what?"

He looks surprised you asked, like he expected you to roll your eyes and walk away.

After a moment's hesitation, he gestures toward his bedroom.

“I've got every vinyl he's released. Started with Continuum when I was fifteen..." He trails off, then shakes his head slightly. "Anyway, been collecting ever since."

You’re not sure whether he wants you to ask, or doesn’t want to overshare. So to play it safe, you don’t dig.

Instead, you find yourself saying, "My dad's obsessed with him."

Now it's your turn to be surprised—by your own admission. Because you hadn't planned to share that.

Jungkook's eyebrows lift. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," you confirm, suddenly interested in a loose thread on your sleeve. "Used to play his albums constantly during gardening weekends. My mom would pretend to hate it, but I'd catch her humming along when she thought no one was listening."

"Gardening weekends?"

"Mandatory family bonding," you explain, the memory both distant and vivid. "Every other Saturday in spring and summer. Dad would handle the heavy stuff, Mom did the flowers, and I was on weed duty."

"Weed duty," Jungkook repeats, a slow grin spreading across his face. "Like, you grew pot with your parents? Damn, Nix, I had you all wrong."

You roll your eyes, but you're fighting a smile too. "Garden weeds, dumbass. The actual nuisance plants."

"So what? You'd all be out there pulling weeds while John Mayer serenaded you from a boombox?"

"Something like that," you say, the mental image so accurate it catches you off guard. "How'd you know about the boombox?"

"Dads and boomboxes go together like peanut butter and jelly," he says with authority. "It's basic dad culture."

"Fair point." You hesitate, then add, "He had this super old one. Battery-operated, because the garden was too far from the house for an extension cord. The sound quality was garbage, but he refused to upgrade. Said it had 'character.'"

Jungkook smiles at that, a genuine one that reaches his eyes. "Sounds like my kind of guy."

"You'd hate each other," you say automatically, but then consider it. "Actually, no. You'd probably bond over guitar shit and expensive coffee, and it would be absolutely insufferable for everyone else."

"I'm great with parents," he protests. "They love me."

"That's because they don't have to live with you."

He gasps in offense. "What? Come on, living with me is the best experience ever.”

"So now ‘best experience ever’ is you eating my leftovers and folding your briefs on the entrance table?”

"And mind-blowing sex," he adds, because of course he does. "Don't forget that part."

"And we're done here," you announce, standing up from the couch arm.

"Wait," he says, surprising you again. "What was your favorite song? From those gardening days, I mean."

You pause, considering whether to answer. It feels oddly personal, sharing music taste with Jungkook. More intimate somehow than the physical stuff you've done together.

But he's looking at you with genuine curiosity, still cradling the vinyl you gave him like it's something precious, and you find yourself responding before you can overthink it.

"'Slow Dancing in a Burning Room,'" you admit, the memory rising unbidden. "Not off that album, obviously, but it was on Continuum."

“Really? I wouldn't have pegged you for that one."

"Well, I wasn't exactly vibing with the lyrics at age ten," you say, defensive without knowing why. "It just... reminds me of my mom."

"Your mom was into songs about dysfunctional relationships?"

"No, dumbass."

You take a breath, weighing whether to elaborate.

Fuck it.

“There was this one time, we were gardening, and it started raining—like, suddenly pouring. Dad ran inside with the boombox, but Mom just... stayed out there. And I did too."

Jungkook's watching you intently now, the vinyl temporarily forgotten in his hands.

"That song was playing right before the rain started," you continue, eyes fixed on that loose thread again. "And when Dad got inside, he must have put the song on again inside the house, because we could hear it through the open windows. Mom just... started dancing. In the rain. And she pulled me in, and we were spinning around like idiots, getting completely soaked, while Dad watched from the porch and pretended to be embarrassed by us."

You risk a glance at Jungkook and find him smiling softly.

"What?" you demand.

"Nothing," he says, but his smile doesn't fade. "Just... that's a really good memory. I like that it wasn't some deep angsty reason. Just your mom being cool."

"She wasn't always," you say before you can stop yourself. "Cool, I mean. But she had her moments."

A comfortable silence falls between you, the kind you didn't think was possible with Jungkook. He's still looking at you with that soft expression, and you find yourself continuing without really meaning to.

“Anyway,” you say, desperate to lighten the sudden heaviness between you. “I like sad songs and thunderstorms. Shocking revelation about the English major, I know.”

His mouth curves into a smile, but it’s gentler than his usual smirk.

“I know you like thunderstorms.”

“You do?”

“Yeah,” he nods, setting the vinyl aside with careful hands. “Remember the first time we hooked up in this apartment? There was a storm outside.”

“How do you remember that?”

He shrugs, casual, unbothered.

Like it doesn’t cost him anything at all to reveal he keeps details in mind or cares.

“You were curled up in that bean bag by the window, watching the rain like it was telling you secrets. All broody and intense. Very on-brand.”

“I wasn’t broody,” you protest automatically.

“You were staring at a lightning storm. The only way you could’ve been broodier is if you were wearing fingerless gloves and listening to The Cure.”

You throw a decorative pillow at his head, which he catches easily. “Fuck off, I don’t even own fingerless gloves.”

“Yet,” he adds with a grin. “There’s still time, though. Hot Topic’s having a sale.”

You flip him off, but you’re smiling despite yourself.

“I just like storms, okay? They’re… honest.”

“Honest?” He raises an eyebrow, looking genuinely curious.

You struggle to articulate something you’ve never had to put into words before.

“Yeah, like… they don’t pretend to be anything other than what they are. They’re loud and chaotic and messy, and they don’t apologize for it.”

“Huh,” he says, tilting his head slightly. “Never thought about it like that.”

“Plus,” you add, tone deliberately lighter, “they smell good.”

“Yeah I guess they do,” he agrees, and for some reason, this tiny point of connection feels significant.

“You smell like rain,” you say, the words slipping out before your brain can catch up with your mouth.

“Huh?” he looks at you, confusion replacing his easy smile.

“I mean,” you backtrack, suddenly feeling stupid, “you’re always saying I smell like vanilla and stuff. And you really like vanilla, right? With your vanilla extract flask or whatever. Well, you smell like rain. At least to me. I really like rain. That’s all.”

There’s a moment of silence, just long enough for you to start mentally calculating how quickly you could fake your own death and flee the country.

“I smell like rain,” he repeats, expression unreadable.

“It’s not a big deal,” you say quickly. “Just an observation. Like how Yoongi smells like coffee and disappointment.”

He laughs at that, breaking the weird tension. “That’s… oddly accurate.”

“I’m very accurate,” you say with mock seriousness. “My superpower.”

And… why exactly are you quoting him? That’s exactly what he said in the subway.

And you said it without thinking.

“Well,” he says, not catching onto that or at least not making it about that; leaning back into the couch cushions, “for what it’s worth, I’m glad I don’t smell like disappointment. Rain is definitely the better option.”

“Don’t get too excited. I didn’t say you smell good,” you lie, because of course he smells good, the bastard. “Just like rain.”

“Uh-huh.” His smile is knowing, infuriating. “You literally just said you really like rain, though.”

“I changed my mind. Rain is overrated.”

“Sounds fake, but okay.”

Griffin chooses that moment to stretch dramatically on the armchair, reminding you both of his presence. The cat yawns widely, showing tiny needle teeth, before resettling into an even tighter ball.

“Anyway,” you say, seizing the opportunity to change the subject, “your cat is still a menace, even if he has good timing.”

“The best timing,” Jungkook agrees, reaching over to scratch behind Griffin’s ears. “Though I still don’t know what set him off earlier.”

“Maybe he sensed a disturbance in the force.”

“Maybe he just missed me,” Jungkook suggests, and the sad thing is, he’s probably right. Griffin is ridiculously attached to him, like some kind of orange, furry shadow.

“Cats don’t miss people,” you argue, just to be contrary. “They’re cold-blooded killers who tolerate humans because we operate can openers.”

“Griffin misses me,” he insists, stroking the cat’s back. “Don’t you, buddy? Tell Phoenix how much you missed your dad.”

Griffin blinks slowly in response, which Jungkook apparently interprets as agreement.

“See? He says he was devastated by my absence.”

“He says he’s plotting to kill us both in our sleep,” you counter.

“Nah, he only does that to people who don’t bring him treats. Speaking of which…” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small packet of cat treats, shaking a few onto his palm.

Griffin is suddenly wide awake, lunging for the offering with surprising agility for a creature that was seemingly comatose two seconds ago.

“You carry cat treats in your pocket?” you ask, incredulous. “To a club? To a karaoke bar?”

“Always be prepared,” he says solemnly, as if quoting some ancient cat-owner wisdom. “Besides, Griffin can sense when I don’t have them.”

“Your relationship with this cat is genuinely concerning.”

“Says the person who talks to him when she thinks no one’s listening.” He smirks at your surprised expression. “Yeah, I’ve heard you. ‘Who’s a little murder machine? Is it you? Yes it is.’”

You feel your cheeks warm. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You baby-talk my cat, Phoenix. Just admit it.”

“I do not baby-talk—”

Your phone chimes with a text notification, cutting off what would have undoubtedly been a brilliant denial.

You move towards the entryway, where you'd left your purse on the table, and reach to look for your phone, when suddenly—

Oh.

The DIY bracelets. Right.

You'd left them at the shop at first for that contribution project Ash had talked about, but then... something had pinched at you when Jungkook mentioned having one similar as a kid.

How it reminded him of his mom.

And now that you're talking about mourning a mom that you still have alive, because the mom from your memories often differs from the one who exists now... it feels like the right moment. Like maybe these stupid friendship bracelets aren't just arts and crafts bullshit but something that might actually mean something.

Fuck, that's corny. You're being corny right now. This is what happens when you let your guard down for five seconds around Jungkook—suddenly you're having feelings and shit. Gross.

But your fingers are already closing around the bracelets.

You're impulsive like that. Always have been. Jump first, think later. It's gotten you into trouble more times than you can count, but occasionally—very occasionally—it works out.

You slip them into your fist, hiding them behind your back as you walk slowly toward Jungkook. He's still standing there, watching you with that half-curious, half-amused expression that makes you want to simultaneously punch him and—

"Hmm? What's up, Phoenix?" he asks, eyebrows lifting slightly when he notices your hands hidden behind your back.

"Nothing," you say, too quickly.

His eyes narrow, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.

“What's that?" He takes a step closer, trying to peek around you. "You hiding something?"

"No," you lie, taking a step back. "Mind your business."

"You're being weird," he says, his smirk widening into a full-on grin. "What is it? A love letter? Secret diary? Embarrassing photos of you in middle school with braces?"

"I never had braces," you retort, still backing up as he advances. "And it's nothing, so back off."

"If it's nothing, why are you hiding it?" He lunges suddenly, trying to grab at your hands, but you twist away, nearly knocking over a lamp in the process.

"Jungkook, I swear to god—"

"Come on, just show me!" He's laughing now, the asshole, clearly enjoying your discomfort. "What's so secret that you can't—"

He makes another grab, and this time his fingers catch your wrist. You try to pull away, but he's stronger than you, the jerk, and before you can stop him, he's pried your fingers open.

The bracelets fall into his palm.

His laughter cuts off abruptly.

He stares down at them, then back up at you, his expression shifting to something you can't quite read.

His eyes go all soft and wide, like some anime character or something, and it makes your forsaken insides twist.

"How?" he asks, voice quieter than before. "I thought we left these at the shop."

You look to the side, feeling heat crawl up your neck.

This is so fucking embarrassing.

It's just bracelets.

Stupid, childish bracelets that shouldn't mean anything.

"When I came back to get my phone, I..." You trail off, not sure how to explain without sounding like a complete sap. "I saw them and I just..."

You shut up, because what are you supposed to say? That you couldn't stand the thought of leaving them behind? That something about his face when he talked about his mom's bracelet made you want to give him this small piece of today?

He seems to understand anyway, nodding slowly as he looks down at the bracelets again.

"Thanks," he says, and it's so genuine it makes you uncomfortable.

He holds them for a moment longer, then asks, "Can I?" gesturing toward your wrist.

You extend your arm automatically, then realize what he's doing as he fumbles with the clasp of the Phoenix bracelet.

"No, let me wear the Rogue one," you say quickly.

He pauses, brows furrowing. "But I am Rogue."

"Well, you said you didn't want to wear a bracelet calling you 'Rogue,'" you point out, "so... might as well wear the Rogue one myself and you wear the Phoenix one."

A slow smile spreads across his face, like what you've just said makes perfect sense instead of being the most backward logic ever.

And with a soft, delicate breath he says:

“Deal."

His fingers brush against your skin as he fastens the Rogue bracelet around your wrist. You try not to react, but your pulse quickens traitorously beneath his fingertips.

When he's done, you take the Phoenix bracelet from him, gesturing for his wrist. He extends it without hesitation, and you're struck by how much larger his hand is than yours, how warm his skin feels beneath your fingers as you fumble with the clasp.

"There," you say, pulling away quickly once it's secured. "Now we're even."

"Even," he echoes, looking down at the bracelet on his wrist, the fiery beads catching the light. "I guess we are."

You stare at the bracelet on your wrist for a few seconds, the beads catching the dim light of your apartment living room. Your eyes flicker up to his wrist—he's doing the same thing, turning his arm slightly to inspect his newly acquired accessory like he's never seen a fucking bracelet before.

His eyes catch yours, and you can't help asking, "You gonna wear it?"

He rotates his wrist, watching how the beads interact with the light.

“Maybe." The corner of his mouth twitches. "I don't know, does it fit my vibe?"

Is he serious right now?

You deadpan him, staring straight into his eyes without blinking.

He can't help but snort, his shoulders shaking slightly. "That's a no, then?"

"Whatever," you say, waving your hand dismissively. "You don't need to wear it. It's a silly thing anyway."

And it is. Just a stupid arts and crafts project you made while trying to keep him busy for his birthday party.

No big deal if he tosses it in a drawer and forgets about it. Literally could not care less.

"Nah, it's cool," he says, examining it again. "Kind of tacky, but in a fun way."

He looks back at you when you stare in silence too long.

"What about you?"

"Huh?" You blink, caught off-guard.

"Are you gonna wear yours?" He gestures toward your wrist with his chin.

"I don't know." You twist the beads around your wrist, acting like you're still deciding. "It's not like I want people to know I have friendship bracelet gay shit with you."

He snorts, rolling his eyes. "Right, I had forgotten what I'm gonna say when people ask what 'PHOENIX' means."

Your eyes flicker back to him, side-eyeing him suspiciously. "What would you say?"

"Maybe I should tell them it's from my roommate," he says, tapping his chin in mock thoughtfulness. "Who rose from the ashes and all that. Like some kind of angry, book-obsessed firebird."

"Don't you dare talk about me like that!" You immediately shove at his shoulder, scowling. "Oh my god."

He sidesteps your attack, continuing, "—into this majestic creature who's deep down probably not plotting to murder me in my sleep—"

"I swear to god," you lunge at him again, "if you say that cringy shit about me to anyone—"

"—and who secretly loves making friendship bracelets—"

"I will end you," you threaten, trying to grab his arm while he deftly avoids your attempts. The audacity of this asshole. "I will literally smother you with a pillow."

"—and wearing them too!" He's full-on laughing now, dodging around the coffee table. "The bracelet represents how we've evolved from mortal enemies to... slightly less mortal enemies."

"That's it." You grab a throw pillow from the couch and hurl it at his head. "You're dead to me."

He catches the pillow easily, still grinning like an idiot. "Aw, come on, Nix. Embrace your phoenix identity. Like the bird, you too have emerged from—"

"If you say 'ashes' one more time," you threaten, grabbing another pillow, "I will personally ensure you become some."

"Violent," he comments, raising his eyebrows. "And after I accepted your little craft project."

"It's not a—"

You start to protest, then stop yourself.

What the hell would you call it?

"Whatever. It's just a bracelet."

"A bracelet of tolerance," he suggests, his eyes dancing with amusement. "At best."

"Exactly," you say, oddly annoyed that he's stolen your line. "A bracelet of 'you're still annoying as fuck but occasionally tolerable.'"

"A bracelet of 'we haven't killed each other yet, which is honestly impressive,'" he offers.

"A bracelet of 'the apartment lease says I can't legally push you off the balcony,'" you suggest.

He laughs, running a hand through his hair. "Cool. I'll take it."

"Don't make it weird," you mutter, suddenly feeling uncomfortable with the direction this conversation has taken. Why is he being almost... nice? "It's just a stupid bracelet I accidentally made while you were trying to avoid talking about your Instagram."

"Right," he nods, tapping the beads against the table. "Just like how you 'accidentally' bought me a super rare vinyl."

"Shut up."

"Never," he says, shifting Griffin to make room on the armchair. "So, this means you're warming up to me, huh? All it took was some karaoke and a rooftop heart-to-heart."

"I already told you we'll see," you remind him, rolling your eyes. "Don't push it, Rogue."

"Fine, fine," he holds up his hands in surrender. "Just saying, the evidence is mounting."

"What evidence?"

He starts counting off on his fingers. "One, you made me a bracelet. Two, you bought me a vinyl. Three, you didn't ditch me at my own birthday thing. Four, you haven't tried to poison my coffee in at least three days."

"That you know of," you counter, but you can feel the corner of your mouth twitching traitorously.

"See? You're not even denying it," he says, pointing at you triumphantly. "Face it, Phee. You tolerate me."

"The bare minimum bar for human interaction. Congratulations."

Griffin chooses that moment to let out a pathetically dramatic meow, clearly offended that he's no longer the center of attention.

"Someone's jealous," Jungkook immediately turns to scratch his cat under the chin. "Don't worry, G, you'll always be my number one roommate."

You roll your eyes. "Great, I've been demoted behind the cat."

"He doesn't leave wet teabags in the sink," Jungkook points out.

"He literally shits in a box in our bathroom."

"Yeah, but at least he covers it up."

"I'm not having this argument," you declare, standing up from the couch. It's late, you're tired, and this whole day has been weird enough already. "I'm going to bed."

"Night, Nix," he says, voice softer than his usual teasing tone.

"Night, Rogue," you reply, hesitating for just a moment too long before adding, "Happy birthday. Again."

He smiles—that same genuine smile from before. "Thanks. For everything."

"Don't get used to it," you warn, already backing toward your bedroom. "Tomorrow I go back to hating your guts."

"Looking forward to it," he calls after you, and you can hear the grin in his voice.

You close your bedroom door a bit harder than necessary, but you're smiling as you do it. And if your fingers brush against the beads on your wrist as you change into your pajamas, well, that's nobody's business but yours.

It's just a bracelet. Whatever.

goal: 650 notes. can’t believe how quickly kiki nation got the goals back, you guys are amazing and unhinged. 😭❤️‍🩹

if you liked this chapter, please consider buying me a coffee!! ♡'･ᴗ･'♡ https://ko-fi.com/jungkoode

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seospicybin · 30 days ago

Text

EVERMORE.

FINAL CHAPTER

Bangchan x reader x Hyunjin. (s,f,a)

EVERMORE MASTERLIST

Synopsis: When your daughter’s wedding weekend brings you, a former it-girl and Chris, a legendary rockstar back under one roof, the two of you must navigate old memories, unexpected feelings, and the chaos of family. As laughter, love, and a hint of scandal unfold, you're both reminded that some love stories don’t end—they just change shape. (23,4k words)

Author's note: Thank you so much for patiently following Evermore to its last chapter. Appreciate all the feedbacks and reblogs on this series ♡

The Bang Theory Announces Repackage Album and World Tour: “We’re Back Where We Belong” By Minho Lee | June 2, 2025 After years of silence, rock legends The Bang Theory are stepping back into the spotlight—louder, wiser, and with hearts on their sleeves. Earlier today, the iconic band, fronted by the ever-enigmatic Chris Bang, officially announced the release of a repackaged edition of their critically acclaimed album Static Bloom, along with plans for a full-scale world tour kicking off this fall. The repackage, titled Static Bloom: Ever After, features remastered versions of fan favorites, three never-before-heard demos from the band’s vault, and two completely new tracks that already have fans speculating about their emotional origin—particularly the haunting ballad “Evermore (For You).” “This repackage isn't about nostalgia,” Bang said in a brief statement. “It’s about closure. About continuation. About honoring the parts of ourselves that never stopped singing.” The Bang Theory’s label, Atlas Records, confirmed the tour will span North America, Europe, and select cities in Asia and South America, with dates and venues to be announced in the coming weeks. Social media erupted following the news, especially after fans pieced together past rumors—including a recent sighting of Chris Bang having dinner with a certain famous former muse. While the nature of their relationship remains unconfirmed, fans are convinced some of the new songs hint at rekindled emotions. The repackage is set for digital release on June 21, with physical vinyl and deluxe editions available for pre-order starting next week. “There’s something poetic about this chapter,” a source close to the band shared. “It’s like the band never broke up—just paused to live.” From grungy dive bars in the ‘90s to sold-out arenas around the world, The Bang Theory has always had a way of crawling into your bones. And if this repackage and tour are any sign, they’re not done yet.

The morning is quiet, the kind of quiet that feels heavy in the air, like it knows something is ending. You stand in the doorway, arms crossed, watching Tigerlily and Julian move in sync as they bring out Chris’s bags—one by one, like it’s any other move-out day.

Chris steps out next. He’s slower, dragging his casted leg behind him with a quiet stubbornness. Every step looks like it costs him, but he doesn’t complain. He never does, not when it matters. He stops in front of you. His eyes are tired, shadowed with the kind of weight that doesn’t come from lack of sleep. There’s so much unsaid between you and him, it hums like static in the silence.

“Thank you,” he says, voice rough like it’s been scraped raw on the inside. “For letting me stay. For... everything.”

For everything. There’s a flicker in his eyes—something held back. A truth he’s swallowing. Maybe it’s I still love you. Maybe it’s I wish this wasn’t goodbye. But he doesn’t say it and you're grateful for that.

Because you're secretly holding back too. You want to tell him you’ll miss him. That it hurt watching him heal, only to watch him leave. That part of you still wonders what would’ve happened if you and him tried again, but you don’t.

Instead, you nod once and say, “Good luck. On everything.”

It’s small, but it holds more than it sounds. His eyes search yours for a beat longer, like he’s waiting for something to change. But when it doesn’t, he offers you a small, sad smile—the kind that says thank you, goodbye, and maybe I’ll carry this with me, all at once. Then he's slowly making his way toward the car and you stay where you are, still and quiet, holding the weight of what you both never said like it’s made of glass.

Chris pauses just before ducking into the car. He turns his head toward you, and your breath catches in your throat. That look—soft, sad, full of meaning. His eyes say all the things he couldn't, wouldn't, shouldn't say last night. I'm sorry. Thank you. I wish this had gone differently.

And then, he gets in. Julian starts the car. You hear the low hum of the engine as it rolls out of the driveway, as it carries him—your past—away. You stand there until the car disappears completely down the street, leaving nothing behind except the dull ache in your chest and the echo of everything unsaid.

You step back inside the house and shut the door and then it hits you all at once—the finality, the weight of what could have been, the years you waited, the pieces of yourself you stitched back together again and again. You sink to the floor, your knees buckling beneath you and your hands tremble as they cover your face.

You don't fight it this time, you let yourself break. You cry like you're mourning something that was once alive. Something you loved. Something you had to let go of. And maybe that’s exactly what you're doing.

Two months have passed and summer comes with a harsh sunlight that shine even on things that tries to stay in the dark. You're folding your third dress into the suitcase when Tigerlily walks into your room with a bag of dried mangoes in one hand and a suspicious look on her face. “Need help?” she asks, popping a slice into her mouth.

You smile gratefully. “Please. If I fold one more thing wrong, I’m just going to throw it all in and call it a day.”

She giggles and drops down onto the bed, reaching over to refold a top you’ve clearly mangled. “So… where are you and Hyunjin going?”

You shrug, zipping up a toiletry bag. “I don’t know. He wants it to be a surprise.”

Tigerlily pauses mid-fold, raising a brow. “A surprise? God, that man is such a romantic. It's disgusting.”

You laugh lightly, but it doesn’t quite reach your chest.

She notices. This girl has lived with you her whole life so of course she does. Her hands still for a moment before she says, “You don’t look that excited.”

You let out a soft scoff but keep your eyes away from her. “What do you mean?”

She narrows her eyes at you. “You know what I mean. You’re packing for a getaway with your boyfriend and you look like you’re prepping for a tax audit.”

You offer her a tight-lipped smile and sit beside her. “I’m just… nervous, I guess. I don’t know where we’re going, and the control freak in me is screaming.”

Tigerlily gives you a look that says she’s not entirely buying it. “You’re also worried about me, aren’t you?”

You hesitate, then nod. “You’re in your first trimester, and you’ll be home alone…”

She waves you off and puts down the clothing she's folded into the suitcase. “I’m not alone, Mom. Julian is a phone call away and I’m not planning on going anywhere. I’ll be working on the tour illustrations Dad asked for. Just me, my drawing pad, and his dramatic rockstar eyeliner references.”

You chuckle, just like she meant you to. Gently, you reach over and brush her hair behind her ear, the way you used to do when she was little and falling asleep on your chest. “Don’t work too hard, okay?”

She rolls her eyes, smiling. “Please. The best part about working for my dad is that he can’t fire me and I can take naps whenever I want.”

You laugh, but your heart stutters at the mention of him. That name. That weight. Chris. You lower your eyes to your suitcase, suddenly aware of the knot tightening in your stomach. The one that’s been sitting there for weeks. Because you haven’t told Hyunjin. Not about that night. Not about the kiss, the sex, the tears, the aching truth that still clings to you like a storm that never quite passed.

And as Tigerlily folds the last of your clothes with ease and chatters about maternity leggings, all you can think about is how silence can sometimes feel like betrayal too.

You step into Hyunjin’s studio that afternoon, the familiar scent of clay and his favorite scented candles greeting you like an old friend. It’s warm in here, like it always is — the sunlight slants through the high windows and paints the shelves in gold.

You spot him before he spots you — tall, poised, focused. His back is to you, his buzzed hair is covered in a beanie, arms crossed as he listens intently to two sharply dressed people seated across from him. His agents, you realize. They’re mid-discussion, and from the intensity of their tone and the stacks of paper on the table, it’s not the kind of conversation that should be interrupted.

So you quietly set down your bag and walk the other way, past the bisque-fired bowls and soft works-in-progress, to the other side of the studio where Hyunjin keeps the spare apron and the neatly prepped tools. You hang your jacket and put your bag before putting on an apron.

The slab of clay is cool in your hands. Heavy. Steady. You slice it down carefully with the cut-off wire, remembering the way Hyunjin showed you how to gauge the weight with your palms — how he told you to treat the clay like something alive, something that listens if you’re gentle enough.

You set the piece on the wheel, center it with trembling fingers, and press the pedal with your foot. The wheel spins into a soft whirr, and soon the clay begins to take shape beneath your hands.

It’s like breathing again. You let your fingers dip, steady and slow, and start pulling the walls of the clay higher. The wheel sings with rhythm, and you let the sound of it wrap around you. Each motion draws your focus closer — the smooth resistance of the clay, the faint pressure beneath your fingertips, the way your breath starts to mirror the tempo.

For a while… it works. You don’t think about the trip. You don’t think about the packed suitcase. You don’t think about that night with Chris, or the silence that followed, or how you still haven’t told Hyunjin. You just shape and mold and feel the clay shift beneath you, like something you can finally control.

Even still— somewhere deep in your chest, just beneath the calm, the knot remains. Quiet, but there and you wonder how long you can keep pretending that it isn’t.

You're smoothing the walls of the bowl, carefully shaping the rim with your thumb, when you feel a warm presence behind you — so silent you don’t hear it until—

"Hey," Hyunjin says softly.

You jolt, startled, and your hand slips. The rim caves in under your touch, the once-symmetrical shape now sagging in on one side. You gasp, letting out a quiet, “Shit,” under your breath.

“Sorry,” he says with a chuckle, crouching behind you, his long fingers already gently cupping yours. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

You let out a sigh as you eye the ruined clay. “It’s fine. I messed it up.”

Hyunjin slides in closer, his chest to your back, his hands now resting on top of yours, coaxing your fingers to move again. “It’s not messed up,” he murmurs. “Just needs a little help. See? Like this.”

Together, you guide the clay back into shape. Slowly. Patiently. His breath is soft against the back of your neck. His warmth anchors you. For a moment, you let yourself forget the storm brewing behind your ribs, then his voice cuts through the quiet.

“Is something bothering you, mmh?”

You hesitate. Your eyes stay locked on the wheel, your hands moving mechanically. “No,” you lie, too quickly.

Hyunjin doesn’t say anything at first but then you feel his eyes on you, really on you and you know he doesn’t believe you. Still, he doesn’t press. He just leans in and places a feather-light kiss on your temple, letting it linger there like he’s trying to pass comfort through skin.

With his cheek still against yours, he whispers, “Okay.”

You don’t know what aches more — the lie you told or the kindness he gives you anyway. You press your fingers into the clay, together with his. Fixing what you can. Quietly holding back what you can’t.

The clay is now resting on the shelf to dry, its uneven curves proof of your trembling hands, of everything you’ve been trying not to feel. In the warm quiet of his studio, both of you holding coffee mugs still hot to the touch. You stand leaning against the big wooden table with Hyunjin next to you. He’s glowing in that effortless way — soft smiles constantly tugging at his plush lips, his eyes alight with something tender and bright. He takes a sip, then sets the mug down and leans forward, his hands reaching out to cup your face.

“You have no idea how excited I am for this trip,” he says, voice low, smile blooming across his lips before he leans in and kisses the side of your face. “Can’t wait to be alone with you. Just you and me. Us.”

Hyunjin smiles, the kind that makes his eyes form two crescent before tilting his head to kiss you on the lips. It’s slow and deep, lingering with all the warmth in his chest, and between the kisses, he smiles again — a boy in love, completely unguarded. He kisses you like you’re the only thing that’s ever mattered, like you’re the reason his heart beats the way it does.

When he pulls back just enough to search your face, his thumbs brushing gently across your cheeks, he teasingly asks, “How about you, mmh? Are you excited to be alone with your beautiful, younger boyfriend?”

You hesitate, just a second, but it's enough for him to notice so you quickly nod and force a soft smile. “Yeah. Of course.”

Hyunjin sees it, he feels it yet he lets it slide and kisses you again. Then he wraps his arms around you and pulls you into his chest as if he knows that you're about to fall apart. His hand rubs slow, soothing circles across your back, and your fingers curl lightly into his shirt as you listen to his heartbeat.

It’s steady, safe and it makes you ache. You stay there, pressed into his warmth, trying to memorize the way he feels — trying to decide if honesty is selfish or necessary. But it slips out of you anyway, so quietly that you almost don’t hear it yourself.

“I have something to tell you.”

His hand stills on your back. You feel him breathe in slowly, feel his chin shift slightly as he tilts his head, waiting.

You lift your gaze to meet his and you're aware that you have no more room to run. Instinctively, you take a step back, but your hands don’t let go of his. You hold them tighter instead, grounding yourself in the warmth of them, afraid it’ll be the last time.

“I am excited for this trip,” your voice is small when you begin, barely steady. Your eyes flicking up to meet his just long enough. “I really am. I really, really do want to go.”

The next breath is jagged and you inhale like it might save you, like it might stop your heart from fracturing in your chest, but it doesn’t. Because the truth is bitter— it burns your tongue, chokes your throat, makes your eyes sting before a single word escapes.

Hyunjin sees it. Of course he does. He always sees you. His brow furrows, his hand gently lifts to cup the side of your head, thumb grazing the damp corner of your eye. “Hey, what’s wrong?” he asks.

When you let the question left unanswered for a moment, he just holds you like you’re safe and that’s what shatters you most. His gentleness feels like a mirror — one that reflects the guilt you’ve been carrying in sharp, unforgiving clarity.

“You can tell me,” he says softly. “You can tell me anything.”

Your lips tremble, heart pounding like it’s trying to rip free from your ribs. And then, quietly, finally—

“One night… me and Chris…”

The hand cupping your jaw stills and his gaze wavering just the slightest.

“We got drunk. And I don’t know what we were thinking. Maybe we weren’t. But it… it happened,” your voice breaks in between words. “I slept with him, Hyunjin.”

He doesn’t move. He doesn’t even blink.

“I’ve been keeping it from you. I thought maybe it’d be easier to pretend it didn’t happen. But I was wrong. I was so, so wrong,” you continue with a shaky voice as your fingers lose grip on his. Your hands fall uselessly at your sides.

“I won’t make excuses,” you say, the words strangled by your own tears. “There’s nothing I can say to justify it. I hurt you. And I hate myself for it.”

Your eyes squeeze shut as you choke back the sob in your throat. “I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I’m truly, deeply sorry, Hyunjin. But I know sorry won’t fix this. I know sorry doesn’t make it better. And I know—”

Your voice catches again when you finally look at him but he’s not looking at you anymore. He’s looking through you and in that moment, you see it — the way every bit of light drains from his face, the quiet devastation settling into his features. As if the warmth he’s always carried for you has been ripped from him in one breath.

You hate every second of this. You hate how you’re the one who did this to him. You hate yourself for causing all of this. You wipe your tears, ashamed to even cry in front of him. You look away, eyes blurry, heart breaking in ways you never thought it could again. “I’m sorry,” you say again, broken and hoarse. “I shouldn’t have come here. I’m—”

You turn around because you don't want to anger him more by staying and this time, you don’t look back.

The steering wheel blurs in front of you. You're not even sure how you made it into the car. You don’t remember walking down the hallway, or how your fingers found the keys in your bag. All you know is that the engine is on, the road ahead is empty, and Hyunjin isn’t beside you. You gripped the wheel so tightly your knuckles ache. Your eyes sting, swollen from crying, and still — the tears won’t stop.

You didn’t just hurt him. You shattered something good. Something whole. Something warm that had wrapped itself around you like safety and softness and trust. You ruined it.

Now, you're driving through a city you don’t recognize anymore — not with this ache blooming in your chest, not with his face etched into your memory the way it looked when your truth finally reached him.

Hyunjin didn’t yell. He didn’t beg. He didn’t even ask why. And maybe that’s what hurts the most. You can handle anger. You can handle shouting, rejection, blame. But that silence? That hollow, stunned silence that crept over him like a slow, cold wind?

It told you everything. It told you that you lost not just Hyunjin. Not just this beautiful, gentle, patient man who loved you with so much of himself — but maybe you also lost your last chance at love. Real love. Steady love. The kind that shows up and stays.

You press your foot harder against the gas pedal, not because you're in a rush, but because you don’t know where else to go. What else to do. Who you are without this weight sitting in your chest. A sob crawls up your throat and slips out before you can stop it. You clutch the steering wheel like it's the only thing tethering you to earth.

“I'm so sorry,” you whisper to Hyunjin, to yourself, to the version of you that thought she could keep pretending.

The morning sun creeps through the sheer curtains, lighting the room with a soft glow that feels completely at odds with the way your chest feels — hollow, aching, still echoing with everything you couldn’t take back.

You sit at the dining table, a half-empty cup of coffee cradled in your hands. It’s cold. You don’t remember drinking it. You don’t remember making it. You just know it’s there— bitter and useless now— much like the silence that’s swallowed the house whole.

Your eyes drift to the suitcase by the door, zipped shut and standing tall like it’s waiting for something that won’t come. Just like you. Packed and prepared and going nowhere. Because the moment you confessed, you knew — you knew the trip was off, even if no one had said it aloud. You wish he’d yelled. Slammed a door. Called you names. Something. But all you got was silence and that’s even worse. You know you deserve this because you lied, you waited too long, you let your fear tie your tongue and rot the truth.

Now he’s gone— or at least, gone from you. And the worst part? You still love him. You love him and you ruined it.

The suitcase is still sitting there, quietly mocking you, like it knows exactly what you gave up. You finally let go of the cup. It clinks softly against the table, spilling a ring of coffee that slowly seeps into the wood. You don’t bother wiping it away because it’s already stained. Just like you.

Even so, you drag yourself up from the chair, the weight in your limbs almost unbearable and the cup in your hand feels heavier than ceramic has any right to, and you return to the table with a cloth in hand.

The coffee stain stares back at you like it’s carved into the wood — like a reminder of everything you’ve spilled and everything you can’t clean up. Still, you press the cloth to it and rub in slow, aimless circles, trying to pretend that if you just scrub hard enough, maybe it’ll all go back to before. Maybe you’ll wake up, and yesterday won’t have happened.

Then you hear it — a car pulling into the driveway. Your hand stills over the table. The cloth droops between your fingers. You don’t move. You don’t breathe.

It could be him. It could be Hyunjin. And the thought alone is enough to send your heart thudding painfully against your ribcage. But you don’t run to the door. You can’t. You’re too afraid to see the truth. Too afraid that it’s just someone else — a neighbor, a delivery, anyone but him. A disappointment waiting to happen.

Then the knocks come. Firm. Familiar. Still, you stay frozen. Too afraid that if it’s not him, you’ll break again in a way you won’t know how to fix this time. And then—

“It’s me,” comes Hyunjin’s soft, sultry voice.

Your breath catches in your throat like you’ve been underwater for days and just now found the surface. You don’t think — you break into a run, feet thudding against the hardwood floor, hands reaching for the doorknob with the same desperation that’s been coiling in your chest since yesterday. You twist it open, and there he is.

Hyunjin and he's looking at you. And he’s real. He’s really here. You don’t wait to throw yourself at him — arms wrapping around his body like a lifeline, like you’ve been lost at sea and finally made it back to shore. Your face buries in the crook of his neck, and you inhale sharply, clinging to the warmth of him, the scent of clay and something distinctly Hyunjin. You hold him like it’s the last time because maybe it is. And even if it is… you just needed one more second of him. Just one more.

To your surprise, Hyunjin holds you just as tightly. His hands press into your back, his breath shaky against your neck. It’s not just comfort he’s giving you — it’s everything. It’s the way his fingers tremble like yours do. The way his body leans into yours like he’s been aching just as long, just as hard and maybe… maybe he has.

Your tears come without permission. They sting your eyes and spill quietly down your cheeks as you clutch at him, overcome by the unbearable weight of his presence — and the even heavier knowledge that he’s here.

Hyunjin is here. Despite it all. Despite the truth you should’ve told him earlier, the wrong you can never undo, the guilt that still gnaws at your chest — he’s here. And it breaks something tender inside you.

You feel him shift, feel the warmth of his hand as it gently cups your face and lifts it. “Look at me,” he murmurs.

So you do and in his eyes, there’s pain, but there’s also something softer, something steady.

“I don’t care,” he says, his voice trembling at the edges. “I don’t care about it. I just need to know—do you want to be with me? Do you still want to do this with me?”

It’s not just a question. It’s a lifeline. Your eyes blur with new tears as you nod— once, twice, again and again— and your voice cracks when you say it. “Yes.” You say it again, and again. “Yes. I want to be with you. I want this. I want you.”

You don’t care if you sound desperate. You are. Desperate to stay. Desperate to fix it. Desperate for one more chance to love him the way he deserves.

A smile blooms on Hyunjin's beautiful, angular face and then his lips crash into yours before the next tear can fall. The kiss is hard and deep, wild with relief and longing. It’s the kind of kiss that hurts— not in pain, but in the way it fills your lungs with air you didn’t know you were missing. And in that moment — in that fierce, tender, desperate kiss — you know that this is your one more chance and you’re never letting it go.

You pull back from the kiss, just far enough to look at him. Your hands stay curled around the collar of his shirt, your breath still tangled with his, and your heart—God, your heart is thudding like it’s about to burst from your chest. And then, in a voice that shakes but means everything, you whisper, “I love you.”

Your words hang in the space between you, vulnerable and naked and true.

Hyunjin’s eyes widen—not in surprise, but like he’s been waiting his whole life to hear that. And then his smile stretches so wide it looks like it hurts. “You do?” he says, his voice breathless with joy.

You nod and smile. “I do. I love—”

Before you can finish your sentence, he kisses you and this time it’s full of pure, overflowing happiness. He laughs into your mouth like he can’t help it, and then suddenly his arms are tightening around you and—

“Hyunjin!” you yelp as your feet lift off the floor.

He’s picked you up—completely off the ground—and is holding you close like you weigh nothing, like you’re the most precious thing he’s ever carried.

You giggle into the kiss, the sound bubbling out of you uncontrollably, like your body has no idea what to do with so much joy at once. Then he spins you and you let out a breathless laugh, head tilting back, your hair catching the light as the world twirls with you in his arms. And with every kiss he plants on your cheek, your forehead, your lips—something inside you starts to mend. Every broken piece he touches slides right back into place. By the time your feet return to the floor, your heart is whole again and it’s his. All his.

Hyunjin cups your face again, gentle and reverent as he wipes the tears still clinging to your lashes. His smile hasn’t faded—not even a little. “You should get ready,” he says with a spark in his eyes. “We’ve got a flight to catch.”

Your breath catches. “But I thought...”

He raises an eyebrow, amused. “I canceled the trip? Why would I? You know how long I've been waiting for this.”

Your heart does a flip and then it flips again when you realize you’re still in your pajamas. “Oh my God—I’m not dressed!”

Hyunjin laughs, kissing your forehead. “Go get dressed. I'll wait.”

You nod quickly, stealing another peck on his lips before you bolt upstairs. But halfway up the stairs, you pause—something in you needing one more look.

You glance over your shoulder and he’s still there, standing by the door, watching you with that same unshakable smile. Still here. Still staying.

“Go,” he calls gently, a teasing edge in his voice. “Before I change my mind and carry you to the airport just like that.”

You laugh, heart swelling and this time, when you run upstairs—you do it knowing that love is still yours and he’s waiting right there for you.

Once you're properly dressed for travel, you rush down the stairs, heart racing for all the right reasons this time. The sound of your footsteps echo through the quiet house, each step lighter than the one before. Your bag bounces against your side, the back of your jacket flaring behind you, and there's a breathless kind of giddiness stirring inside you—like you're about to leap into something brand new and beautiful.

When you step outside, the sky is clear with the promise of something good. You spot Hyunjin by his car, just as he closes the trunk after loading your suitcase in. He turns at the sound of the door and when his eyes land on you, his whole face softens.

“There she is,” he says, that gentle smile blooming instantly. He walks around to the front of the car, closer to you, taking in the sight of you like it’s the most precious thing he’s ever seen. “You ready?”

You stop in front of him, the hem of your coat swaying as you catch your breath. And then, with a smile that breaks wide open, you say, “Yes. I'm ready.”

Hyunjin’s smile widens, his eyes glimmering with something quiet and sure—like he’s been waiting for those words. He closes the space between you, his hands slipping into yours. “Let’s go.”

You glance down at your joined hands, then back up into his eyes, and everything in you settles. You’ve made mistakes, taken detours, lost and found yourself along the way—but right here, right now, you’re choosing something. Someone. Hope.

He lifts your hand and kisses it, soft and reverent, then opens the car door for you like it’s second nature. As you slide into the seat beside him moments later, you glance out the window one last time—not in regret, but in gratitude for the road that led you here. Because now, you're driving away from the past and toward something new with him beside you. Together.

The door to Chris's studio creaks open gently, and his eyes lift from the journal he’s been scribbling into. He sees Tigerlily step in, Julian right behind her, eyes already scanning the rows of guitars mounted on the wall.

"Wow," Julian murmurs in awe, walking straight over to Chris’s 1964 Stratocaster and continues touring Chris’s studio to check his guitar collection.

Chris manages a small smile, rising from his seat. "Hey, cub," he greets his daughter as she leans in to kiss his cheek.

"Hi, Dad," she says, her voice light but observant. She holds up a thick envelope. "Just brought the final set of illustrations. For the tour."

He takes it from her carefully, nodding. "Can’t wait to see them. You always make us look cooler than we are."

Tigerlily grins, but her smile softens as she looks at him. "How are you doing?"

Chris blinks at her, surprised by the question. "I’m... Excited. Album’s out. Tour’s coming."

"You don’t look that excited," she says gently, folding her arms.

Chris shrugs, chuckling as if to dismiss the weight in the room. "I’m tired. But I’m good."

She doesn’t press. Not yet. Her phone buzzes in her bag. She fishes it out and reads the text, her smile blooming. "Oh, she sent another one," she mutters to herself.

Chris looks up. "What’s that?"

"It's Mom," Tigerlily says, still smiling as she turns her phone toward him. It’s a photo of a quiet lake surrounded by misty pine trees. "She sends me pictures of the scenery every day."

Chris swallows and tries to sound casual as he asks, "So, how is she? Your mother?"

Tigerlily slips her phone back into her purse. "She's great. She’s actually on a trip with Hyunjin."

Chris breathes through his nose, a nod the only sign of his reaction. But Tigerlily notices. She's his daughter after all. He doesn’t know what gives it away—his tightened jaw, the way he stares too long, or how he doesn’t ask anything else.

"I know about 'Evermore', Dad," she says softly.

Chris drumming his journal with the pen he's holding to hide his nerves. "What about it?"

Tigerlily subtly rolls her eyes like she knew her dad expected her to not know about this. "I know it’s about Mom."

He tries to smile, but it slips too quickly to convince anyone. Tigerlily scoots closer to him, placing a warm hand over his. "I’m going to be brutally honest with you, okay?"

Chris nods, bracing himself for anything that will come out of Tigerlily’s mouth next.

"You had your chance, Dad," she says quietly. "And you blew it."

"I didn’t know she waited for me," Chris says quickly.

Tigerlily doesn’t flinch. "No. You knew. You just didn’t have the guts to try again."

Chris feels it hit deep. Her words land with precision, sharp and true. He looks at his daughter and sees it—how much she understands. Maybe more than he ever gave her credit for.

"I was scared," he meekly admits. "Scared I’d hurt her again."

Tigerlily squeezes his hand. "I know. But...I think it's easier to let it all go, Dad."

The silence in the studio stretches after the door of the studio shuts behind Tigerlily and Julian. The air still hums faintly with the echo of her words, the weight of them hanging over him like the scent of rain before a storm.

Chris stays where he is, slouched on the old leather couch, elbows on his knees, hands clasped as he stares at the floor. It’s not the first time someone’s told him he was afraid. But hearing it from his daughter—seeing the unwavering honesty in her eyes as she laid it bare—something about that rattled him more than he expected.

He exhales slowly, dragging a hand over his face, through his messy hair. “You had your chance, and you blew it.” The words twist inside him, cruel in their accuracy. He did. He had you. And he let you go, convinced that was what love sometimes required—distance, silence, sacrifice. But what if that was just cowardice, dressed in romantic ideals?

His eyes drift to the guitar resting on its stand across the room. The same one he used when writing Evermore. He can still hear your voice, low and careful, telling him goodbye on the porch that day. The memory cuts deeper than he likes to admit.

Chris leans back, tilts his head up toward the ceiling. “Let it all go,” he murmurs to himself. It would be easier. Safer. He could just go on tour, sell out the stadiums, play the part of the frontman like he always has. Smile for the cameras. Hit the notes. Pretend the song doesn’t carry your name in every lyric.

But deep in his chest—underneath the bruises and regrets—something refuses to settle. That ember of defiance he’s always carried, the one that once made him believe in love enough to chase it across oceans, starts to flicker again.

He stands up slowly, walking over to his desk. His fingers find the polaroid Tigerlily left behind last week—one of the tour concept sketches. You're in it, in the background, blurred and laughing as you held a paper cup of coffee.

Chris stares at it for a long moment. Then he sets it back down with a sigh. He’s not sure what to do next. He doesn’t know if there’s still time, if you’ll even listen. But he knows this: the fear of hurting you again is real—but so is the fear of never trying. And maybe this time, he won’t let fear decide for him.

After the long stretch of a flight and the lull of a train winding through small towns, you watch the scenery shift from cityscapes to vineyards, to hills blooming with late-spring flowers. You’re half-asleep, leaning on Hyunjin’s shoulder when he nudges you gently and tells you that the two of you are almost there.

When you arrive, it's exactly what it sounds like in every romantic novel you used to roll your eyes at: a cozy cabin tucked in the heart of the countryside. Ivy climbs the stone walls, the shutters are painted a soft blue, and wildflowers grow like secrets around the front path. You stare at it in disbelief, and Hyunjin just grins like he’s been keeping this gift wrapped tight for weeks.

Then, with all the ease in the world, he suggests that both of you turn off your phones so the two of you can focus on each other and be present for every second of it. You agree immediately by pressing the button and watch the screen go black, not realizing until now how heavy it had all been—every noise, every ping, every pull back into the world. But now? There’s only birdsong, and the smell of rain lingering in the grass, and Hyunjin standing beside you, asking nothing of you except to be here. You didn’t know this was everything you needed until now.

It starts with the warmth of the morning light spilling into the room, soft and golden through the sheer curtains. You're tucked against Hyunjin’s chest, his arms draped around you, one leg tangled between yours like he’s afraid you’ll float away in your sleep. His breath is steady, his skin warm, and you lie there for a moment, listening to the soft beat of his heart under your cheek. It’s peaceful. Grounding. You don’t move until you feel his hand graze your back and hear his sleep-rough voice whisper, “Good morning.”

After a slow breakfast on the little patio—coffee and warm toasts with homemade jam—you both set out for a walk through the countryside. The air is crisp, the hill rising gently before you, blanketed in green and dotted with wildflowers. Hyunjin keeps stopping to point things out or to take pictures with his camera: a tree that bends like a question mark, a small shrine by the road, a patch of forget-me-nots that makes you both stop for a photo. The silence between you is never awkward—it’s soft, comforting. A kind of silence you want to live inside.

On the way back down, you stumble upon a lake—still and glimmering under the midmorning sun. Without speaking, you both step in. The cold hits your skin in a shock, but Hyunjin’s laughter—carefree, genuine—pulls one from you, too. He swims closer and cups your cheeks in his wet hands, kisses you right there in the middle of it all, tasting of lake water and something deeper. Something true.

Later, you wander through town hand in hand, picking up sandwiches and fruit from a little shop, and you find a quiet spot by the canal to sit. There’s a boat drifting lazily nearby, and the sound of the water brushing against the dock is soothing. He lays out a blanket, you set down the food, and the two of you eat with the sun warming your backs. He brushes crumbs from the corner of your mouth with his thumb, and you kiss the tip of it just to make him blush. It works.

By afternoon, you’re walking between neat rows of grapevines, glasses of wine in hand. Hyunjin pretends to be a sommelier, describing the notes of the red in ridiculous detail, making you laugh so hard you nearly spill your drink. You both choose a bottle to bring home for dinner, and he tucks it under his arm like it’s something precious.

The sun’s slipping behind the hills as you stop by the market—fresh pasta, tomatoes, herbs. He insists on picking the perfect basil and gets into a charmingly serious debate with the vendor. Back at the cabin, you cook together in a kitchen too small for two, dancing around each other as the sauce simmers and the wine breathes. He tastes the food off your fork and kisses your cheek, murmuring, “Perfect. Just like you.”

Dinner is slow. Laughter over candlelight. Feet brushing under the table. The clink of glasses and the occasional, quiet I’m so glad you’re here.

When night falls, you curl into each other in bed, the covers pulled up to your chins, his fingers tracing light circles on your arm. That's when Hyunjin pulls out his book, a collection of love letters and he would read you one before bed, reading it with his soft, melodic voice that somehow always works to slowly pull you under. But tonight, you take your turn as you have marked the one that you want to read it to him.

You're lying on your stomach with your head on his chest, one hand holding the book and the other propped under your chin. With a low, steady voice and Hyunjin’s hand resting on the small of your back, you begin reading the words on the page.

“Often as I lie awake I wonder if you are also lying awake…You drew me from the darkest period of my young life, sharing with me the sacred mystery of what it is to be an artist. I learned to see through you and never compose a line or draw a curve that does not come from the knowledge I derived in our precious time together…”

You pause to look at him and you find him staring at you with tender eyes and a faint smile that soften his sharp features, reassuring you that he's here, listening.

“The other afternoon, when you fell asleep on my shoulder, I drifted off, too. But before I did, it occured to me looking around at all of your things and your work and going through years of work in my mind that of all your work...” you look him in the eyes as you read the last lines, ones that perfectly fathom your thoughts into words, “...you are still your most beautiful. The most beautiful work of all.”

The silence hangs in the room once you close the book and Hyunjin says nothing, does nothing but runs his hand through your hair before resting it on the nape of your neck. You put the book away before leaning in and mutter, “You are beautiful, Hyunjin. You are beautiful to me.”

He smiles as he catches all of your praises and lets it seep into him. When you kiss him, he accepts the kiss like it's something precious, with such tenderness that makes your heart tightens.

When you pull away, he holds you gaze and says, “And you’re the most beautiful thing that ever happened to me.” Then, he kisses you. Softly. Like a promise. Like he’s memorizing the shape of forever on your lips.

That night feels eternal. It's just you and him, lying on the bed bathed in the pale moonlight that shines through the window. He brushes your hair away from your face and kisses you once, then again, deeper this time, with the kind of patience that makes your heart ache. You cup his face as he leans into you, his body shifting to hover above yours, and the way he looks at you—overflowed with admiration.

Suddenly, it feels like words are not enough to convey these shared feelings. You both take your time taking each other clothes off until there’s no layer of barrier between you. It’s your body against his, his warmth on yours, skin to skin.

When Hyunjin pushes his cock into you, he does it slowly, carefully, and so full of emotion it nearly undoes you right away. He’s only has half of his length inside you but you already feel overwhelmed by the closeness, the connection and the intimacy of this moment.

His forehead touches yours as he uses his hips to push the remaining length into you. His eyes never leave yours the whole time his cock penetrating into you deeper and deeper until he's buried to the hilt. You both let out a gasp almost at the same time, of relief and of the sensation of becoming one once more.

Hyunjin takes your hands, lacing them together with his before he takes them, pinned them above your head. He leans in, crashing his lips onto yours again and again before placing it on any skin that entice him. Each kiss longer than the previous. Each kiss carries a weight.

When he finally moves, it's unhurried, intentional. He rolls his hips, slowly but with such intensity that allows you to feel every drag of his cock against your tightening walls. And in the softest voice, between shallow breaths, he says calls your name like it’s his prayer.

You hold him tighter. You wrap your legs around him, pull him closer, kiss him harder. And still, it’s not enough—not when it feels like he’s loving you with his whole being. It’s overwhelming, yes, but not something you ever want to escape. You whisper his name again and again like it’s the only thing that gives you air.

Hyunjin looks into your eyes as he keeps moving, making love not just to your physical being, but also to the one resides inside you. You feel it, you feel him all over you and against the the pleasure keeps building and building, you feel a wave of emotions that makes your eyes sting with tears. Before you know it, you're coming around him, your body trembles against him as the pleasure comes in waves.

He doesn’t stop, not when your legs still tightly wrapped around his waist, not letting him go until he too, comes inside you, filling you with his love and giving you all of him.

And when he finally does, his hands clutching yours, his mouth pressed against your neck, and he breathes your name like it’s the only thing grounding him to this world.

Afterward, wrapped in his warmth, your bodies still tangled under the cover and your hearts racing as one, he runs his fingers along the curve of your jaw and whispers, “I love you.”

You kiss him softly and whisper back. “I love you.”

And just before sleep comes to take you—before dreams and morning light—you send out a silent, desperate wish to the universe: Let this moment last forever. Please.

The morning light pours gently into the room, golden and warm, and when you blink your eyes open, it’s to the steady rhythm of Hyunjin’s heartbeat against your back. His arm is draped loosely around your waist, his breath soft and even against the nape of your neck. You stay there for a while, cocooned in the silence, the stillness, the kind of peace that feels too good to disturb.

You turn slowly in his arms just to look at him—his grown out buzzed hair, lashes fanned over his cheeks, lips parted ever so slightly as he sleeps. There’s something about seeing him like this, vulnerable and quiet and still, that tugs at the deepest part of your heart. He looks like something out of a painting, bathed in morning light, too beautiful to be real. You can't bring yourself to wake him so you press a gentle kiss to his cheek—light and fleeting—then carefully slip out of his arms and the bed.

The cabin is cool as you step into the kitchen, bare feet against the wooden floor. The first thing you do is open the window to let the fresh morning air into the cabin and then you start the coffee machine, the comforting whir of it filling the room, and as you wait, you reach for your phone, the intention simple: send Tigerlily some photos you took during the trip—snapshots of vineyard fields, sleepy canals, the lake bathed in sunlight.

But the second your screen lights up, reality rushes back in. There are dozens of notifications. Work emails. Messages. A couple missed calls and your heart stops when you see that one of them is from Chris.

Your finger hovers above his name. Your chest tightens. You don’t know why he called. You don’t know if you want to. But before you can dwell too long, you hear Hyunjin’s voice—sleepy, grumbly, a little scolding. “No phones, remember?”

You turn your head, caught. He’s standing by the doorway, eyes half-lidded as he walks toward you. You let out a soft laugh, switching off the screen. “Just wanted to send some pictures to Tigerlily.”

He hums, unconvinced, but smiling. “Mm, no more distractions. Come here.”

Before you can move, he’s already reaching you, already wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you close. His lips find yours—sweet, slow, warm. You melt into him, hands pressed against his chest. Then, without warning, he lifts you with ease and sets you gently on the edge of the kitchen counter.

For a moment, Hyunjin doesn’t say a word. He only leans in and drags his lips down your neck, along the curve of your shoulder, pressing a soft kiss to your collarbone, then a teasing one right at your cleavage. It makes you shiver—the heat of his breath, the gentleness of his mouth, the way he knows exactly what he’s doing.

He cages you in with his arms, nose brushing yours, and finally whispers, “Good morning.”

Your lips part in a quiet breath. “Good morning,” you whisper back, eyes soft, heart full.

Just like that, Hyunjin pulls you back to live another day in paradise.

The sun warms your shoulders as you stroll through the cobblestone street, your hand tucked comfortably in Hyunjin’s. The town is alive in the softest ways—small laughter from cafés, the clink of glasses, flower baskets swaying from windowsills. You pause at a corner and peer into the quaint little shops lined like watercolor sketches, all inviting and old-world charming.

Hyunjin slows when he catches sight of a narrow store with a wooden sign painted Art & Co. “You don’t mind, do you?” he asks, already half turned toward it.

You give him a knowing smile. “Take as much time as you need.”

He laughs softly. “I might take too much time.”

You shrug playfully. “I planned for that.”

He grins, leans in to press a soft peck to your lips, and murmurs, “Don’t go too far.”

You nod and watch him disappear into the shop, the little bell above the door chiming in his wake. Left to your own, you duck into a cozy souvenir store across the street, the scent of something citrus and old paper greeting you as you walk in. Wooden shelves crowd the space, filled with handcrafted trinkets, postcards, soaps wrapped in parchment, tiny jars of honey, and miniature oil paintings.

You pick out a few things for Tigerlily—she’ll love the hand-painted bookmarks and the delicate earrings shaped like olive leaves. For Julian, a carved wooden guitar keychain. You think about your friends back home, wondering what little bits of this trip they’d treasure.

You’re holding a ceramic music box when a sound catches your ear—the quiet rise of a guitar riff through the store’s small speaker, the soft crackle of a local radio station. Then a voice follows, a voice you know too well. Chris.

The words fall into the air like pieces of something unfinished, aching with clarity and meaning:

“If I told you I waited. Would you believe me now? If I said I still hear your laugh even in the quietest town…”

All of a sudden, time stills and the world shrinks to the size of that song. The lyrics thread into your bones, the melody familiar and heavy. Your grip on the music box loosens as you listen. Every line holds something sacred. Something personal. Things he’s never said out loud, but now sings to the world. But it’s not the world that will understand. It’s only you. You.

As the song fades, the DJ’s voice rises with cheerful ease: “That was the brand-new single from The Bang Theory, Evermore—rumored to be their most personal track yet. The band’s set to begin their international tour next month…”

It’s like something in you is being pulled back—gently, but insistently. As if the universe itself is reminding you: you and Chris, whatever it is… it’s not done. Not yet.

You inhale, steadying yourself, blinking back the sudden sting behind your eyes. You can’t run from it. No matter how far the countryside stretches, no matter how beautiful Hyunjin’s love feels wrapped around you—Chris still lingers in the corners you haven’t swept clean. Now, his voice echoes in the air not in person, but in a song and that might be even harder to escape.

The warm water runs over your hands as you lean into the sink, trying to clear your head, trying to wash away the voice that’s been following you since earlier. You splash your face, the coolness biting your skin just enough to anchor you in the present. But even with your eyes shut and your breath steady, you can still hear him. Not his voice in a room, but in your head. In the song. In the way the lyrics loop like memories refusing to settle.

You reach for the towel and gently pat your face dry, careful and slow. That's when you feel it. The soft weight of a presence behind you. You lift your eyes to the mirror, and there he is. Hyunjin, standing quietly, his reflection filling the frame behind yours, his smile gentle but slightly puzzled.

“What take you so long, mmh?” he says, voice low, as if afraid to disturb something.

You hold his gaze in the mirror for a moment longer before looking down at the towel in your hands, folding it neatly even though it doesn’t need folding.

“I’m just…” You hesitate, weighing what to share, what to bury. “I’m a little sad the trip’s almost over.”

Hyunjin steps forward, his hand slipping around your waist like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You feel the warmth of his lips as he presses a kiss onto your bare shoulder, then another, then rests his chin there, against your skin, his eyes meeting yours again in the mirror.

“Me too,” he admits with an adorable pout. “I don’t want it to end.”

The words sink into your chest, soft and devastating. You nod faintly, chewing the inside of your cheek as if that’ll keep you grounded, stop the rush of guilt that builds inside you for not telling him the whole truth—for holding parts of yourself away from him, even now. For not telling him that Chris called. For not telling him what it did to you to hear that song.

You and Hyunjin stand there in silence, your bodies pressed close, your hearts somehow both entwined and distant. He leans in and presses a kiss to your temple, the kind of kiss that says “I see you” even when you’re trying to stay hidden.

“Hurry and come to bed, yeah?” he whispers, his voice warm, inviting. “The bed is getting cold without you.”

You turn your head and steal a quick kiss from his lips, giving him a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

He lingers for a second longer, eyes flicking over your face like he wants to ask more but won’t push. He gives you a quick peck on the lips and then walks out of the bathroom, leaving you alone again, just as you asked.

You rest your hands on the cool edge of the sink and lower your head. You’ve never wanted to live inside a single moment as much as this one. But your past is still humming like a low frequency underneath it all, and tonight, it's getting louder. You close your eyes and allow yourself just one more minute. One more breath.

A moment later, you step out of the bathroom, the soft light from the bedside lamp casting a warm, golden hue across the room. And there he is—Hyunjin—already sitting up against the headboard, legs stretched out, the covers folded over his lap. His eyes find you instantly, and the moment he sees you, he shifts slightly, patting the space between his legs as he makes room just for you.

You smile—small and soft, the kind that carries more feeling than words could ever hold. You climb onto the bed, crawling into the space he’s made yours, settling your back against his chest. The moment your body meets his, something inside you releases. Like your bones remember what safety feels like. His arms come around you instinctively, enveloping you in warmth, in comfort, in the quiet promise of love. You sink into him, letting your head rest against his shoulder as he gently holds you by the neck and then places a chaste, lingering kiss on your lips.

“Ready for bed?” he asks, his breath warm against your ear.

You nod with an ease you didn’t know you were capable of tonight. “Yeah,” you whisper.

He smiles and rests one hand across your chest, the other reaching to the nightstand for the familiar book—a collection of timeless love letters the two of you have been reading to each other each night of this trip. He flips through the worn pages until he finds the one he marked. He holds the book open in front of you, though you can read it yourself. Still, you wait. You want to hear it from him.

“My angel, my all, my very self. We shall surely see each other soon; moreover, today I cannot share with you the thoughts I have had during these last few days touching my own life. If our hearts were always close together, I would have none of these.”

His voice is soft, almost reverent, as he reads. His cadence calm and steady.

“My heart is full of so many things to say to you – ah – there are moments when I feel that speech amounts to nothing at all – Cheer up – remain my true, my only treasure, my all as I am yours. Ah, wherever I am, there you are also. Much as you love me – I love you more.”

Hyunjin takes a second to press a kiss to your temple and then rests his cheek against your head before continuing.

“Oh God – so near! So far! Is not our love truly a heavenly structure, and also as firm as the vault of heaven? My thoughts go out to you, my Immortal Beloved, now and then joyfully, then sadly, waiting to learn whether or not fate will hear us.”

This time, Hyunjin pauses to simply smile, as if the words are too full for him to contain.

“I can live only wholly with you or not at all. No one else can ever possess my heart – never – never. Oh God, why must one be parted from one whom one so loves. Be calm, only by a calm consideration of our existence can we achieve our purpose to live together. Be calm – love me – today – yesterday – what tearful longings for you – you – you – my life – my all – farewell.”

You listen. You let the words seep into you like warmth under your skin.

“Oh continue to love me – never misjudge the most faithful heart of your beloved.” His voice is lower now, tender. A whisper of silk over skin. “Ever thine, ever mine, ever ours.”

When the words settle into the quiet air around you, he flips to the next page—and there, nestled between the pages like a secret meant only for you: a ring.

A delicate diamond glinting in the soft light, catching the moonlight through the window and sending it scattering like stars across your lap. You suddenly get quiet. You have no words, no breath—just this moment stretching out, suspended and eternal.

You turn your head slowly to look at him and Hyunjin’s already watching you. His expression is soft and open, vulnerable in a way that steals your breath.

“What do you think?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper.

You swallow and whisper, “It’s... beautiful.”

Hyunjin smiles, not with nerves or tension, but with calm certainty—as if this has always been the answer, and he’s just been waiting for the moment to find you.

“This is me proposing to you,” he says so casually, so Hyunjin, that it makes your heart ache. “Because I want you. I want this life. I want forever with you.”

Before you can speak, he gently adds, “But you don’t have to say anything. Not now. I just want you to know that I’m ready. And wear it only when you’re ready.”

His words are soft and filled with grace—so like him. Always giving you space. Always honoring your pace. He takes the ring from the book and places it in your palm, curling your fingers gently around it.

“Until then, please keep it safe,” he says, his eyes on yours. “That’s all I ask.”

You nod, tears clouding your vision as you smile. It’s a bittersweet thing, this joy laced with sorrow, because you want this too—desperately. But your heart is still tangled in something you can’t quite name.

Still, you press the ring to your chest like a vow and with a breath that feels like the truest thing you’ve ever spoken, you whisper, “I love you.”

Then you turn, cupping his face in both your hands, and kiss him. A kiss that’s deep, tender, grateful. A kiss that tells him thank you—for loving you this way, for being patient, for being here.

When you finally pull back and lay your head against his chest once more, the ring still held safely in your hand, caged between the two beating hearts, you think: if this isn’t paradise, you don’t know what is.

The world rushes past the windows, but inside the car, time feels slower, softer. Hyunjin has one hand on the wheel and the other resting palm-up between you, waiting for yours. You slip your fingers into his, and he gives your hand a gentle squeeze without looking.

Your heart aches with a bittersweet tangle of emotions. You’re sad the trip is over. Sad to leave behind the dreamy stillness of the countryside, the love letters, the quiet mornings and slow nights. But there’s also something stirring under the sadness—something like readiness. Like the promise of starting again, of stepping back into your life with something new blooming in your chest.

Hyunjin glances over, catching the flicker of something in your expression. Without a word, he lifts your hand to his mouth and presses a kiss to the back of it. The warmth of his lips lingers.

“Let’s take another trip soon,” he says with that knowing smile of his.

It makes you smile too. “Yes, please.”

When the car finally pulls into your driveway, the quiet is interrupted by the soft hum of the engine cutting off. You both move slowly, neither of you in a rush to mark this moment as the end.

Hyunjin helps you carry your things to the door, and the second you step into your house, it hits you. You’re home. You drop your bag near the doorway and look around as if trying to reacquaint yourself with your own space.

“Do you need help with anything else?” Hyunjin asks behind you, his voice gentle, careful not to rush the moment.

You shake your head, but before you can say anything, he’s already stepping in. His arms slip around you—one under your shoulders, the other around your waist—pulling you close against him. He kisses you. Long, slow, lingering. Like he’s trying to make this last as long as possible.

When he pulls back, he rests his forehead against yours. “I'll see you tomorrow?”

You chuckle softly, your hands smoothing down his arms. “I can’t tomorrow. I have something I need to do.”

He doesn’t ask what. He just nods, understanding woven into the softness of his eyes. “Okay.”

He gives you another kiss—gentler this time, almost reverent—then tells you, “Go get some rest.”

“You too,” you say.

And just like that, he’s gone. You stand at the door, watching him until his car disappears down the street, until the stillness of your house wraps around you again. You close the door and lean against it.

In the silence, with your bags by the door and the memories of the trip still clinging to your skin, you know exactly what you need to do now that you’re back to reality. You turn on your phone and open your recent calls. You stare at Chris’s name, finger hovers, heart tight in your chest. It’s time.

When the doctor finally cuts through the wrap and casts and tells him he’s good to go—with a warning to take it easy for a little longer—Chris feels like he’s been handed back a piece of his life. He doesn’t wait to change. Just throws on something light and comfortable and heads straight to the studio.

The hallway outside the band’s rehearsal room is already humming with energy—amps buzzing, faint bits of laughter from the tech crew. Chris readies himself for a scolding, knowing he’s late. Probably going to get a full ear from the manager or the band members, about being punctual, the usual. He braces himself for it.

Instead, the manager spots him walking in, looks him up and down—cast-free—and just says, “Someone’s waiting for you.”

Chris takes his backpack off of his shoulder. “Huh? Who?”

The manager only gives him a vague shrug and steps aside. “Inside. You’ll see.”

Chris assumes it’s another industry person. Maybe another musician who happens to recording in the next studio, maybe some old fan. He opens the door to the rehearsal room casually and there, sitting on the leather couch like it’s the most natural thing in the world is you. Your hands resting over your purse, a small, gentle smile blooming across your face.

He stops in his tracks. His heart doesn’t just skip—it sprints. It punches his ribs like it’s trying to break out of his chest.

You tilt your head, pretending to squint at him. “Wow,” you say, mock-serious. “I almost didn’t recognize you without your leg cast and your shit eating grin. Who are you and what have you done to Chris?”

He laughs. A real, full-bodied laugh, cracking out of him like sunlight. “You’re kidding me,” he breathes. “You’re actually here?”

“I called you yesterday,” you say, still teasing. “Your manager picked up and told me to drop by for the band rehearsal so... here I am.”

“I—I didn’t know.” He walks a little closer, then stops, unsure if he’s allowed to be closer. Your hands are still neatly folded over your purse, like you’re holding something back. He doesn’t want to intrude if you’re not ready. But he can’t stop smiling.

“Why are you here?” he asks, softly, cautiously.

You raise your brows, pretending to be offended. “Gee, thanks. I travel all this way and that’s the welcome I get?”

Chris throws up his hands. “No! I didn’t mean it like that—I’m just…” He exhales. “I’m just surprised. You look—” He stops himself. You always make him lose words. “You look good.”

You give him a lopsided grin. “Thanks. So do you. The cast really did cramp your style.”

Before he can say more, the manager leans in through the door. “Chris, rehearsal. Let’s go!”

Chris glances back at you. “Will you wait?”

You smile, pretending to check your watch. “I mean, I came for the band, not for you.”

He chuckles, his grin returning as he backs toward the mic stand. “Right, of course. Just another fan.”

You shrug. “Exactly.”

Chris grabs his guitar, slides the strap over his shoulder. The weight of it feels right again. His fingers instinctively find the chords as the band begins the first track on the upcoming tour setlist—a setlist that is still in the works.

As the first notes fill the studio, his eyes instinctively drift back to the couch. There you are, atching him with that soft smile still there. Just like you used to, like the years haven’t passed, like you're still the girl who’d sit on a ratty studio couch and watch him fall in love with music—and with you—over and over again.

And in that moment, with the lights casting golden shadows on the floor, with the music vibrating through the walls, Chris wonders— Could he get it right this time? Could he be brave enough to try? Because you’re here and that has to mean something.

By the time the band calls for a break, Chris is already buzzing—not from the music, not from the adrenaline of rehearsing again without pain—but from the fact that you’re still here and patiently waiting for him. He doesn’t even need to ask. He just lifts his brows at you and nods toward the door, and you immediately get up and follow.

There’s a restaurant just around the corner. Small, tucked behind ivy-covered brick, barely marked except for a matte gold plaque by the entrance. He opens the door and greets the maître d' with a casual wave.

“We’re not open yet, Mr. Bang,” the host says gently.

Chris just grins. “I know. That’s why I’m here.”

The host looks over at you, then back at Chris. “Give us five minutes. I’ll let the kitchen know.”

You glance at Chris once you’re seated. “Wow. Rockstar privileges.”

He shrugs playfully. “No. These are the perks of being a regular and tipping well.”

The restaurant is empty, but not quiet—the kitchen clatters faintly in the back, someone’s sweeping near the bar, and there’s soft, ambient music playing overhead. You settle into the booth across from him, tucking your legs under the table as you glance around.

The two of you order something simple—wine, pasta, bread—and while you wait, the conversation flows like it used to. Updates about your lives tumble out between bites and laughter. You tell him about the trip. The food. The little cabin. The view. You don't say who you went with, and he doesn't ask. He tells you about writing again, about how difficult it was with the cast, how freeing it felt to finally play without pain again.

“I felt like a kid with a new toy,” he says, gesturing with his fork. “I almost cried.”

You chuckle. “Almost?”

“Well, I had to keep my cool in front of the band. Can’t let them think I’m soft.”

“Oh, God forbid.”

He grins. He could do this all night. Just sit here and watch you smile. But then—almost like fate reaching a hand into the moment—he hears it the familiar intro. A quiet, slow strum, followed by the low hum of the bass coming through the restaurant speakers. It's his song. Evermore.

He stiffens just slightly, eyes flicking upward toward the sound system. Then, he looks back at you, almost afraid to read your face. Do you know? Did you recognize it? Did you listen to it before now?

But you’re already smiling and not just politely. It’s soft, full of something old and deep. Nostalgic. Maybe even a little bittersweet. You don’t say anything for a moment, just let the chorus wash over the both of you. Then you glance at him, eyes still on the edge of something gentle, and say, “I like it.”

Chris swallows. His pulse has picked up again. “Yeah?”

You nod. “Yeah. It sounds like you.”

His mouth tilts in the smallest smile. “That a good thing?”

You laugh under your breath. “It’s a very good thing.”

There are a hundred questions behind his eyes. Did you know it was about you? Could you tell? Did it hurt? Did it bring anything back? Do you still think about us the way I do? But he keeps them locked away.

For now, this is enough. Sitting across from you, your smile lit by the glow of the setting sun through the restaurant windows, while his song plays between you like a secret only the two of you fully understand. When the next track starts and the moment gently passes, Chris knows one thing for certain— If there’s still a way to get back to you, he’s going to find it.

The walk back to the studio is slow. Not because the distance is long, but because neither of you seems in any rush. You walk close, but not touching, hands brushing now and then like the universe is teasing him.

“So,” you say, glancing sideways at him, “tell me more. About the album. The tour. What’s going on?”

Chris exhales like he’s been waiting to be asked. “I still have a couple songs left to polish. It’s more personal this time. Rawer.” He pauses, then adds, “Maybe because I’ve had a lot to say lately.”

You nod, thoughtful. “I can tell. From the song earlier.”

Hearing that makes his heart skip and he slips his hands into the pockets of his jeans to stop himself from wanting to hold your hands.

“And the tour?” you prompt, tilting your head.

Chris gives you a crooked smile. “Kicking off in a few months. Just announced it. Big venues, long setlists, late nights. Chaos.”

You laugh softly, that warm sound he’s missed so much it almost hurts. Then he adds—too easily, carried by the soft buzz of being near you again—“Would be fun if you came.”

You look at him. Not shocked. You just smile, gentle and noncommittal. “If you bring along a chiropractor, maybe I will.”

He knows better than to expect more than that. Still, it’s enough to imagine it for a moment: you backstage again, or watching from the wings, or in the back of the tour bus listening to demos with your legs pulled up under you.

When you get to his studio, he unlocks the door and holds it open for you. It’s warm inside, a little messy, but alive. Guitars leaning against the wall, scribbled lyrics on whiteboards, an empty coffee mug dangerously close to the soundboard.

“Still smells like old amps and desperation,” you tease, stepping in.

Chris laughs. “Yeah, but now there’s a scented candle in the room. That's an upgrade.”

He pulls out another chair and pushes it close to his. He holds the back of the chair as you sit down. “Want to listen to some tracks I'm working on?” he offers.

“Sure. Why not?” You answer as you put your purse away to the side of the chair.

He pulls out a pair of headphones from the mixing board, fitting them gently over your ears. He queues up a track—unfinished, still rough around the edges—but it’s good. It’s honest. He watches you as you close your eyes, head tilted just slightly, listening like you always used to.

There’s something about the way you do it that brings everything back. All those years ago—him pacing nervously while you listened to his demos, waiting to see if you’d nod, or smile, or cry. You were always the first one to hear them. Always the one who knew what he was trying to say before he even said it out loud. And now, seeing you again like this… it makes something click inside him. Something quiet, but powerful.

You take the headphones off slowly when the track ends, blinking your eyes open. You don’t say much. Just, “It’s beautiful.”

He helps you take with the headphones, delicately—as if you’re made of something precious and irreplaceable. His fingers brush against your skin, a soft graze that lingers longer than it needs to. And then, almost without thinking, Chris lifts his hand to gently tuck a strand of your hair behind your ear, smoothing it into place with such tenderness it makes his own breath catch. You smile, the kind that slips past your lips when you’re not even trying and it makes something in his chest twist.

He turns his chair toward you, swivels it closer. His knees part wide, framing you between them, and his hands find yours—warm, steady, trembling just a little. His thumbs graze across your knuckles like he’s memorizing the feel of you all over again. Then he tilts his head, just enough to meet your eyes.

“I have something to tell you,” he says, low and unsure but resolute.

You nod, giving him your full attention. Always giving him your attention. That’s what he’s missed the most—the way you listen, not just with your ears but with your whole heart.

Chris inhales slowly, like the words are heavy and buried deep. “I’ve been thinking a lot lately,” he begins, voice soft but steady. “Feeling a lot. Mostly… regrets. Regrets about everything I didn’t say, and everything I didn’t do when I should have.”

He pauses, searching your eyes, afraid of what he’ll find in them—judgment, resentment, maybe even indifference. But all he sees is quiet patience. “I know you waited for me,” he says, voice breaking slightly around the truth of it. “I knew it back then, and I know it now. You waited. And I... I let that go.”

Chris swallows, fighting the ache that crawls into his throat. “I was scared that if I came back, I’d mess it all up again. That I’d ruin the good memories we had, ruin you. I thought I was protecting you by staying away. I told myself I was doing the right thing.” He gives a shaky laugh. “But I see it now—how wrong that was.”

He lets go of one of your hands, only to run his fingers through his hair, frustrated with himself, the years, the fear. “I was a coward. And I regret that more than anything.”

A long breath escapes him as he looks at you again, eyes searching, wide open, unguarded in a way only you have ever seen.

“I should’ve kept you close. I should’ve chosen you, over and over, no matter how scared I was. I should’ve tried. And now…” He trails off, the words catching on the weight of what’s between you.

“I don’t know if I still have a place in your life,” he says quietly, “but if I do—if there’s even the smallest chance—I want to do things right now. I want to try. I want to show you that I’m not that scared man anymore.”

He swallows thickly, voice turning hoarse with emotion. “Please... Let me try. Let me do it right this time.”

The silence that follows is sacred. He doesn’t fill it. He lets it settle around you both—thick with everything unsaid, everything still hanging in the air between two people who never really stopped loving each other. His hands are still in yours, waiting. His eyes still locked with yours, hopeful. Fragile. Open. And waiting for your heart to answer.

He doesn’t rush you, doesn’t fill the silence. He just sits there, heart in his throat, hands in yours, quietly praying that whatever you say next won’t destroy the small sliver of hope still beating inside his chest.

When you finally speak, your voice is soft—careful, like you're walking through something fragile. “Thank you, Chris,” you say, “for your honesty.”

Chris nods once, but the air in his lungs doesn’t move.

“All is forgiven,” you continue, and your hands wrap more firmly around his, grounding him. “And you’re doing the right thing now, Chris. By owning up to it. By being brave enough to say it out loud. That matters. That’s what I see. And I’m proud of the man you’ve become.”

Something cracks in him then—just a small fracture, but deep. It hits him harder than he expected. He leans into your praise like a parched man to water. The words feel like balm, like home, like forgiveness. Then your hand lifts to cup his jaw with such tenderness.

Chris exhales. His eyes flutter closed at the touch, and he leans into your palm without hesitation. He needs it more than he can admit. Has needed it for so long.

“I would be lying,” you begin again, “if I said I didn’t have regrets too.”

Chris opens his eyes again, slowly. You’re still there. Still looking at him like that. It takes everything in him to keep it together.

“I regret what I said that day. Telling you to go. Telling you to leave.” Your voice wavers. “Because even after all of that... the truth is, I will always want you in my life.”

The tightness in his chest swells as you continue with a steady smile on your face. “You’re Tigerlily’s father,” you say, your voice more certain now. “You’re someone I cherish. Someone I trust. Someone I can rely on with my whole heart.”

The air between you feels suspended, weighted with everything that could’ve been, everything that still aches. He stares at you, frozen. And then you smile—a sad, small smile that breaks his heart all over again. “You’re a good man, Chris,” you whisper. “But… I’m sorry. I can’t give you what you want.”

The words hit like a blow to the chest. He feels it physically, like his ribs have buckled inward. His lips part slightly, trembling. He doesn’t know how to answer. His voice gets trapped somewhere in his throat, tangled in the knot of tears forming behind his eyes.

And then—because you always try to ease the pain with light—you gently tease, “You know I didn’t come here for the band, right?”

Chris lets out a broken laugh, the sound shaky and thin. “Yeah,” he murmurs, blinking fast, “I figured.”

You shift slightly, both your hands resting over his in your lap now. Your fingers squeeze gently. “I came here to tell you that… Hyunjin proposed.”

You sniffle once. It’s quiet, restrained. He watches you try to hold it together, even as tears gloss over your eyes. “And I’m going to say yes.”

The world tilts a little. Chris forces himself to nod. Once. Twice. His jaw tightens, and he swallows hard to keep everything in. It doesn’t quite work.

“That’s… that’s great news,” he manages, but his voice breaks halfway through the sentence.

Tears slide down your cheeks. Still, you smile. “Yeah. I know. I’m just… surprised he even asked.”

Chris lets out a quiet sob masked as a chuckle, but a tear escapes, tracing the side of his face. “You shouldn’t be,” he says, voice thick. “You’re easy to love.”

You press your lips together, and then you whisper, “Thank you,” shakily, as another tear falls.

Then—without another word—you let go of his hands just long enough to wrap your arms around him. “I'm sorry, Chris,” you murmur with a shaky voice.

He doesn’t hesitate. His arms close around you, holding you so tightly he thinks maybe he can hold time still with it. And then—just like that—you’re both crying. Into each other. Into what was. What could’ve been. What still is.

Tears fall for the years you lost, the love you had, the dreams you once shared and still carry in different shapes. For Tigerlily. For the version of you both that still exists somewhere deep in the past, untouched by everything that came after.

In this moment, the past and present blur together. You hold each other in a silence full of everything: Regret. Gratitude. Closure. Love—still there, just changed.

Chris's fingers move over the strings with a practiced ease, but his heart is somewhere else—anchored to the figure sitting quietly on the leather couch at the far end of the studio, your hands resting on your lap, your smile soft and proud as your eyes follow him. You haven’t said much since your conversation. You didn’t have to. The silence is not heavy—it’s tender, like a song’s final chord ringing out in a room that still holds its echo.

You decided to stay just a little longer for him and he’s grateful for that. For this small mercy. For the way you still look at him like he matters. Even when you’ve already told him goodbye.

Chris glances your way mid-song and catches you mouthing the lyrics to him—because you know him that well, still. He almost falters. Almost. But he plays through it, letting the music carry him, letting it hold all the things he doesn’t have words for anymore.

When it's time for you to go, Chris’s chest caves in a little. He walks you down the hallway, your steps unhurried even though the world keeps spinning fast. When you reach the doors, he turns to face you, unsure how to say everything he feels with a single gesture. But you beat him to it by pulling him into a hug.

He folds into it instantly, arms wrapping tight around your body, chin resting lightly atop your head. You smell like lavender and plane rides and memories, and the way you hold him makes him want to believe—for a split second—that he still has time to make this right, but he doesn’t and he knows it.

When you pull back, your hands find the sides of his face. You look up at him, gaze steady and full of something ancient and kind—something that says: I loved you once. I always will.

Your thumbs brush gently along his cheekbones, and then you lean in and place the softest kiss on his cheek. It feels like the closing of a chapter. You step back and smile a brave yet aching smile.

“Bye, Chris,” you whisper and then you get into the backseat of a taxi, the door shutting with a quiet finality.

Chris stands at the curb, watching as the car pulls away, as the silhouette of you fades behind the glass, and eventually, out of sight. He knows—he knows deep in his bones—that this time, it wasn’t him who left. It was you and somehow, that makes it feel real.

He stuffs his hands into his pockets and exhales slowly. The ache in his chest doesn’t scream. It lingers. A dull, persistent throb beneath the ribs. Not unbearable—but unforgettable. He turns to walk back inside the studio. The place where songs are born. Where some are about heartbreak, others about healing. Where maybe, if he’s lucky, he can turn this pain into something beautiful again. Because this is what love does when it’s real: It doesn’t beg. It doesn’t chase. It lets go.

The morning light pours in through your bedroom window—soft and golden, like a gentle promise. You open your eyes, your body still heavy from sleep, your heart a little lighter than it was yesterday. The ache from the flight home still lingers in your bones, and the weight of your tears feels like it carved a small space inside your chest. A space you didn't know you needed to empty. But it’s a new day and with it, a new chapter begins.

You sit up slowly, letting the hush of morning settle around you like a shawl. Yesterday is gone, folded away like an old letter you won’t read again for a while. You let go. You grieved. You honored what was. But today—you choose something new.

You shower, get your hair styled, pick out your favorite dress. You smooth your hands over your outfit and check your reflection, and it hits you—how calm you feel. How strong. The kind of strength that doesn’t shout. It just is.

Before heading out, your eyes drift toward the drawer. The box is still there and then you open it. Inside, the ring glints under the morning light. The ring Hyunjin placed in your palm so gently, telling you to keep it safe until you were ready. No pressure. No rush. Just love, waiting patiently.

You reach for it and hold it in your fingers, feeling the weight of it—not just gold and stone, but everything it stands for. The tenderness of his voice. The steadiness of his love. The way he never once asked you to choose, only offered you something beautiful and waited for your heart to meet him halfway.

You glance at the mirror, meet your own gaze. Am I ready?

The question floats in the quiet like mist. But deep down, you know the answer. Yes. Not because the past didn’t matter, but because it did and it brought you here.

You slip the ring onto your finger and god—it fits like it’s always been meant to be there. A promise, not just of love, but of healing. Of choosing joy after the storm. Of saying yes to the life in front of you.

You press your palm to your chest for a moment, breathe deep, and smile at your reflection. And with that, you grab your bag, step out into the world, and begin again—heart first, ring shining, ready to embrace love whatever comes next.

When you step into Hyunjin’s studio, the energy in the room is different—brighter, buzzing. Lights flash, cameras hum softly, and there's the low murmur of a crew conducting an interview. You pause by the door, quietly staying just out of frame as to not interrupt their work.

Hyunjin sits effortlessly poised, one leg crossed over the other, his blue sweater hugging his frame in a way that pulls your breath short. The color makes his skin glow, makes his presence magnetic. He speaks slowly, thoughtfully, answering questions with that graceful sincerity he always carries like a second skin, the kind that draws people in.

And then, Hyunjin sees you just for a second but it's enough to make his composure breaks. His lips part into a smile that doesn’t belong to the cameras or the crew—it’s yours. A quiet flash of warmth just for you before he returns his focus to the interviewer. Then it hits you that this beautiful man loves you and he wants to spend his forever with you.

All of a sudden the ring on your finger feel like a sun pulsing against your skin. You look at it and reminded of the fact that he chose you and you chose him back. You press your fingers to your chest, feeling it rise with every full breath. The love is there—alive, humming beneath your ribs, ready to meet his halfway.

When the interview wraps, Hyunjin barely waits for the final thank-you before he’s moving, threading through the set like a current pulled by gravity. You. His eyes are already locked on yours, bright and searching, and you start walking too, closing the distance.

The interviewer catches sight of you approaching and tilts her head curiously. “May I know who is this?” she asks, almost playfully.

Before Hyunjin can open his mouth, you step forward and offer your hand at her. “I’m his fiancée,” you say with a quiet kind of confidence that blooms in your chest as soon as the words leave your lips.

It stuns Hyunjin and you don't miss the way his gaze flickers down to your hand. He takes it gently, turns it over, his thumb brushing against the ring like he’s confirming it’s real. His eyes widen at the sight and then that slow, glorious smile spreads across his face, lifting his cheeks, softening every edge of him.

“Yes,” he says, his voice rich with pride. “She is... my fiancée.”

The interviewer offers a warm congratulations to both of you before turning to face the crew who begins tidying up their stuff around the studio.

When the two of you finally alone, the quiet wraps around you. Hyunjin raises your hand again, reverent. He leans in, lips brushing just below the band—a kiss so gentle, so full of awe. Then his arms fold around you, firm and close, and he presses a kiss to your forehead. You feel his breath when he whispers into your hair, still in disbelief, “My fiancée. Mine.”

You smile against his chest, heart spilling over with emotion. “Yes,” you whisper back, “yours.”

And in that studio—surrounded by the art he made, old echoes and new promises—the two of you hold each other like the world outside doesn’t matter. Because right now, this one moment belongs only to you, just you and him. Always.

The rain comes out of nowhere—sharp and sudden, like the sky couldn't hold it in any longer.

Hyunjin is still holding your hand when the first drops hit the windshield, and even as the wipers sweep across the glass, you can feel the shift in the air. The city blurs outside, streaked with silver. Inside the car, it’s quiet and Hyunjin keeps sneaking glances at your hand resting in his. Specifically, the ring.

His thumb runs over it every now and then, like he’s reassuring himself it’s real. That you’re real. That this is happening. He doesn’t say anything, but the smile tugging at his lips says enough. He’s in awe.

“You keep staring,” you tease, voice low and affectionate.

“I can’t help it,” he murmurs, not looking away. “You have no idea how many times I’ve imagined this. And now it’s real.”

You squeeze his hand back, heart swelling just as the rain turns torrential, hammering against the roof like a drumroll. By the time he pulls into your driveway, it’s pouring.

“Ready?” he grins, slipping off his jacket as if preparing for battle.

“I have to,” you playfully answer with a soft laugh.

He throws his jacket over both of your heads, holding you tightly against his side as you make a mad dash through the rain. Still, it doesn’t help much. The rain soaks through your clothes, cold and relentless, but all you can do is laugh—loud and breathless—until the two of you stumble through your front door, dripping and shivering and wrapped in each other.

“Okay,” Hyunjin says between pants, “that was... cinematic.”

“Cinematic?” you echo, raising an eyebrow as you try to wring out your sleeves.

He steps closer. His wet hair sticks to his forehead. “Yeah. Like the part right before the characters rip each other’s clothes off.”

You burst out laughing, but he’s already tugging you gently by the hand, guiding you toward the stairs. Clothes are peeled off and left in a trail across the hallway—shirts, jeans, socks, everything—until you’re both naked, skin still damp, hair clinging to your necks.

In your bedroom, the world finally quiets.

Hyunjin pulls you onto the bed, his arms wrapping around you Your legs tangle beneath the covers, cold feet pressing together for warmth. He tilts your chin up and kisses you—slow, unrushed, like he has nowhere else to be but here, tasting the rain on your lips.

His hand cups your jaw, the pad of his thumb stroking your cheek as your mouths meet again and again, softer each time. You shift closer, melting into him, slightly shivering as your skin presses to his. Warmth blooms between your bodies, gentle and unhurried, like sunlight pushing through gray clouds.

When he pulls back for just a breath, his eyes are fixed on you—so full of love, it nearly unravels you. His fingers trace down your neck, over your collarbone, until they find your hand again. He kisses your knuckles, just below the ring, and murmurs against your skin. “This… this is where I want to be.”

It’s hard to breathe with how much you’re feeling. He kisses the curve of your shoulder, the underside of your jaw, the soft spot just beneath your ear where your pulse beats wild. His hand—warm, reverent—trails down your chest, the slow drag of his knuckles along your sternum drawing goosebumps in its wake.

You want to stay in this moment, wrapped in heat and affection and the quiet thrum of his love for you, but there’s something nestled deep inside you, a thought that won’t let go. You don’t want to ruin this, but you know you’ll regret it more if you keep it inside. So you reach for him, gently cradling the side of his face, and he stills under your touch. His dark eyes meet yours immediately, searching, attentive, all in.

“Hyunjin…” you begin, softly, “are you really going to marry me?”

His brow furrows just slightly. He opens his mouth, but you keep going, needing him to hear it all.

“I’m not just talking about now. I mean everything—my age, this old body, the fact that the possibility of growing this family is… small. I just need to know you won’t look back one day and think you could’ve had more.”

The room falls quiet for a second, the kind of silence that feels full, not empty. Then Hyunjin leans into your palm and kisses it, slow and sure. He doesn’t let go of your hand when he speaks.

“And I’m young,” he says. “I’m stubborn as hell. I’m still figuring myself out. I'm inexperienced in a lot of things. I mess up sometimes.” He pauses, then a playful smile tugs at his lips. “And let’s face it—this beautiful face? It’s not gonna last forever. Gravity’s gonna come for me too. Are you okay with that?”

You huff a laugh, the tension breaking slightly. “I’ll still find you beautiful.”

He grins, boyish and full of light. “And I’ll always find you beautiful. Always.”

Your chest tightens at his words. The way he says them. So simple. So certain. So Hyunjin.

“As long as I’m with you,” he says, voice soft but sure, “I have everything I need. I don’t want more. I want you.”

And just like that, your insecurities melt away.

You kiss him again, unable to stop yourself. It’s deep and slow and full of something aching. You’re not even sure what it is—gratitude, relief, love. Maybe all of it. Maybe more.

He pulls back just slightly, lips still brushing yours. “When I said I’m inexperienced in a lot of things…” he begins, his eyes dancing with mischief, “I didn’t mean sex. I’m very, very good at that.”

You burst into laughter, shaking your head. “Jury's still out.”

But your voice is thick with affection, and when he kisses you again, you let him. Then, with a sudden grin, he leans in and murmurs against your lips, “I think we should at least try for a sibling for Tigerlily.”

You cackle, smacking his chest. “You’re insatiable.”

“Only for you,” he grins, and this time, he kisses you like a promise, his mouth slanting over yours with growing urgency.

When you fall back into the bed, with his body covering yours and laughter still clinging to the air, you know there’s nowhere else you’d rather be. The storm is behind you. The future is yours. And this—this love—is your beginning.

Hyunjin kisses you like it’s his devotion. Every inch of your skin, every curve, every breathless gasp you make—he treats it like something to cherish. His lips are warm and slow, trailing over your collarbone, down your chest, between your breasts, lower still. And every time he pauses to press his mouth against you, it’s as if he’s trying to tell you something in a language only your body understands.

“Hyunjin...” You whisper, a quiet plea that carries more want than words can shape. He hears it. He always does.

When his plush, red lips reach the part of you aching for him, you feel your breath catch in your throat. He doesn’t rush. His hands spread over your thighs, grounding you, anchoring you to this moment—this tenderness, this hunger. And then, when you give in, when you open yourself to him completely, he places a tender kiss right on the clit like he means to unravel you.

He opens his mouth and take your quivering cunt into his mouth. His movements are sure, gentle, yet insistent. Every lick between the fold, every flick of his tongue on your clit, every time he plants his mouth and hums against your most sensitive skin sends shivers cascading down your spine. You arch toward him instinctively, fingers gripping the sheets, your mind blissfully blank but for the sensation of his love being poured into every movement.

You surrender—body and heart—letting yourself be loved, letting yourself feel worthy of it. With Hyunjin, it’s not just pleasure. It’s worship. It’s love.

Hyunjin doesn’t stop until your body trembles beneath his mouth, until he feels you come completely undone in his arms, flooding his mouth with your sweet essence. He stays with you through it—hands holding you gently, lips pressing fluttering kisses along the inside of your thigh, then upward across your soft belly, easing you back into your breath, your body, your heart.

As he looks up at you through dark lashes with his mouth glistening wet from what he's done, your heart stutters at the sight. This is real. He’s real. And he’s yours.

By the time his lips find yours again, your chest rises with every deep, sated breath. He kisses you slowly, letting you taste the truth of his love on his tongue, letting it linger. When he pulls back with a soft gasp, his eyes are heavy, darkened with awe and wonder.

“I can’t believe,” he breathes, eyes roaming over your flushed, glowing body, “that I get to have all of this… just for myself.”

You smile at that, heart full, and slide into his lap, straddling him with the ease of someone who’s always belonged there. His arms immediately wrap around you, pulling you close like he never wants to let go. His lips find yours again, then trail along your jaw, your neck, soft murmurs escaping between kisses.

“I can’t believe I get to have you like this,” he whispers into your ear, voice low and reverent, “every day… for the rest of my life.”

Your breath hitches as he begins to kiss your neck, nibbling playfully at the sensitive skin, pulling a surprised yelp and a burst of laughter from your lips. Then his mouth trails lower again, deliberate and warm, until he buries it between your breasts. His hands slide up your sides to cup you fully, gently kneading, molding, lifting your breasts in his big hands.

You watch with a soft moan as he brings your breasts together, his mouth moving between them, tongue teasing and swirling, then enveloping your sensitive skin with aching tenderness. The sensation—his mouth, his hands, the look in his eyes—leaves you dizzy.

When he finally pulls back, his lips are red and swollen, damp with devotion. He looks up at you, gaze blazing with affection, and whispers hoarsely, “Mine.”

Then he leans in and kisses you again, deep and slow, until everything else fades but the feeling of him—warm, real, and undeniably yours.

You wrap your arms around his broad shoulders, deepening the kiss as your hips begin a slow, deliberate grind against his. His breath hitches—caught somewhere between restraint and desire—and when he whimpers softly into your mouth, it sends a shiver down your spine.

“Do you want to be inside me?” you whisper against his lips, your voice velvet and warm.

Hyunjin’s eyes flutter open, dazed and shining with emotion. “Yes,” he breathes out, voice low and ragged. “God, yes.”

You press a tender kiss to the corner of his mouth before propping yourself up on your knees, his hands steadying you instinctively. “You can have all of me,” you murmur, looking right into his eyes. “Because I’m yours. All yours.”

His gaze softens, awe-struck—like he can hardly believe this moment is real. You lean in to kiss him again, slow and savoring, as you drag your hand down his front until you meet his hardening member. Wrapping your fingers around his length, you stroke him slowly, feeling him pulse in your palm as his head drops to your shoulder with a shaky exhale.

There's no hiding it, you want it just as much, aching to have him inside you and becoming one with him. You guide his swollen cock to your entrance, your fingers pressing into his shoulders as your body eases down—inch by aching inch.

Hyunjin's pupils are blown wide, eyes locked on yours with a kind of reverence that steals your breath. His grip on your waist tightening as he lets himself feel it all—how close you are, how warm, how utterly his. His mouth falls open with a quiet gasp, and you press your forehead to his, fiercely holding his gaze.

“I’m going to take all of you,” you murmur against his parted lips, your voice low and intimate. “Because it’s all mine.”

He nods—helpless, overwhelmed—and his hands tremble slightly where they hold your waist. You nudge your lips against his, your breath mingling with his as you ask softly, “Am I taking you well?”

His eyes glancing down to where your bodies are connected, the way his cock disappeared into you and the way you're taking all of him. He licks his lips, eyes glazed with awe and devotion. “So well,” he whispers. “Too well.”

He doesn’t hold back the sounds he makes. He never does with you. And when you finally have all of him—buried completely inside—you both exhale together, a matched sigh that feels like relief and home all at once.

You stay still, breathing him in, adjusting to the feeling of having him this close, this deep. One hand slides up to cup his jaw as you press soft kisses along his cheek, his temple, then finally his lips again.

“You have all of me now,” you whisper, smiling gently.

Hyunjin wraps his arms around you, holding you as if he’ll never let go. He presses his face into the crook of your neck and breathes you in before murmuring softly, like a prayer, “All mine.”

The rhythm between you and Hyunjin slows into something deeper, more intimate—every movement a silent confession, every touch a vow. His breath is hot against your mouth as he kisses you in between soft, breathless murmurs. You watch him with tender eyes as he trembles under you, overwhelmed by the connection, the intimacy, the sheer weight of finally having all of you again. And in that shared breath—hearts racing, bodies intertwined—it’s not just about the pleasure. It’s about the trust. The surrender. The love.

“So beautiful… all mine… you feel like heaven,” he whispers, the words tangled with sighs and kisses, his hands roaming your back, your waist, as if trying to memorize every inch of you.

You move with him, anchored in his warmth, in his gaze, in the way he looks at you like nothing else in the world matters. His kisses grow desperate as the moment builds—more lingering, more intense—until he finally buries his face in the crook of your neck. You feel every shiver, every flutter of breath, the slightest of noises escaping his lips so close to your ear that it sends goosebumps down your spine.

When he finally gives in to release, coming inside you with his arms lock tighter around you, his body trembling with the depth of it. You hold him close, your fingers threading through the back of his damp hair as his hips still against yours. Even as he’s overwhelmed, he turns his head just enough to look at you through his lashes—eyes glazed and heavy with emotion.

His hand drifts slowly over the arch of your back, fingers brushing your spine in a soothing motion as he breathes, “Take all of me…”

And you do—you stay still as you feel his hot seed spilling inside you, filling you to the brim and then you lean in, your mouth finding his in a kiss that says everything your heart is too full to express. A kiss that promises you’ll never let him question how deeply he is loved.

The world slows as you're wrapped in each other's warmth, the sound of rain now a distant murmur against the windows. You're tucked into Hyunjin’s side beneath the covers, your body still humming with the afterglow of everything you just shared. His arms wrap around you, one hand gently brushing along your back while the other lifts to hold yours. He brings your hand to his lips and kisses your fingers one by one before resting them over his heart. His eyes find yours—soft, warm, filled with emotion.

“Thank you for choosing me,” he whispers, his voice still thick with awe.

Your chest tightens, not with pain, but with something deeper. Something steady. You turn slightly, facing him more fully, and brush your thumb across his cheek.

“Thank you for choosing me,” you whisper back, meaning every word. For loving you through the layers of your past. For believing in the future, even with its unknowns.

Hyunjin’s smile is soft and quiet, like a secret only you get to know. He pulls you in tighter, tucks your head beneath his chin, and plants a kiss to your forehead that feels like a promise.

“I love you,” he murmurs, the words settling into your skin, into your heart.

“I love you too,” you whisper back with eyes closed, letting the comfort of his embrace lull you to peace.

And as sleep slowly claims you both, you feel it—the quiet certainty that no matter what life brings, you’ve found your home in each other.

The night hums quietly outside the glass-paneled walls of the gallery, where soft lights glow like stars suspended in time. The space is quiet, sacred—paintings and sculptures standing as silent witnesses to something deeply human and timeless. It’s not a grand venue. It doesn’t need to be. It's personal, carefully chosen. Every detail speaks of you and Hyunjin.

He stands at the end of the aisle in a perfectly tailored tuxedo, his dark hair brushed back, a nervous smile playing on his lips, eyes fixed on you like you’re the only thing that exists. You walk toward him in a simple white dress—one you found with Tigerlily just the day before. It wasn’t extravagant. It was simply… you. When Hyunjin sees you, his lips part ever so slightly, like he's breathless, stunned by the sight of the life he’s about to begin.

“You’re so beautiful,” he mouthed with a tender gaze that only meant for you.

The ceremony begins in quiet murmurs and soft glances. The hush in the room feels sacred, like everyone present knows how much this means. You’re surrounded by those who matter most. And art. So much art. It feels fitting—the kind of wedding that doesn’t need to be loud, but one that breathes.

When it’s time for the vows, Hyunjin pulls a folded piece of paper from his pocket. You already know what it is. His voice is calm but trembling as he begins to read the love letter he wrote for you aloud, each word soaked in emotion, each phrase hitting your heart like a note from a familiar song. He doesn’t look at the paper much—he’s memorized it. His gaze is locked on you, unwavering, like the words are coming from his soul, not just his lips.

My Love, I’m writing this under the hush of midnight, when everything is quiet enough for my heart to speak. I don’t know if I’ll ever have the words to match what I feel for you, but I want to try—because you deserve every syllable, every soft confession, every unspoken truth that lives in me. From the moment you looked at me—really looked at me—I haven’t been the same. You saw me in a way no one ever has. Not just the parts I put forward, but the quiet ones, the bruised ones, the ones I didn’t know how to love. And somehow, you loved them anyway. You loved me anyway. You are the art I never knew I was meant to live inside. You are light when I feel gray, rhythm when I lose the beat, breath when I forget to breathe. Loving you doesn’t feel like falling—it feels like coming home. There are days I watch you and feel overwhelmed by the simple fact that you chose me. That you still choose me—every day, every quiet morning and every chaotic night. That you trust me with your joy, your pain, your dreams. I don’t take it lightly, love. I hold it in both hands, carefully, like something sacred. Because it is. If this world were to vanish and everything I knew disappeared, I would still find my way to you. I believe in us like I believe in sunrise. I don’t need to see it to know it’s coming. And when we’re old and gray, when our hands are more weathered but still entwined—I’ll still look at you the way I do now. Like you’re everything. I love you more than I can say. But I’ll spend my life showing you.

You swallow down tears, your chest aching in the best possible way. With every line, he’s not just reading—he’s confessing. Declaring. Loving.

And when he finishes—“Forever yours, Hyunjin.”—his voice is barely a whisper. But everyone hears it. Everyone feels it.

You murmur the same words back to him, trembling. “Forever yours.”

The rings come next. He slips yours onto your finger with steady hands, and you do the same, your fingers lingering against his. A symbol, a promise. Not just of today, but of all your days to come.

When the officiant pronounces you married, time slows for a beat—then quickens with the thrill of love. You and Hyunjin lean forward at the same time, your lips meeting in a kiss that is neither rushed nor showy. It’s deep and soft, a sealing of everything: the journey, the loss, the choice, the joy. The art of loving one another completely.

When you pull away, your foreheads press together. You smile. He smiles. And somewhere in the silence, in the gentle applause of your loved ones, in the weight of the rings now wrapped around your fingers—you know: This is your forever.

The rooftop is awash in golden twilight, strung with warm lights swaying gently in the evening breeze. From here, the city stretches out below like a living canvas, humming softly beneath the stars. The reception is intimate, just like the ceremony—low music, clinking glasses, and laughter shared between family and friends.

You step away from the soft chatter and into the arms of Tigerlily, who finds you near the edge of the rooftop where the sky meets the skyline. She’s already teary-eyed when she hugs you, and you feel her emotions trembling through her fingertips.

“I’m so happy for you, Mom,” she whispers, her voice catching as she smiles through her tears. “You look beautiful… really, really happy.”

Your throat tightens as you hug her back, heart full. “Thank you, honey. That means the world coming from you.”

She nods against your shoulder. For a long moment, the two of you just breathe each other in—the way mothers and daughters do when words don’t quite cover the weight of a moment.

You pull away gently, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear, and then you ask, carefully, “Your Dad… did he make it?”

Tigerlily’s smile dims just a little, replaced by something soft and apologetic. “He's busy with tour prep, but he sent his love, though. And congratulations.”

You nod, slowly. “Of course. I figured.” You offer a smile, but it doesn't quite reach your eyes. “That’s okay.”

But it stings, even if you won’t say it aloud. It’s not anger. Just a quiet sadness—a longing to share this milestone with someone who once shared a different chapter of your life. Someone who knew you then, and who would’ve understood what it meant for you to arrive here.

Tigerlily squeezes your hand gently. “He would’ve come if he could, you know that.”

You nod again, giving her a final, loving squeeze. “I know.”

The music swells softly in the background, and Hyunjin’s voice drifts from somewhere behind you. You turn and see him, standing just a few steps away. His tuxedo jacket is slightly wrinkled now, his hair tousled from the breeze, but his smile is radiant and fixed only on you.

You excuse yourself gently from Tigerlily and cross the rooftop to where he waits. He extends his hand toward you, and when you take it, he presses a kiss to your fingers. But his eyes are searching yours now, reading past your smile. “Are you okay?” he asks softly, low enough that no one else can hear.

You glance away for a beat. “Yeah. Just… thinking.”

Hyunjin leans in, touching his forehead to yours. “Was it Chris?”

Your eyes flicker up to his in surprise, but he’s not asking with judgment—only understanding. You exhale slowly. “I just… I wish he were here.”

Hyunjin nods, brushing his thumb gently over your knuckles. “I’m sorry.”

You shake your head with a small smile. “It’s okay. This is still the happiest I’ve ever been.”

When you say it, you mean it. Because in this moment, under the open sky with the stars above and Hyunjin’s hand holding yours, you feel it—peace, love, and a future you chose. One that chose you right back.

Hyunjin pulls you in close, resting his cheek against your temple. “Let me make up for it,” he murmurs. “Dance with me?”

You smile, your heart blooming again. “Take me away.”

Your arms are wrapped around Hyunjin as the two of you sway to the gentle rhythm of a slow song under the open sky dipped in soft golden light, the breeze warm and sweet, and for a moment, everything fades—there's only the way Hyunjin’s hand settles on the small of your back, the way he looks at you like you’re his whole universe. You lean your head against his shoulder, eyes closed, letting the warmth of the moment soak into your skin, and then the music fades out.

A brief pause fills the air, and then—another sound begins. The unmistakable pluck of a guitar string. A familiar voice follows, raw and honey-warm, pouring into the night like a secret being sung aloud.

You lift your head and your eyes snap toward the stage—and there he is. Chris. He stands beneath the string lights, guitar in hand, wearing a suit—but in true Chris fashion, the tie’s nowhere to be found and the top three buttons of his white shirt are undone. His dark hair is pushed back, messy and deliberate, and his eyes are locked on you as he sings the first verse of your favorite love song.

A laugh breaks from your lips, thin and shaky with disbelief, and your hand flies to your mouth as tears prick your eyes. Chris is here. Your gaze shifts to Hyunjin first, finding him smiling too, gently, knowingly. “You did this?” you whisper.

“I knew how much you wanted him here,” he says, brushing your cheek with his thumb. “And how much it would mean.”

Overwhelmed, you throw your arms around him and kiss him—softly, gratefully, with every ounce of love you carry for him.

And then, with your hand in his, you turn toward Tigerlily next, and she’s already smiling at you through happy tears of her own. She mouths across the rooftop, “It’s called a surprise for a reason.”

Chris keeps singing, his voice unwavering as it fills the rooftop with old feelings wrapped in new joy. He smiles at you—not the smile of a man you used to love, but the smile of a friend who still knows you, who came because it mattered.

You and Hyunjin begin to sway again, dancing slowly to the song Chris sings. His voice carries through the night like a blessing, tying your past and your present together in a way only music can. The lights seem to shimmer a little brighter. The stars lean in just a little closer. And just like that—this wedding becomes something else entirely. A moment suspended in time. A night where love, in all its forms, is here. Seen. Felt. Celebrated.

The final chord fades into the night, and for a heartbeat, there's only silence. Then the rooftop erupts into warm applause—but none louder than yours. You clap, tears shining in your eyes, a proud smile stretched across your lips as Chris bows his head lightly, grinning.

He sets the guitar aside and steps down from the makeshift stage, making his way toward you through the small crowd of guests. And as soon as he's within reach, you throw your arms around him.

“Chris,” you murmur, voice cracking as you bury your face into his shoulder. “I’m so happy you’re here.”

You feel his laugh against your cheek. “I intentionally came late,” he says, pulling back just enough to flash you a teasing grin, “or else I would have taken you away.”

A soft laugh escapes your lips, still wet with tears. “God, you’re impossible.” But even so, you shake your head and look him in the eyes. “Still—thank you. I’m really happy you're here.”

He smiles then, soft and sincere, and you reach up, cupping his jaw with one hand the way you always used to when words failed. “Thank you for coming,” you whisper again.

Chris glances over your shoulder for a moment and smirks. “I came because I owed Hyunjin.” He shoots a mock glare at Hyunjin across the rooftop, and you laugh through your tears.

“Then I guess I owe him too,” you murmur, your voice thick with emotion.

Chris takes both of your hands in his and looks at you with a fondness carved deep from time and history. “You look beautiful,” he says. “Really. I’m happy for you.”

Your breath stutters in your chest, and you nod, unable to hold back the tears that rise again. “Thank you, Chris,” you say, and the weight of everything in your chest softens.

He pulls you into another hug, tighter this time, and neither of you speaks—just lets the emotion pour wordlessly into the space between you, overflowing from a lifetime’s worth of love in all its forms.

“Okay, okay, I want in,” Tigerlily says, stepping in and wrapping her arms around both of you.

You and Chris burst into teary laughter as the three of you huddle together, sandwiching her in a tight embrace. It's warm and slightly awkward and so full of love that it makes your chest ache. It’s a moment that isn’t perfect because of what it lacks—but because of what it has. Three hearts that have seen the worst, lived through the ache, and still found their way back to one another. Not as what they once were. But as what they are. Family.

You and Tigerlily slowly loosen your arms from around Chris, letting him go with a final squeeze as he makes his way back to the stage. He picks up the guitar again, and with an easy smile, steps up to the mic.

“This next one’s for the bride and groom,” Chris says, his voice echoing warmly across the rooftop.

A flutter of excitement stirs in your chest just as Hyunjin finds his way back to your side, resting his hand gently on the small of your back. You glance up at him, your heart already swelling.

Chris looks over at the two of you with a mischievous grin, and his voice drops to that playful drawl. “Gotta be honest, I’m feeling tempted to do another somersault tonight… maybe have another shot at stealing the bride from you, Hyunjin.”

The rooftop bursts into laughter, just as Hyunjin instinctively wraps both arms around your waist from behind, holding you like you might suddenly be swept away.

“Not a chance!” Hyunjin calls back, grinning so wide it lights up his whole face.

Chris laughs and sucks air through his teeth. “Well... Worth a try.”

“Don’t even think about it, Dad!” Tigerlily yells from across the rooftop, arms crossed with faux sternness.

Chris throws his head back with a chuckle, nodding. “Alright, alright, no acrobatics tonight.” He adjusts the strap of his guitar and strums the first few chords—recognizable instantly to everyone gathered.

A Bang Theory classic. The rooftop erupts. Guests shout the opening lines before Chris even sings them, and within seconds, everyone is singing and swaying, some dancing wildly to the thrumming beat of the familiar rock song. The night turns electric, laughter and music rolling like waves through the warm air.

You and Tigerlily grab each other’s hands and sing every word, voices rising over the music, the lyrics etched into your bones from years of loving this song. The two of you belt out the chorus with so much joy it almost feels like the stars are singing along.

In the middle of it all, you turn—heart pounding from the music and laughter—and find Hyunjin watching you. He’s not singing. Not dancing. Just watching. With that look. That look of pure love and disbelief, like he still can’t wrap his head around the fact that you’re his.

The smile on your lips falters—not from sadness, but from being overwhelmed. Words dissolve in your throat, so you do the only thing you can do: you slip your arms around him and press your face into his chest.

He chuckles low, warm, and presses a kiss to the top of your head. “You happy?” he asks softly.

You lean back, just enough to look at him, and your eyes shine in the rooftop lights. “The happiest day of my life.”

Hyunjin’s smile deepens just before he leans in to kiss you—slow and soft, the kind that anchors you in the moment. There, in the middle of the music and lights and laughter, with the man you once loved singing a song for the love of your life, everything folds into itself—past, present, and future blurring into a single, breathtaking now. A night stitched together with art, with family, with music, and with a love so full it spills into forever.

A FEW MONTHS LATER

The room is quiet, bathed in the soft golden hue of the afternoon sun slipping through the hospital curtains. You’re seated in a cushioned chair by the window, a small bundle wrapped in pink nestled in your arms. Her skin is impossibly soft, her breath barely a whisper, her little hand curling around your finger as if she’s known you forever. Something about it making you can’t stop looking at her.

“So pure,” you murmur, eyes glossy with wonder. “So beautiful. Look at you, sweetheart...”

Hyunjin leans over your shoulder, watching intently with that dreamy, dazed smile he wears every time something stirs his heart, and nothing stirs it more than seeing you holding this brand-new life.

“She looks just like you,” he says softly, eyes flicking from the baby’s nose to your own, then back again.

You glance up at him, amused. “You think so?”

Before Hyunjin can answer, a groggy voice grumbles from the hospital bed, “Excuse me. I'm the one who gave birth to her. She’s my daughter.”

You both turn to see Tigerlily propped up with pillows, her hair slightly disheveled, her hospital gown rumpled, but her face glowing even in exhaustion. She’s frowning—but only half-seriously. Then she sighs, a small smile tugging at her lips. “Well, not that I mind if she ends up looking like you, Mom.”

“She already has your lungs,” you say, chuckling, remembering the wailing cry the baby let out just hours ago.

Right on cue, Julian walks in carrying a plate of sliced fruit. “Lils,” he calls out gently, “you’ve got to eat something.”

He places the plate on her lap, then gives her a peck on the forehead before turning to you and Hyunjin. His eyes sparkle with mischief. “So… Hyunjin,” he drawls, “how does it feel to be a grandad?”

You barely have time to register the joke before Hyunjin calmly answers, “Makes me want to give Tigerlily a sibling.”

Tigerlily sputters, nearly choking on a slice of watermelon. “Hyunjin!” she gasps, wiping her mouth with a tissue. “Can we not talk about you and my mom having babies when I just had one?!”

You laugh so hard you nearly shake the baby in your arms. “Hey, be nice,” you tease, hissing playfully at your daughter, “that’s your step-dad you’re talking to.”

Tigerlily groans dramatically, leaning her head back on the pillow. “I’m never getting used to that.”

Julian raises a brow. “You might want to. Especially if you're about to get a new sibling.”

Laughter settling into soft chatter as everyone takes turns admiring the baby in Tigerlily’s arms. Julian is sitting beside her on the bed, gently brushing his thumb along their daughter’s impossibly tiny hand while Hyunjin sits beside you, fingers idly tracing shapes on your knee. Then, the door flies open with a bang, making everyone jumps a little.

Chris bursts in, completely out of breath, his hair wild like he’s been running through a wind tunnel. His shirt is slightly untucked, and he’s panting dramatically as he leans against the doorframe with one hand clutching his chest.

“Where—” he wheezes, “—where is my granddaughter?!”

You all stare at him for a beat, then burst into laughter.

Tigerlily cradles the baby closer to her chest and coos sweetly to her, “Look, baby girl, your rockstar grandad’s finally here.”

Chris straightens up, grinning as he rushes forward, hands instinctively reaching out. “Let me hold my little —”

You immediately intercept with a raised brow and a firm voice. “Chris. Wash your hands.”

He freezes mid-step, lips parted in protest, before he blinks at you and pouts like a scolded child. “Seriously? I just sprinted up three flights of stairs.”

“Then you wouldn't have any problems sprint to the sink,” you say, not budging.

Hyunjin chuckles behind you. “She’s been like this with all of us. I barely got to touch the blanket without scrubbing in first.”

Chris groans dramatically but heads to the sink without further protest. “This is cruel. I helped deliver you, remember?” he throws over his shoulder to Tigerlily.

Tigerlily grins. “You still have to wash your hands, Dad.”

Chris mutters something about being the most disrespected rockstar-grandpa in history, but a few minutes later, with freshly cleaned hands and a softened expression, he’s finally allowed to cradle his granddaughter in his arms.

The room quiets as Chris holds her—carefully, reverently—and the awe in his eyes is unmistakable. “Hi there,” he whispers. “I’m your grandad. I’m late, but I made it, my sweet angel.”

And in that sun-drenched room, with a baby dozing peacefully in Chris's arms and laughter still lingering in the air, you feel it again—that feeling of everything being exactly as it’s meant to be. A perfect, messy, beautiful family.

Everyone leaves the room as it's time for Tigerlily to nurse her baby. You and Chris slip away to the hospital’s small café tucked into a quiet corner. You cradle your paper cup between your palms, the warmth grounding you, and glance across the table at Chris, who’s already mid-sip.

“So,” you start, tilting your head, “how’s the tour been?”

Chris brightens instantly, that spark in his eyes returning like he’s flipping a switch. “Oh, it’s been wild—in the best way,” he says, leaning in like he can’t wait to tell you everything. “Seoul was insane. The crowd practically screamed my face off. And then Osaka—God, I forgot how good the food is there. Oh, and Tokyo. I think we were the loudest we’ve ever been on that stage.”

You smile, listening to the way his voice gets a little more animated with each city name he drops, hands gesturing just like he always does when he’s excited.

“And,” he adds with a smirk, “guess who’s tagging along now?”

You raise an eyebrow. “Who?”

“Riley,” he grins. “She’s officially our roadie-slash-my-personal-stylist. Kid’s getting way too into it. Told me I can’t wear ripped jeans over a certain age anymore. Can you believe that?”

You laugh, imagining it. “Sounds like someone’s getting bullied by their own child.”

“Oh, completely,” Chris nods solemnly. “And she’s proud of it.”

You shake your head, amused, and then Chris suddenly leans back, a softer grin spreading across his face as he pulls out his phone.

“And I moved on, by the way,” he says, out of nowhere.

Your brows rise slightly, curious. “Oh?”

He taps a few times on his screen, then turns the phone toward you. “Her name’s Blue.”

You expect a person. Instead, it’s a photo of a gorgeous Siberian husky sprawled across a hotel bed with one ear perked up, the other flopped sideways like a rebel.

“Her full name is Raspberry Blue,” he introduces with a sly grin.

You snort. “Wow. You really are good at creating names.”

“Look at her!” Chris says defensively, grinning. “She’s majestic. Loyal. Judgy as hell. She’s perfect.”

“She’s stunning,” you admit with a chuckle. “I might actually be a little jealous.”

Chris turns serious just long enough to say, “You should be,” before breaking into laughter again.

Then, after a sip of his coffee, he glances at you more gently and says, “You should come to one of our shows. I mean it.”

You smile, touched. “I’d love to, Chris.”

Silence settles comfortably between you, full of memories and the kind of understanding that needs no words. You look down at your cup, then back up at him. “You know,” you say softly, “you really don’t ever have to feel lonely. You’ve got your music, your band. You’ve got Riley. And now Blue.” You grin. “And you’ve got Tigerlily. And that beautiful little girl who’s going to grow up hearing stories about her grandad rocking out stadiums—and also spoiling her absolutely rotten.”

Chris looks down at his coffee, the corners of his mouth twitching with emotion. You reach across the table and place your hand over his. “And you’ve still got me. Always. Whenever you need me.”

He looks up at you then, and your reassuring smile seems to quiet something in him. He nods slowly, letting the words settle in his heart. “You’ll always have me too,” he says softly. Then, because he can’t help himself, he adds with a smirk, “Though, just putting it out there—if Hyunjin suddenly changes his mind, I’m still available.”

You smack his arm lightly, laughing. “Don’t worry. You're the first in line.”

“Glad to know.”

You squeeze his hand. “You’re something.”

Chris chuckles, then after a moment, he turns serious again. “Thank you,” he says, sincerely.

“Anytime,” you reply.

There’s a beat of quiet. Not awkward—just full. Then you say it, gently but with certainty: “I’ll always love you, Chris.”

He holds your gaze for a long moment, and something softens in his eyes. “I love you too,” he murmurs.

You smile at him, your chest full in the most bittersweet, beautiful way. You both know that this love is the kind that needs having, owning but it's lingering, it’s always there and always will be. And outside the window, the world keeps spinning—full of past and future and love that continues in all its forms.

You stand in front of the glass window of the neonatal room, arms crossed gently over your chest, watching your granddaughter sleeping peacefully in her bassinet among the quiet rows of other newborns. The soft hum of machines, the distant footsteps in the hallway, the faint scent of antiseptic—everything feels still, wrapped in a quiet lull. But it’s more than just the stillness. It’s the kind of peace that sinks into your bones.

There’s something indescribably profound about watching a new life begin—so small, so untouched by the weight of the world. It’s not just about the baby; it’s the way time seems to pause. The way, for the first time in a long time, you feel completely at ease. Like the chaos and heartache, the love and mistakes, the longing and the letting go… all of it has led to this still, beautiful moment.

As if this moment couldn't be more beautiful, a pair of arms wrap gently around you from behind, warm and familiar, pulling you in. You don’t have to look to know it’s Hyunjin—his touch is second nature by now, something you’d know in your sleep.

“I feel ignored,” he murmurs against your ear, his voice low and playful. “Now that you have a granddaughter.”

You turn your head slightly, catching his expression—a soft pout, exaggerated just enough to make you laugh. “Are you jealous?” you ask, teasing, but there’s love in every syllable.

Hyunjin nods immediately, his eyes wide and unashamed. “Terribly.”

You can’t help it—you lean forward and place a gentle kiss right on that pout, and he smiles instantly. “Let’s go home,” you whisper, and he nods as if he’s been waiting for you to say just that.

He takes your hand in his, fingers threading together like they always do, and together, you begin the quiet walk down the hallway, past sleeping corridors and glowing night lights. You talk about whether to stop for dinner—steak or pasta, maybe pick up something sweet on the way—and the conversation feels easy and soft, like an old favorite song.

As the automatic doors slide open and you step into the crisp evening air, you glance up at the stars beginning to appear in the darkening sky.

You think about everything you’ve lived through. You think about the girl you used to be—the one who loved with reckless hope and broke with silent grief. And you think about the woman you’ve become—the one who has loved again and again, and still opens her arms to the world without fear.

Here, in the quiet space between then and now, you understand something profound: Love—real love—always finds a way to keep growing.

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