#and this feels like that did. it's fucking great

[starstickerzzz]

Ight bet hold on,

1: complicated but mostly no

2: my dying grandma I’m currently leaving the hospital for the night

3: y e s

4: y e s s s

5: TAKEN !!

6: dramatically

7: edible cookie dough from da hopital cafe

8: I’m really good at skateboarding hatchet throwing (won a contest actually) and shooting hoops surprisingly

9: yessss bruh I straight up tear my fingers apart

10: bout a month ago I believe

11: my gf of five years 😏💝

12: I have severe insomnia I’ve stayed up longer

13: oh fuck yes I do!! 😋✨‼️‼️‼️💥💥💥

14: yeah all my loved ones who keep dying lol

15: Yee!!! Quite a few in my house but the one that’s officially mine is my leopard gecko and technically the fatass weirdly smart hamster named adolf hamster is mine now too since I’m the only one who takes care of him and plays and holds him so mi hermano said he’s mine now 💀

16: frustrated and exausted as fuvk also OW OW OW OW CHRONIC PAIN WHAT THE FUCK

17: …mayyyybbeee…

18: nope! :3

19: YESSSS AAAGHHH unless the universe exploded idk

20: gfs house also I had to use Alexa to figure out wtf that meant lol it said “to kiss and cuddle” so I hope that what u meant by that :b

21: try to keep my gammy , great gammy and aunt from killing eachother or themselves and try not to lose my shit despite the horrrors

22: my n da waif have considered adopting children when we get married and comfortable together n shit (asa foster victim who is great with kids it would be good I think) also I have a lot of emotionally adopted kids lolz

23: I’ve got a vertical libret and have been stabbed if that counts LMAOOO

24: art, creative writing,phycology, and general science and English I’d say (when I was in school)

25: absolutely quiet a few people fs

26: Wendy’s borger 😔💔

27: romantically? Yes I’ve had to reject a lot of people (mostly men) cuz for sum reason people crush on me a lot and it sucks cuz I’m a very taken lesbian and hate having to make people sad but I’m pretty good at being nice about it. In general? Never on purpose but probably ig??? Idk I’ve been through a lot so idk maybe

28: nope! Been with the best wife in the whole universe since like middle school so :D

29: I sure hope not but you’d have to ask @skelebab ig ? (Mi Bonita Estrella 😼✨)

30: so fucking much but mostly having to be my family’s constant therapist and dealing with my ggma in the hospital and everyone have insane angst with eachother and it being my problem all the time cuz im the only one who can help :”)

31: yuh

32: sunset colors !!

33: maybe a lil yeah but not as bad as you’d think considering my past so that’s cool

34: fucked up distorted trauma nightmare don’t wanna talk to much abt it tbh 💀

35: my grandma Anne yesterday

36: sometimes if but not a whole lot idk

37: for me probably forget if I can but I usually can’t do either very well

38: welllll…maybe second best? First getting out of residential hell was the best Fs but now shit sucks again but it’s not as bad as before as every other year was literally just violent amounts of constant trauma 😭😭😭

39: idk i think it was elementary school though if that even counts if not then middle school with da waif

40: hell naw

41: ur mom- I MEAN UHHHH…sushi, ramen, or Wendy’s tbh but I have arfid so foods hard to eat or like most of the time either way 😔💔

42: it can feel like that sometimes ig but im very atheist so ehhh

43: I can’t even remember I just passed the fuck out at some point on the couch after not sleeping at all for like 3 days 💀

44: ???no tf???

45: nahhh I go pretty out of my way to be kind asf unless you really really really hurt me or a loved one first in which case veryyyy

46: lost count tbh but I don’t start fights I’ve just learned how to finish them after so much violent bs

47: not in a spiritual way but I would call my gf that fs

48: fall weather in general or aesthetic ass grey days

49: no not reallly but it’s good for photography

50: helllllllll yeah that’s the plan!

51: if my gf did id probably die a bright red melty mess

52: the few people I truly give a shit about anymore and my hyperfixations

53: I’ve done that to many times to do it again unless I ran away or some shit but I’d probably go back to jade if I did

54: no

55: tell they ass hell naw

56: yes actually I have 2

57: a really zesty gay nurse guy from da hopital he was really cool

58: gammy

59: naw

60: yes yea yea yes yes yes yes ye s yesusysysyys

(U messed up the numbers btw but it’s chill)

70 horrible questions ... Fuck it

01: Do you have a good relationship with your parents? 02: Who did you last say “I love you” to? 03: Do you regret anything? 04: Are you insecure? 05: What is your relationship status? 06: How do you want to die? 07: What did you last eat? 08: Played any sports? 09: Do you bite your nails? 10: When was your last physical fight? 11: Do you like someone? 12: Have you ever stayed up 48 hours? 13: Do you hate anyone at the moment? 14: Do you miss someone? 15: Have any pets? 16: How exactly are you feeling at the moment? 17: Ever made out in the bathroom? 18: Are you scared of spiders? 19: Would you go back in time if you were given the chance? 20: Where was the last place you snogged someone? 21: What are your plans for this weekend? 22: Do you want to have kids? How many? 23: Do you have piercings? How many? 24: What is/are/were your best subject(s)? 25: Do you miss anyone from your past? 26: What are you craving right now? 27: Have you ever broken someone’s heart? 28: Have you ever been cheated on? 29: Have you made a boyfriend/girlfriend cry? 30: What’s irritating you right now? 31: Does somebody love you? 32: What is your favourite color? 33: Do you have trust issues? 34: Who/what was your last dream about? 35: Who was the last person you cried in front of? 36: Do you give out second chances too easily? 37: Is it easier to forgive or forget? 38: Is this year the best year of your life? 39: How old were you when you had your first kiss? 40: Have you ever walked outside completely naked? 51: Favourite food? 52: Do you believe everything happens for a reason? 53: What is the last thing you did before you went to bed last night? 54: Is cheating ever okay? 55: Are you mean? 56: How many people have you fist fought? 57: Do you believe in true love? 58: Favourite weather? 59: Do you like the snow? 60: Do you wanna get married? 61: Is it cute when a boy/girl calls you baby? 62: What makes you happy? 63: Would you change your name? 64: Would it be hard to kiss the last person you kissed? 65: Your best friend of the opposite sex likes you, what do you do? 66: Do you have a friend of the opposite sex who you can act your complete self around? 67: Who was the last person of the opposite sex you talked to? 68: Who’s the last person you had a deep conversation with? 69: Do you believe in soulmates? 70: Is there anyone you would die for?

[azzinator3000]

Locked Doors

Title: Locked Doors 

Word count (so far): 1.9K 

Content: Friends-to-lovers, secret relationship, intense sexual tension, UConn season 2023/2024

Warnings: Mature Content (Minors DNI)

Pairing: Pazzi

Summary:

Azzi Fudd has one golden rule: don't like this too much. Especially not when "this" involves tangled limbs, whispered reassurances, and the intoxicating heat of Paige Bueckers' lap. They're UConn's star duo, aiming for a national championship, meticulously crafted for public consumption. But behind closed dorm doors, their long-standing "friendship" has morphed into something dangerously undeniable

INTRODUCTION (December, 2023)

Azzi Fudd had decided: she really, really shouldn’t be liking this as much as she did.

She was trying to make sense of it in her head, but, honestly? Not that hard.

Maybe it was the tequila, still drumming hot in her body, like a bassline she couldn’t quite shut off. Maybe it was the pure, sharp joy of being back on the court with the Huskies after so long, slipping into that rhythm that felt like home. Maybe it was just that being near Paige Bueckers always made her lose every shred of common sense

Probably all of the above

That’s how she’d ended up here, sitting on Paige’s lap in her dorm room, like the next morning wouldn’t come and they wouldn’t both go back to that careful, careful dance where they swore it didn’t mean anything

Except, it did

It always did

And truly, there was no place Azzi liked being more than right here—her arms looped around Paige’s shoulders, her fingers tangled in Paige’s impossibly blonde hair, her body pressed against Paige’s chest. There was no place that felt more right than Paige Fucking Bueckers’ lap.

Which meant she was utterly, completely, fucked

She shouldn’t be wanting this so bad. She shouldn’t be wanting her so bad

Because the thing about Paige Bueckers? Everyone wanted her. On the court, off the court, on highlight reels, in sneaker deals. Paige was the girl. Tall, blonde, built like she was carved out of pure focus and sharp edges. She played like a storm and walked like she didn’t owe anyone her time. She was confident, she was controlled, she was… everything

The only problem was: Paige didn’t do this. She didn’t talk about feelings. She didn’t have girlfriends. Paige had been raised in a world where she was supposed to be perfect. Marketable. Carefully built for greatness.

So, when they touched—when they kissed—when they stumbled out of parties together and into the mess of each other—it always came with this quiet, heavy but.

But we can’t.

But it’s just for now.

But it doesn’t mean anything, right?

Azzi had been pretending that was enough.

But she was starting to wonder if pretending was just another way to break her own heart.

Their teammates knew—of course they knew.

KK would just roll her eyes whenever Azzi sat just a little too close to Paige on the team bus. Ice would nudge her ribs like we see you or just grin and say something just on the edge of teasing.

But no one said it out loud. Because Paige and Azzi didn’t say it out loud.

Not yet.

Maybe not ever.

But Azzi was beginning to think yet was still coming. And when it did, she wasn’t sure either of them would know what to do with it.

But for tonight? For now?

Azzi leaned in, her breath ghosting over Paige’s lips, smiling like she knew exactly what she was about to ruin.

“Tell me to stop,” Azzi whispered.

Paige’s grip on Azzi’s waist didn't just tighten; it became an anchor, pulling Azzi flush against her, no space left to breathe or think. And then Paige kissed her. It wasn’t a kiss, not really. 

It was a declaration, a guttural need pressed against Azzi’s mouth, claiming her. 

Paige’s lips were open, hungry, demanding, and her tongue was already there, sweeping inside, a desperate dance that left Azzi breathless and reeling. 

This was not the gentle exploration of friends; this was a storm, wild and consuming.

Azzi’s body arched, responding instinctively, her own desperate desire mirroring Paige's ferocity. She gasped into the kiss, a soft moan escaping her throat, and Paige devoured the sound.

There was no room for thought, no space for the "buts" that usually haunted them. 

Only sensation: the sharp taste of tequila and the cool whisper of mint on Paige's breath, the subtle scent of Paige’s shampoo, the soft friction of their clothes, the hard, unyielding muscle beneath her hands as Azzi’s fingers dug into Paige’s scalp, pulling her impossibly closer, deepening the kiss, chasing that feeling of blissful oblivion.

Paige shifted, a low sound vibrating in her chest, urging Azzi on. Her leg hooked around Azzi’s hip, a natural move, one they’d done a hundred times, on a hundred different couches, in a hundred different moods. It felt like coming home, even as it felt utterly dangerous. 

Paige’s hand slipped under Azzi’s shirt, cool fingers tracing the curve of her breast, then splaying wide over her lower back, pressing her closer still until Azzi could feel the frantic beat of Paige’s heart against her own.

This was December. The air outside was crisp, winter settling in. The Huskies were deep into their season, every practice, every game, a step closer to the national championship. The stakes were higher than ever, the pressure palpable.

And here they were, two of the best college players in the country, tucked away in a dorm room, risking everything for moments like these.

Azzi knew the narrative: Paige Bueckers, the golden girl, the current face of women’s college basketball, meticulously crafted for superstardom. And Azzi, the quiet powerhouse, the future of the game. Their careers, their public images, were meticulously managed. A whisper of this could unravel it all. 

Paige broke the kiss, just enough for Azzi to gasp for air, her forehead resting against Azzi’s. Her light eyes, usually so sharp and analytical on the court, were soft now, a little dazed, but burning with an unyielding hunger.

“I would never,” Paige breathed, her voice rough, hoarse, her gaze fixed on Azzi’s lips like they were the answer to every question. “I would never tell you to stop.”

“Think they’re still at the bar?” Azzi finally managed to whisper, her voice barely a breath. The words felt ridiculously mundane, but the question was urgent. They’d slipped away, two minutes after Ice had started dancing on a table, feigning exhaustion and an early night. 

“Probably ordering another round, Princess,” she murmured, her thumb tracing the curve of Azzi’s jaw, sending shivers down her neck. The pet name always made Azzi’s stomach flip. 

Princess. It felt possessive, intimate, everything they weren’t supposed to be. “We bought ourselves… maybe ten more minutes before KK decides to come hunt us down and ask why her favorite ‘friend’ is missing.”

Azzi laughed, a low, shaky sound that still felt a little too loud in the quiet room. She imagined KK, all five-foot-nine of her, stomping down the hall.

“Yeah, so we need to be quiet,” Azzi said, her eyes flitting to the door, then back to Paige.

The memory of the bar bathroom flashed through her mind—the sticky floor, the faint smell of disinfectant, the frantic, desperate scramble of their bodies against the cold tile, hands tearing at clothes, mouths devouring mouths.

They’d stumbled out, flushed and disheveled, pretending it was just the heat of the crowd, the effect of too many drinks. No one had looked twice. Or maybe everyone had, and simply chosen not to comment (as usual).

Paige’s gaze followed hers, then returned, darkening with a playful intensity. “Quiet? Is that a challenge, Princess?” Her fingers tightened, pulling Azzi’s hips forward, grinding them subtly against her own. Azzi gasped, a small, choked sound.

“Paige,” Azzi whispered, a warning mixed with a plea. “They’ll be here any minute. We can’t…”

“Can’t we?” Paige cut her off, her eyes holding Azzi captive. She leaned in again, not for another full kiss, but to whisper against Azzi’s mouth, her breath hot and sweet. “Or do you just want them to hear, Azzi Fudd?” 

The sudden, jarring realization that their time was truly finite struck Azzi with a cold force. It wasn’t just the fear of being caught by the team; it was the larger, more existential dread of their expiration date. Paige was a senior. This was her last year at UConn, her final shot at the national title with this team, with Azzi by her side. After this, everything would change. 

Paige would go pro, the WNBA, a world of even harsher spotlights and greater scrutiny. Azzi would still be here, playing another year, leading the Huskies. The distance, the pressure, the inevitable public scrutiny—it would swallow whatever this was whole.

“We really need to be quiet Bueckers,” Azzi insisted again, her voice a little stronger this time, even as her mind still wandered. She pressed her fingers against Paige’s strong shoulder, a silent plea for restraint. It was a self-preservation instinct kicking in, a tiny part of her still fighting for control.

“Fine,” Paige said, but then her eyes narrowed

Azzi knew that look. It was the same look Paige got on the court when she was about to do something audacious, something that shouldn't work but always did. It was the look that said, I dare you.

Her gaze dropped to Paige’s lips, still slightly swollen, still looking utterly kissable. “What?” Azzi asked, her voice barely audible. Her body was still on fire, every nerve ending alive and buzzing, a stark contrast to the silence she was now trying to enforce.

Paige leaned in, her eyes never leaving Azzi’s. “We have to be quiet,” she repeated, her voice a low murmur that seemed to wrap around Azzi. “But we don’t have to stop touching.” Her hand, which had been resting on Azzi’s knee, began to move, slowly, deliberately, up the inside of Azzi’s thigh. The heat of her palm seared through the soft cotton of her underwear, a direct line to Azzi’s core.

Azzi gasped, her breath catching in her throat, her eyes widening. The sudden, intimate touch was a direct assault on her precarious control. Every fiber of her being screamed to pull away, to regain some semblance of composure before the girls came back. 

“Paige,” she breathed, a desperate plea.

Paige’s grin widened, a silent, knowing triumph. “Shhh, Princess,” she whispered, her gaze locked with Azzi’s as her fingers moved higher, her touch light but insistent. “Wouldn’t want anyone to hear us, would we?”

Paige was pushing Azzi to the very edge of her control, demanding a different kind of quiet, a breathless, desperate silence born of raw, unadulterated sensation. Azzi could feel the tremor starting in her legs, the slow, agonizing build of desire that Paige always seemed to orchestrate with such effortless precision.

Each creak of the floorboards outside, each distant murmur from the hallway, was a stark reminder of their impending discovery, but even that fear, potent as it was, couldn't completely drown out the delicious, terrifying pull of Paige's touch.

Azzi closed her eyes, biting down on her lip, a silent battle raging within her, but for tonight, right here, on Paige Bueckers' lap, Azzi was ready to burn

[rafesteddy]

+ 18 -> smut | rafe promised you’d get an A on your group project…

c/w: degradation, overstimulation, orgasm denial, pain play, emotional manipulation, power imbalance, humiliation, possessive language, crying, begging, swearing, pet name, name calling, cum tasting, multiple orgasms, wet and messy, dom!reader + sub!rafe *they have a safeword

1.1K

“I said I was sorry. I just—I… Fucking please—”

“Shut up, Rafe. I’m not stopping. Not until I see tears. I want you hoarse from this shit so I don’t have to hear another excuse about why you couldn’t focus.”

He’s sprawled on your bed, sheets twisted beneath him, hands fisting the comforter. His strong chest heaves, thick thighs twitching, long cock slick and leaking on your hand.

“You looked so pretty,” he chokes, eyes wide, glossy. “You were reading your part and I was trying to pay attention—you know I was—but you. You were in that tight dress, and your voice, and your thighs and—fuuuck. Sh-Shit. It’s your fuckin’ fault—”

You raise an eyebrow. “My fault? Mine, Rafe?”

“I got nervous,” he breathes, “I got so fuckin’ nervous and you smelled so nice. Why were you standin’ so close, huh? And your mouth was all shiny and I just—I blanked, alright?”

“You promised we’d get an A.”

“I know,” he whines, a tear finally slipping loose. “We got an A-minus. That’s not an A. That’s not what I promised you,” he sobs as you fist him faster.

“That’s right,” you murmur, grip tightening on his shaft. “It’s not.”

Fifteen minutes post-nut and he’s still hard. Still whimpering for you. Still chasing the second climax you keep denying him. His body trembles under you; muscles quaking like he’s about to crumble under your touch.

“You can’t do that to me in front of the class,” he babbles. “You know what you do to me. My head goes empty and I just wanna… Mmm… I could take you in front of the whole fuckin’ class I swear to Christ. ‘Specially when you start talkin’ like that—SHIT! You slap his balls, light but sharp. He sobs, thighs snapping shut, back arching off the mattress. “Shit. Stop. Stop—”

“Ugh, fine...”

You pull back with a wicked smile, hands literally dripping with him as panic colors his pretty, pathetic features. “No! No, wait—don’t stop. Just don’t—don’t do that,” he begs, voice cracking. “You can’t just stop…”

“I was listening,” you hum, lips brushing his tip as you flick your tongue across it, slow, teasing. “Doing what you told me to do… At least one of us can do that,” His moan catches and breaks as his eyes roll back in his head.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he pants. “You’re gonna fucking end me like this.”

“Oh, Rafey…” You pout. “That so?”

He nods helplessly as his bottom lip wobbles; eyes shimmering, wet with tears.

“You’re such a fucking idiot sometimes,” you sigh in disappointment as you wrap your hand around his cock again, stroking cruel and slow. “You know that?”

“I know,” he gasps. “I’m an idiot. I’m your idiot. I fucked it up and I know I did. I’m sorry, baby—”

“You should be,” you whisper, letting your warm breath fan across his throbbing head. “You know who would make a good partner—”

“Don’t say it…”

“Oh, so you know—”

“Don’t fuckin’ say it,” he whimpers.

“Pope… Pope would make a really, really great partner. Maybe, I should start going for baseball boys, huh? What do you think, Cameron—”

“You wouldn’t. You’re bein’ mean.”

You let your hand fall away again as he whines. “I could be meaner.”

“Please don’t do that to me,” he begs as you rise up on your knees, looking down at him underneath you.

Rafe’s eyes lock on you, heavy and hungry as the cotton clings to your pussy. “Fuck me,” he says. “Please. I don’t deserve you… I just wanna feel you. Don’t tease me anymore. M’gonna pass out—I’m so fuckin’ close.”

You pull your panties to the side and his cock throbs, cum spurting messily between your thighs before his tip even touches you.

You giggle, looking down at the man below you; cheeks flushed, lashes wet, breathing ragged.

“Rafe Cameron… What the fuck was that?”

“I’m so sorry—” he starts, but you shove your cum-slick fingers into his mouth and climb onto him. He chokes on the taste of himself just as you sink down, inch by inch, your cunt squeezing around him as he gasps around your digits.

Rafe cries out, head tossed back, hands flying up to grip your hips, big biceps flexing to hold you in place; his jaw set like stone. You take his cheeks in one hand, force him to look at you. “I’m sorry—”

“Didn’t I tell you to shut up?”

His eyes slam shut and he nods. Your hands rest on his chest; heart hammering against your palms. His fingers dig into the flesh of your curves as you slide up and down, making his jaw fall open.

You pause, still seated fully on him, feeling the pulse of his dick deep inside. “I love you,” he slurs like he’s wasted on it. His bottom lip finds its way between his teeth, nose flaring, breath caught as you start to roll your hips. “I fucking love you,” he repeats, so pathetically you sigh. “Even like this—‘Specially like this. I’ve never been this happy in my life,” he sniffles, barely pushing the words past his swollen, kiss-bit lips.

“You love me, huh?”

He nods again, shakier this time. “So fucking much. I mean it,” he says, eyes wide, looking up at you like he might fall apart. “I’d fail every fuckin’ class if it meant I could have you like this.”

You laugh, soft and disbelieving. “Then maybe start by taking me out first.”

“Wait—really?” His voice cracks.

“I might even let you pay.”

Rafe moans like the idea of dating you is just as overwhelming as being inside you. “Jesus Christ,” he groans, pulling you down to press his forehead against yours, slick with sweat and pleading. “I’ll take you anywhere. Whatever you want—”

“You’re such a loser for me,” you murmur, brushing the stubble on his cheek.

“I am…”

You kiss him until he’s gasping into your mouth, and he shatters for a third time with your name on his lips, pulling you with him; pussy fluttering around him.

“Holy shit,” he breathes, voice hoarse. “Thank you, baby…”

Your nails drag slow down his chest as a smirk tugs at his lips—faint, worn out, like he already knows you’re not done. “You’re this gone over an A-minus?” He nods, eyes glassy, barely able to hold your gaze. “What the hell are you gonna do when you finally get it right?”

@rafesthroatbaby | @ietss | @lilithblackkk | @rafecameronsfavourite | @my-name-is-baby | @urmotherlvr | @forgiveliv | @barnesboo1967 | @wtfisastiles | @k4yr14 | @taliescapes | @rafesbuzzcutseason | @sky-44 | @biascriptum | @vanessa-rafesgirl | @lolasangelz | @st8rkey | @lhhlver | @slut-4-rafey | @gri959 | @prettybabyyyy | @sabrina-carpenter-stan-account | @maybankslover | @littlelamy | @buckybarnessweetheart | @angelicameron | @lover-girlyy | @rcameronlova1 | @rafesbabygirlx | @mayanqueenxx | @bimbob1tch | @dylsdaily | @blair-bears-blog | @akobx | @countryclubwhore | @esmerai-artemis | @jkmylove97 | @wtfdudesblog | @livie4lifestarkeyblyth | @yasmin-oviedo | @queen-cs | @floredaqueen | @alexxavicry | @aerie717 | @cokewithcameron | @premiumshitt | @rcameronlova1 | @zyafics

[pearlsinoystersflesh]

abby who asked you out in the sweetest way possible. that dumb, half run thing to catch up to you, a poster and flowers in her hands, and an awkward smile on her face.

abby who had beamed, forgetting her own strength and jumping on you the second you said 'yes'

abby who had taken you on two dates in one night. to dinner, and then bowling, and when you both didnt want to go home, the aquarium. abby who listened to your silly fixation on sharks and starfish, enjoying every second of your voice

abby who woke you up every day to a million texts, all in uppercase, and did the same when you went to bed

abby- who was great at foreplay- but still thought taking you to her at-home gym and using you as the weight for her hip thrusts was much more fun, with you straddling her

abby, who was a gentle giant- big, and intimidating, but truly kind and awkward and filled with butterflies like a kid when she saw you

abby who fucked like she needed something from you, like you owed her something important. abby who surprised you the first time you saw her strap

abby who had shushes you gently the first time, stretching you on her thick fingers first, stopping right when you hit the edge- and filling you to the brim with her cock

abby who lowkey has a mommy kink, but is too embarrassed about it to be upfront, so she murmurs:

"fuck- you take mommy so good- fucking perfect."

abby who can't cook, so she spends hours in the kitchen just to make you cookies, and she's more upset than you are when they come out burned

abby who listened to every single song in your spotify library, and memorized your favourites, because it makes her feel closer to you when you're gone

abby who doesn't care for dom-sub labels, just likes the intimacy of skin on skin, or the deep rooted trust of a strap on or vibe. abby who just likes you.

ill get an actual fic out soon, i just dk what to write. im moving soon and so i wont have much time to write, but im free all week and will be writing religiously (maybe. im not reliable)

[mullermilkshake]

Fear

Part 28 <- Part 29 -> Part 30

Jinwoo's memories returned just in time to welcome two special people into the world.

Yandere!Jinwoo Sung x Pregnant!reader Tags - Depictions of Childbirth and labour, Depictions of blood, cutting, Delivering premature babies

<<< For more Dark/Yandere content, click this link to go back to the Masterlist! >>>

<<< Or back to this fic's Master list. >>>

I have only watched the anime and haven't gotten round to reading the manhwa yet. Please refrain from spoilers.

TAG LIST RE-OPEN (The tag list is back up and open for a little while, if you'd like to be tagged, please let me know! 🤗)

TW - This will contain some very graphic details of childbirth which may be triggering for some, if you do not wish to read it, I will leave a short summary of this chapter at the bottom of this post, thank you all for reading this far and enjoy!!

Fear. It was fear in the end that put things back as they should be.

Seeing you in agony and standing helplessly on the side triggered something on a chemical level in Jinwoo’s brain that essentially turned the light back on in his head. It may have had help from the doctor man’s abilities, but Jinwoo didn’t accept that theory.

It was viciously sudden, like taking a sharp breath of fresh air for the first time after being confined to a stuffy room all day, then coughing up his lungs due to the icy cold. Or, the sensation was similar to jolting against the seatbelt when executing an emergency brake during a drivers exam. Heart racing to an unknown beat, chest pounding yet knowing that safety sat right on the road behind the wheel.

Like standing in a room and forgetting why he was in there until it suddenly came back to him.

Watching you in pain set a defibrillator to his heart and ignored the warning signs before yelling ‘clear’.

Hearing you shout at the woman not only opened the door once the window had closed on Jinwoo, it put everything into perspective. He almost lost the moments that meant everything to him, right down the gutter, washed away with a horrid storm and the front door to the apartment remained sealed shut despite how hard he banged on it.

Jinwoo realised how attached Beru had gotten and understood now why he was hovering around outside, Igris kept watch on the perimeter. They were both your protectors and now it all made sense.

The twins aura had vanished.

He had no time to investigate or tell you that he regained his memories when his eye twitching like that, how the doctor was still standing in the room being utterly useless. Jinwoo wouldn’t just let you lie in pain when this woman could stop it.

Jinwoo never experienced fear anymore until now, but he recognised it as muscle memory. A jittery feeling standing there helpless and hopeless, taking up oxygen instead of breathing evenly and waiting to see how things planned out.

Events couldn’t play out as normal if he hyperventilated.

“Doctor.” He approached her already, taking her arm discreetly and forcing her into the corner where you couldn’t see her or hear him.

He had enough of her bullshit. Jinwoo recognised that she was paramount in a safe delivery should things change or go wrong, but as far as her usefulness in this room, she had outlived it.

Jinwoo had to whisper in order to control himself. “If you don’t give her what she’s asking for and something goes wrong… I’ll murder you in your sleep, and you’ll never know when I might come. But I guarantee that I will… Do you want the fact you’re willingly causing her pain on your conscience, knowing you could have stopped it? You’ll be looking over your shoulder for a lifetime.” 

She whispered too out of natural mirroring. “You- you- I know that look… You got your memories back- when did you… That’s great- but you’re hurting me.” 

Jinwoo gave no fucks when it came to you, he’d break her arm if he wanted to just to prove a point. “Answer my question.” 

“N-No, I don’t want that. I’ll give her the medication- anything she wants.” 

He let her go, but kept his closeness. “Good. Off you go, and stay out of this room until you’re actually needed. Understand?” 

“Yes, Mr. Sung.” She retreated with her tail between her legs, had Jinwoo not been staying strong for you, he would have laughed.

“I’ll go get your pain meds, then just call if you need me- I’ll be with hunter Cha.”

Jinwoo waited for the sound of the doctor's footsteps to disappear before speaking to you. “She’s getting you anything you need, don’t leave anything out, alright?” He watched you with an eagerness that resembled what it might have been like if he’d been kept from you for days. “Hi, Baby.”

Your pet name. Your expression fell, like the pain melted away for just a moment. “Jinwoo- wait- do you-”

He wanted to run to you, to embrace you and praise you in front of everyone for being the strong person he knew you were. For the longest time, he wanted to have a form of control over you where you became entirely reliant on him, but seeing you like this, still going strong in the pain you were in, he knew he’d never have that.

And now, it didn't seem so important.

Jinwoo had changed drastically and his time away from you laid it all out in plain sight. He kissed your forehead, pressing his lips to your skin like you’d vanish in thin air if he didn’t, a physical mantra he repeated out of necessity. “I’m sorry I went away, I won’t ever leave again, I promise.”

“Wait- wait.” You almost gave him whiplash. “You took your time!”

So, you were back to your old self. That’s good. 

Jinwoo was overwhelmed with that same sense of familiarity he’d been ruminating on since he left that dungeon.

That fucking dungeon.

“Thanks for waiting for me, I missed you too.”

“I did miss you.”

Jinwoo held back any and all excitement he had to contain over hearing your confession of love. It filled him with warmth and bitterness simultaneously. 

He missed it- well, he didn’t miss it- but he did. The first time and Jinwoo missed it. It tore his heart apart and taped it back together continuously.

“And you love me too, huh?”

He played it cool, though it made his heart thump. Your wide eyes, deep breaths on the hospital bed, he’d missed it. You needing him. Him needing you.

Before you could speak, Jinwoo’s phone went off, an unknown number. He pocketed it, held your hands and made you comfortable.

“I’m here. Let’s welcome our babies together, yeah?”

You nodded enthusiastically, hissing and squeezing his hands as soon as a huge contraction came on. 

“Fuck-fuck-fuck!”  

Jinwoo wanted to take the pain away, absorb it all and take it for you- no, put it all on her instead.

The doctor came in with a tray, and a gas canister. “You can have an epidural, but I'd suggest gas and air first, see how you go. It should take the edge off. Breathe it in every contraction and it’ll help.”

She didn’t dignify Jinwoo with a look his way. Good. 

The nurse called your name sweetly. “I’m going to check how dilated you are now, okay? Can you put your legs- yep, like that… and I’ll just check…”

She moved her arm under the draped cloth, a similar scene when you and Jinwoo found that you were carrying twins. Made from the same material, the same dull and depressing shade of blue with weird little circles evenly spaced out. You sat in the same position in the stirrups. 

It was only like yesterday that it happened. Now within a few hours, the babies would be in your arms, you and Jinwoo would become a proper family.

“Okay, you’re almost eight centimetres dilated, things are going to get intense soon, maybe stick to the gas and air.” She waved over Jinwoo who hadn’t let go of your hand. “Dad, your job is coming up now, keep her calm and relaxed as much as possible.”

“Of course.” He said, stepping back to your side and stroking your hair in the process. 

At first, whispered sweet praises worked a treat. 

“I’m so proud of you.” 

“You’re doing so well, baby.” 

“You’ve got this, I know you can do it.” 

“That’s my girl.” 

Then, praise started to piss you off. You became nasty, erratic and emotional.

“I can’t believe you did this to me, you utter dickhead!” 

“You’re never touching me again, I swear to god I’ll bite your fucking hand off!” 

“The twins are punishing me- I just know it- it’s all your fault, Jinwoo!” 

“I don’t like you very much right now- stop touching me!” 

Jinwoo took nothing to heart, absolutely nothing and in time, you and he would be laughing it off and cuddling your little bundles of joy in no time. But it was starting to get a little hurtful. Especially when you let slip that you hated him after hearing Hae-in absolutely belt it from across the hall just before the news came that she’d given birth to a little boy.

The screeches and screams terrified you, Jinwoo understood that, yet when you yanked his shirt down to your level and growled something demonic between pulls on the canister, Jinwoo wasn’t exactly sure how to take you.

When you were ten centimetres dilated, things amped up, they sky rocketed. Jinwoo didn’t realise that until now you weren’t using your full strength to squeeze his hand. It wasn’t that it hurt, but each time you clenched his hand in such a way, it rolled his knuckles, and cringed his body like you were punishing him personally.

“You did this, you did this you fucking- ouch!” 

The midwife had taken her place by your feet, rolled the sheet up over your knees and looked ready to catch one of the twins with a net.

What if she’s right? What if the twins fall out? 

At least he was here to catch them, fully present and correct.

“Do you feel the need to push-“

“Yes, yes! I need to push, I really need to push!”

“Then push, love.” She said, voice soothing and calm. “Every time you get a contraction, you push with everything you have and stop when I tell you, alright?”

You didn’t respond, almost silent with each push, hand visibly shaking. Jinwoo stood helpless, the same flutter of fear being utterly powerless on something you had to ride out on your own.

It shone a light on you that Jinwoo never thought would turn on by yourself, not a flicker but a full beam full of warm UV rays and sunshine. In the beginning, Jinwoo really wanted to keep you, use your abilities for things he still hadn’t fully figured out yet, he wanted to have you all to himself and tuck you away forever.

Being the mother of his children, you were so strong and resilient through everything, Jinwoo only wanted you. 

He’d give up everything for you.

Kill for you, again.

Take the world for you.

Burn it down for you.

Reduce everything to dust just to see you smile. Because you loved him back. You wanted him too.

Jinwoo patted your forehead with a damp cloth, soothing you with soft delicate words whenever you wanted to give up, he would have let you breake both his hands if it took an ounce of pain away.

Each push, each stifled grunt and growl through the pain brought you closer to delivery. Jinwoo was anxious to move anywhere away from your head, he knew eventually he’d be cutting the cords of his children, but getting close between your legs during active labour just felt like something only a professional should do.

That, and he was sure you’d hit him if he moved an inch away as he learned earlier when he wanted to go to the bathroom after you told him to fuck off. You threw something at him and begged him to come back in tears and hold your hand.

“Baby’s head is out… One big push- that’s it. Push-push-push, one last push.”

A deep breath and mountainous determination, you pushed again, far quieter than Hae-in ever was.

Jinwoo’s moment he’d hold forever in his head and heart, was the proudest sensation filling up his chest with your sigh of relief and the sound of his baby crying for the first time.

He’d never get it out of his head and he never wanted to. So beautiful, so overwhelming, so perfect.

“Okay, we have a boy!” The midwife smiled briefly, holding him in her arms so Jinwoo could see.

He was beautiful.

“Baby, he’s perfect.” He peppered kisses on your forehead, squeezing your hand tight with encouragement.

“Is he- is he okay?" 

Jinwoo grinned from ear to ear. "He's great, he's so tiny. But he's so perfect."

"Come and cut the cord dad." The specialist gave him sterile gloves to wear, and threw on a quick hospital gown.

Holy shit, holy fucking shit. Don't mess this up, man. 

Even if his hands trembled, Jinwoo cut his sons cord like he imagined his dad did for him.

The midwife and passed the Jinwoo’s son over to the specialist. “She’ll clean him up, and let’s get his sibling ready to follow.” 

Jinwoo wiped the wet away from his eyes. A son, a baby boy that you made all by yourself, wrapped up in his own aura. An aura almost identical to Jinwoo’s as soon as the cord was cut.

A little baby he only saw for a second, but knew he was the sweetest and most adorable baby in the world. Someone who was destined to do great things.

"Ouch, ouch ouch!” You hissed, waving your hand around until you connected with Jinwoo and crushed his hand in the process.

“Do you need to push again?” The midwife fiddled around under the cloth and looked back at you with a raised brow.

“Yep! I need to- I have to push again!”

Jinwoo sniffled and doubled down, resting his forehead on your hair for a moment. “Come on baby, you’re almost there. You’re doing so well, you can do this. I love you so much.” 

You went into silence again, focusing and drenched in your own sweat, gasping on air between pushes. Only praise kept you going now, or you just ignored Jinwoo, either way, you were too distracted to shout at him and pull him closer than he already was.

But wow, if Jinwoo wasn’t emotional at everything unfolding in front of him by now, he certainly was when he heard the first cry of his second child.

Far too much. How the fuck were you keeping it all together like you were?

“And… we have a girl!”

A son. A daughter. A woman who Jinwoo would call his wife soon.

So much to live for.

So much to lose.

It was then you finally relaxed, after Jinwoo cut his daughter's cord, after the twins were wrapped up in their corresponding swaddles and straight into their incubators. The after birth left your body like you were allergic to it. 

You laid there still enough, your breathing beginning to even out. Jinwoo kissed you and never let you go, he whispered how proud he was, how much love he had developed for you and the twins. He never left your side, holding on to use the bathroom for the last hour because he didn’t want to stop looking at those precious little babies.

He couldn't hold them either, being a week early, the specialist stated that a week in their incubators should be enough. Then you and Jinwoo could take the twins home and start a life together. His heart overflowed with love, calculating and making plans to relocate out of the city, take small time raids to stay close to his family and prevent the risk of an altercation with something similar to that spider ever again.

He couldn’t afford to ever lose his memories again, not with the new, irreplaceable ones he made today.

Levelling up came second for the time being, and looking at the system screen, his quest had officially been completed. He received a significant boost in stats and hie was that much closer to levelling up. Still, it could wait.

“You did so well, baby. I couldn’t be prouder.”

For the first time being in the hospital, you smiled. “I’m proud too. Y’know, at first I wasn’t sure if I could do it, to look after them and be there. But after doing that… I think we can do anything.”

“We can, baby.” Jinwoo grinned, his heart overbrimming with joy. “We have one more hard task to overcome now, though.”

“What is it?”

“What are we calling our babies?”

Two of the most beautiful babies in the world, and they were yours and his only.

Part 28 <- Part 29 -> Part 30

SUMMARY - Jinwoo threatens the doctor that he'll kill her if she keeps acting up. Reader gives birth to a little boy and girl 🤗

Okay, okay! So this will be the last chapter now before I go away, see ya! 🤗🤗🤗

TAG LIST RE-OPEN (The tag list is back up and open for a little while, if you'd like to be tagged, please let me know! 🤗)

Thank you for reading and all of the support on this fic! ❤️ Likes, reblogs and comments are appreciated and I appreciate you all! See you next time 🤗

Tag list - @bubera974 @snowy-violet @sky2lar @starrynights23x @kamiliora

@yessirr7 @qmabailor @yihona-san06 @mashiromochi @daiyanomochi

@justatimidcreator @alia-17 @otomegamesforlife @m00n-estelle @towomatos

@stormnightingale @johnnysactualgf @solarisstarrsolomonsbeloved @johnnysactualgf @notleclerc

@minkuro @misakicchi @lovingyeet @soft-dots @gina239

@sabrina-senpai @tsukimoon-chan @afkmylajah @livelaughlovekuni @keiva1000

DISCLAIMER - Crossposted from my AO3 - I do not own any of the characters or anything from the anime or manhwa. This is a work of fan fiction and is absolutely not representative of the views or intentions of the original creator(s).

Also please don’t post any of my work, thank you!

[alonedustspeck]

I really liked kpop demon hunters I thought it was a cute movie and had great music. However the only thing going through my mind the second half is what I imagine it would be like to not know any of the context for what was happening for the second half of the movie.

Imagine you just watched your favorite kpop group have a very very public fight that resulted in radio silence from the band, you leave horribly upset. Things go black in your memory for a bit but you think your watching a saja boys show? With really good effects? How are they rigging this in an open field stadium? Actually where are you? How are they getting to point a to point b? Great costumes, those glowy contacts can't be fun... or cheap. I like the patterns on the skin they look cool as fuck with them and the rest of the traditional incorporated outfits. Man this whole production must have cost a fortune.

Is that Rumi from Huntr/x? Wow I feel like my heads a lot clearer. Does she also have those patterns painted on? They're really pretty. Oh yay Huntr/x is back together! Was this all a publicity stunt? Wow this must have taken a lot of planning between Huntr/x and Saja boys... Wow that screen and effects for the fire is really good. Oh the girls are rigged too? Do they have weapons? I wonder how long they practiced slight of hand tricks. Again, they must have spent a fortune on these stage effects and props. Seems kind of elaborate and overly complicated for a group collaboration but also what do I know. Oh well I'm having a great time GO HUNTR/X I LOVE YOU GUYS!!!

Holy shit did they end the show by killing off Jinu?? Wow this was elaborate, I hope this means they'll post a collab song!

What's saja boys again? Oh well.

[whatbigotspost]

As someone who has spent the past 20+ years carefully unwinding more examples of fucked up thinking I non-consensually inherited from my family of origin (aka my abusive DAD specifically) than I can count, thank you for walking through this revelation and example so throughly and kindly.

It’s a great one and probably relatable to more folks than when I share something like how I had to literally learn as an adult that if you go to bed w/o brushing your teeth a couple times you don’t IMMEDIATELY get cavities and other such extreme nonsensical scare tactics that were planted in me that other folks hear and think I’m off my rocker 🤣

But truly, what a gift it is to let go of worldviews and practices that don’t serve you. One of the BEST things about “growing up” is realizing what you can just decide what is NOT actually a big deal to you and cut yourself some slack.

About 22 years ago, my partner said to me something like yours has been…I don’t remember what I did but it was minor and not intended and when I apologized he said “it’s ok, it was a genuine mistake, why would I be mad? You’re beating yourself up about it too much already” I was all 🤯🤯🤯 and that was the start of a pathway revealed to me of claiming the elements of a life and values that I choose…….breaking patterns of “how I’ve been told it is” and damn does doing that work feel good.

Absolutely wild to me how sometimes you don't even realize the way you'd been taught to perceive things as a kid was kinda fucked up, actually, until decades later.

Example:

As a kid, I constantly lived in fear of damaging shit in my parent's house. The walls. The floors (especially the floors. The wood was beautiful. Shiny. But so easy to scratch). The cabinets.

As a sixteen-year-old, I once took my car to the dealership after work and paid a very dear sum of $250 ($10/hr cashier salary) to fix a slight scratch in the paint because I knew if my father saw it there would be hell to pay. It didn't matter that I parked far out, like I'd been taught, and someone scratched it anyway. It was my fault. I failed in my duties as a steward of my vehicle.

Every time I scratched a rim on a curb while parallel parking or got a door ding or, god forbid, didn't wash and vacuum that car every weekend, it was treated like some sort of moral failing.

Last year, when my husband and I first moved into our house, he scraped the side of our car when parking in our (Very Narrow) garage. When he told me, my first instinct was to be afraid for him. Like something terrible was going to happen to him because of this mistake. I urgently reassured him that it was okay, it was an accident, I wasn't mad. Baffled, he was like, "Yeah? I know? Like, thank you for the reassurance, but I'm only a little annoyed, I'm not upset. It's just a car." And I had to take several minutes to process that. It's...just a car.

We keep the car tidy. We maintain it. But we wash it maybe 4x a year. We only vacuum it after dirty road trips or when the dog hair starts to get annoying. It has scrapes and dings and the leather seats have stains. But that's ok. Because it's just a car.

This morning, I realized that a small rock had gotten embedded in the felt foot on one of our bar stools. Neither of us had noticed. There are now scratches on our beautiful hardwood floor. My immediate response was fear accompanied by a heavy measure of paralyzing guilt. "I'm so sorry," I told my husband, "I should have noticed. I'll figure out how to fix it, I swear. I can probably sand down that section and match the stain and--"

"Whoa, hey," he said. "It was an accident. And it's fine. Floors are going to get damaged. They're floors. We live here. There was damage in places before we even bought the house, remember? It's not a big deal. It's just a floor." Right. It's just a floor. Right.

My husband's mom is visiting and this afternoon, as I was sitting in the kitchen looking at the scratches on the floor, I offhandedly asked her if my husband had ever broken or damaged anything as a kid. "Of course," she said. Household items. A TV. A wrecked car during his teen years. I asked how she punished him.

"Why would I punish him for things like that?" she said. "They were all accidents."

Right. Of course. Right.

[blank-potato]

A Special Surprise

Pairing: Bob Reynolds x Reader

Summary:

“What’s going on?” he asks, brows raised. You say wearily, “It’s been shaking all morning… almost dancing?” You both look at it. The plant is doing a slow, rhythmic shimmy like it’s listening to music, only it can hear.  It was no longer sad, that was for sure.  You watch it…it’s almost hypnotic in its movements. Going round and round and round and— you look away, shaking your head.  “Not today, horny plant, not today.” Bob tries and fails to suppress a snort. “Did you just…. call it horny?” Or Since the plant attack a month ago, you and Bob haven't had sex, agreeing that you should take things slow. But your plant sees how pent up you both are and changes your plans.

Tags/Warnings: 18+ Explicit Content, plants being freaky asl, Bob using his telekinesis for horny reasons, orgasm control/denial, tentacle handjob (tentacle job?) oral sex (female receiving), p in v sex, hair pulling, bondage via tentacles and telekinesis, established relationship

WC: 5.8k

A/N: This is part 2 of Something Special linked below. This was another really fun one to write, more plant action as promised, hope you enjoy it!

Part 1

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Since the great plant incident, the two of you had decided to take things slow. 

Really slow.

It had been almost a month, and you guys had just worked your way up to holding hands, kissing and the occasional makeout session. 

Even though you guys had had sex, it probably wouldn’t have been the natural progression of your relationship. You would have kept awkwardly not quite flirting with each other until one of you made a move. 

So, taking it slow seemed to be the best course of action. It was fine, you were both okay with it… kinda. In all honesty, you wanted each other bad.

You’d be completely normal, working on something, and you’d feel his arms wrapping around you from behind, and that is all it took. The rest of the day, you’d think about you and him in many different compromising positions.

But you had to be normal and chill, and that is something you definitely know how to do. 

Bob enters your office, and you smile up at him. You could never resist your daily dose of Bob Reynolds. “Morning, I brought you cinnamon rolls. I figured you haven’t eaten yet?

“You know me and my bad habits so well,” You say before leaning up to peck him on the lips. You taste sugar, nutmeg and cinnamon. “You’ve already eaten yours?”

“Couldn’t resist.”

He rounds the table to settle next to you, the smell of his cologne and shampoo already making you feel at home.

“How’s it looking?” he says, nodding at your flower.

You look at the plant in the corner of your lab, which has lost a few petals and curled in on itself a little. It’s looking out your window, all forlorn like it’s wishing for better days. “I swear I’ve been taking care of it, giving it enough water and sun, but it’s…”

“It looks a little sad,” Bob finishes.

The plant had taken to Bob over the past few weeks, probably because Bob was always in your lab, hovering nearby under the guise of helping or waiting for you to finish up.

It was oddly endearing, watching the way the plant seemed to lean toward him whenever he was around, as if it had claimed him, too. It was very cute how it would do a little shiver whenever you ruffled Bob’s hair or laughed at one of his awkward jokes, almost like it was rooting for you.

Sometimes, when Bob got too close to your workstation, the plant would nudge toward him, its leaves twitching like it wanted to be involved in whatever the two of you were doing.

He turns away from the plant and observes you instead. Instantly, he sees that you’re looking a little tired. “You alright?”

You mumble as ‘yes’ but honestly, without your second coffee of the day, you’d be curled up underneath your desk, asleep.

“Just didn’t sleep well last night.”

And that was the truth. You didn’t sleep well last night, he didn’t need to know that it was because you had a dream about him fucking your brains out. Another shitty side-effect of not having sex with your hot boyfriend. 

“Anything I can do to help? I could… organise your notes, or bring coffee, or I don’t know…” Bob offers, clearly trying to come up with anything useful. “I just don’t want to see you burnt out.”

You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him close, resting your forehead gently against his. “I’ll be okay. I survived med school, okay? I’ve been more tired,” you say with a soft smile, “You’re so sweet, wanting to take care of me…”

You loved it when he got like this, all cute and tender. And the way he’d be doting on you even when you insisted you were fine. Like when he found you passed out at your desk, surrounded by papers and coffee cups, and you woke up in your bed and had a sparkling lab by the next morning. 

You glance up at his worried eyes, framed by the faintest crease in his brow. He’s so beautiful when he’s like this; it makes you want to melt into a little puddle on the floor.  There’s even a smudge of sugar on the corner of his lip from the cinnamon roll, and you just wanna kiss it right off. 

Just then, you’re overcome by that aching kind of affection, the kind that just demands an outlet, and you start pressing kisses all over his face: his cheek, his temple, the bridge of his nose.

He bursts into laughter, leaning back just slightly as you continue your playful assault. “What are you doing?” he laughs.

“This’ll keep me awake,” you murmur against his jawline.

He wraps his arms around you and lifts you in his arms like you weigh nothing.  You lock your legs around his waist like a little koala. You have no idea what has you both feeling so bold, but you like it. 

“You’re so perfect,” you say, as you move to the other side of his jaw. He lets out a moan, quaking under your praise. You knew just how to make him feel good, just how to make him feel special. 

“You have no idea what you do to me,” he says, his voice dipping even lower. Your lips leave his skin, and you look up at him to see his eyes glowing gold. All that does is turn you on even more, the fact that you got him so worked up…

Then, like that, as if you realised you weren’t exactly going slow right now, you break apart. 

“We should probably…” 

Bob hums in agreement, and you reluctantly release your python grip on his waist. It’s a near-impossible task, and you miss having him hold you as soon as he plops you down on your desk. 

You fan yourself a little and fix your shirt, trying to look composed even if you were the furthest thing from it. 

But when your eyes sweep the room, you notice the plant now turned away from the window and right at the two of you, like it was watching. 

⋆⭒˚｡⋆⭒˚｡⋆ ⭒˚｡⋆

By the next day, the plant is going wild.

Bob stops by your office, hoping to take you out to lunch, only to find you locked in a tense staring contest with the plant, before you turn and he sees why.

“What’s going on?” he asks, brows raised.

You say wearily, “It’s been shaking all morning… almost dancing?”

You both look at it. The plant is doing a slow, rhythmic shimmy like it’s listening to music, only it can hear.  It was no longer sad, that was for sure. 

You watch it…it’s almost hypnotic in its movements. Going round and round and round and— you look away, shaking your head. 

“Not today, horny plant, not today.”

Bob tries and fails to suppress a snort. “Did you just…. call it horny?”

You nod profusely before pointing an accusatory finger at it. “I know that look. I’m telling you, something isn’t right.”

“Do we have any idea why?” Bob asks, but you shake your head. 

“I’ve called a specialist, but they won’t be here by next week.” Shifting away from it, you hold onto Bob’s arm. You needed to be ready to bolt just in case, it went crazy on your asses again.

You knew exactly what this plant was capable of, the flashbacks to your completely destroyed office coming back to you all at once. You still missed the shirt that it obliterated. 

You sigh. “You still wanna get lunch?”

Bob smiles. “Only if we’re not bringing the third wheel.”

You shoot the plant a final stern look. “Stay.”

The plant, as if in response, gives another aggressive little shimmy.

⋆⭒˚｡⋆⭒˚｡⋆ ⭒˚｡⋆

Lunch was perfect, but moments with Bob often were. You shared jokes and a meatball sub from the corner shop and sat together in a nearby park. 

How could someone look so cute with sauce on his face? You wiped it off, brushing his lips with your napkin. Pretty lips, lips you wanted to devour.

You almost didn’t want to get back to work. 

Once you get back to the Tower, it’s quiet as the rest of the Avengers are now halfway across the country, fighting dangers unknown.

Like a big weighted blanket, he wraps his arms around you, walking with you in a slow, sleepy sway.

“Do you have to get to work now?” he murmurs against your temple.

You nod, sighing as you both waddle down the hall like two sleepy penguins, still tangled in each other’s warmth.

“See me after?”

“I will.”

Then, without warning, he stops and spins you around, lifting you off the ground like you weigh nothing, pressing a deep, giddy kiss to your lips.

“You really know how to sweep a girl off her feet,” you laugh breathlessly as he sets you back down.

He smiles, that soft, golden smile. “You just bring something out in me.”

Swiftly, he disappears down the hall, leaving your heart pounding and you wondering when exactly he got all suave and smooth. 

When you swing your door open, still swooning over Bob, you see something. Something…concerning?

It’s another flower. 

The door shuts behind you as you pause mid-step, squinting at it. This wasn’t the one Bob gave you. That one had soft green leaves and leaned adorably toward his voice and evidently danced. 

But this? This one had glowing yellow petals that pulsed faintly, almost like it was breathing. You hadn’t seen it before, and you certainly hadn’t grown it.

“I come in peace, plant.”

You carefully lift its pot and set it next to your other plant. If you were more attentive, or just less exhausted, then you probably would’ve noticed the faint tremble in the soil, or the way the leaves angled ever so slightly toward the door. You’d deal with it after the giant stack of papers and emails you had to get through.

You click-clack at your computer and try to focus, your body becomes heavier, the letters on your keyboard become blurry.

“Stay awake, stay awake,” you whisper to yourself, like a chant to keep you up, but it’s no use. “Just five minutes,” you murmur to yourself, as you rest your head on the desk.

What must’ve been at least an hour slips by, and when you jolt upright, disoriented and sticky-eyed—

“Of course, I fell asleep…”

You look around, scratching the back of your neck, stretching with a yawn, trying to blink the fog from your brain. But when you look to the corner, the one you’d started glancing at by habit, it’s empty.

When you wake up, the flower is gone.

Actually, both flowers are gone.

“Shit.”

You blink, disoriented, and then the sudden crack of gunfire rings out. You bolt upright, and you step out of the lab into complete chaos.

The hallway is a mess, vines are all over the ceiling and walls, snaking around furniture and lights, creeping fast. Ava is blinking in and out of sight, phasing wildly as she dodges them, while a vine nearly snags her ankle. Yelena is hanging from the chandelier on the ceiling with a gas mask, shooting at them. 

You can’t see him, but you can hear Alexei roaring in the distance, presumably batting the plant’s tentacles away with brute force.

“What the fuck is going on?!”

At the centre of the chaos, the yellow flower that was on your desk was now mad with power and trying to pull Bucky out of the elevator. And in another corner amongst overturned chairs and sparkling wires is a pink one, that had tentacles attached to John’s back, trying to pry off his clothes. 

How the fuck did they get here? Did they take the subway? A taxi?

Before you can do anything, you’re being pulled away into the air with a scream… not by a tentacle but by an invisible force.

⋆⭒˚｡⋆⭒˚｡⋆ ⭒˚｡⋆

A few minutes before the plant attack on Avengers Tower, Bob’s lying in bed, living his best life and thinking of you, like always.  

Since you were busy working, he decided he’d take a nap, five minutes tops. He had been tired these past few days as well, thoughts of you in his bed, riding him, calling out his name until your voice was hoarse, keeping him awake more and more often. The sex dreams were wreaking havoc on his sleep schedule. Every time you guys would makeout, he’d be brought back to all the filthy things you’d be whispering in his ear in his dreams. 

He’d only meant to close his eyes for five minutes.

But eventually he drifts off peacefully, the comfort of his pillow and the lingering scent of you on his shirt pulling him under. Only to wake a few minutes later to the feeling of a warm, unfamiliar weight on his chest.

A soft rustle. Something moves.

A bloom of purple petals hovers above him, looking down at him with something almost resembling fondness. The plant tilts its head, mimicking him as he shifts, confused.

It takes him a moment to realise… his sheets are gone. His wrists, tied gently but firmly to the headboard by vines. Velvet-smooth tentacles looped like cuffs around his ankles.

Bob freezes, his breath catches in his throat. His heart races too, thoughts piling up in his head faster than he can sort them.

He swallows hard, shifting his hips in a vain attempt to sit up, but the vines hold firm. One of the petals tilts curiously, responding to his movement with something too close to glee.

Still pinned, still breathless, he whispers to the ceiling:

“…This plant is going to kill me.”

As if hearing him, the plant gets to work, making quick work of his clothes, discarding the fabric in smooth, deliberate motions, like it had done this before.

Bob couldn't deny it felt good… He'd been left wanting more every time, longing to be touched more. Every heated makeout session, few and far between, cut short by your mutual agreement to take things slow.

The tendrils slither their way around his body until they found what they were looking for, his cock. They wrap around him, the substance that was oozing from the tentacles onto his cock making him feel weak.  

His whole body shivers when they start moving. They fluctuate between pulsing around him and jerking him off, making it impossible to focus on anything. 

He bites back the no doubt embarrassing moan that was bound to come out. But he can’t keep them back for too long.  The moan that rips through him is more of a pathetic whine. They use his reactions against him, rubbing wherever made him whimper the loudest. But instead of moving as fast as they can, they slicked up his cock, moving just slow enough to leave him wanting. 

His breath is short, and his limbs feel heavy, too heavy for him to do anything, but he’s not sure he wants to do anything right now. 

“Fuck…”

He feels himself getting closer and closer, but one of the tentacles curls around the base of his cock and squeezes. Denying him the release, he very much needed. His legs shake as he groans and slams his head against the headboard, denting it. 

“Please…,” he lets out, his eyes dazed, and if you asked him what he’s begging for, he wouldn’t be able to tell you. 

The plant isn’t done with him yet; it starts moving again. The tentacles are making themselves right at home, working their hardest to get him to another orgasm. It's hell-bent on draining all his energy and leaving him a complete mess. He moans, bucking his hips up into its grip, causing it to squeeze around him harder. 

“I can’t, I can’t…” he gasps, before collapsing into a quiet sob, trembling under its iron grip pressing down on him.

He turns his head to the side, burying his face in the pillow, his hair sticking to his forehead with sweat. His breathing quickens, shallow and erratic, as his toes curl in pleasure.

It’s not long before he feels it coming again, another dry orgasm he’s too weak to do anything about except whimper.

“Please, let me—”

His back arches off the bed as he has a second dry orgasm. All he can think about is you, how he wanted to kiss you and hold you in his arms… and fuck you senseless.  He wanted to hear you, wanted to make you feel good. His eyes start to glow gold as he moans out your name over and over. 

“Please, please, please—”

With the thought of you fresh in his mind, he finds his orgasm hitting him that much faster and harder. No matter how much he begged, the plant wouldn’t let him finish. But that’s not what really hurt; what hurt is the fact that you weren’t here right now with him. And he needed you. 

The tentacles keep moving, but start exploring the rest of his body more. He felt boneless and unbelievably horny, like he was about to go crazy. 

He needed relief. He needed you. To feel your body pressed against his, to feel your pussy squeezing down on his dick.

He flexes his hand and thinks of you, hoping that you’d come to him.

And you did. You were still mid-yell when you flew in there, as he slammed the door shut behind you with his telekinesis. 

Not even in your wildest dreams could you have imagined seeing Bob like that when you floated into his room.

Vines around his body, his abs twitching, panting out your name in desperation. He was practically gift-wrapped. 

“Holy—” You start, but you see Bob nod his head, and your clothes literally go flying off your body. 

“Need you right now,” He breathes out, and your body floats over to him. Good to know that Bob could throw you around with his mind. You land on his lap, just as the vines fall away from around him. 

He only wants to focus on having you.  

“Bob, what happened?” you ask gently, caressing his cheek.

He’s so sensitive to your touch that he lets out a soft moan, eyes fluttering shut under your fingertips.

He doesn’t answer with words. Instead, he leans in, mouth finding your collarbone, marking it with slow, desperate kisses. He’s been craving you, and that's evident.

“Bob…,” you whine, getting lost in his touch. You’re sure he can’t be affected by the sex pollen capabilities of the plant, so it must have found a way around it. 

He kisses his way from your collarbone to your neck to your earlobe, gently nibbling on it. 

“I’ve been wanting to be inside of you for weeks,” he confesses, finally saying it, feeling like a weight off his shoulders. 

Your heart jumps in your chest, and something about the way he says it, all breathy and needy, goes straight to your core. 

“Oh yeah?”

He nods, every movement he makes methodical. “Every time you’d climb in my lap or grip my hair when we’re kissing, all I could think of was how you looked lying out on that examination table that day.”

His hand runs down your stomach until he’s gently pressing on your aching pussy, not moving yet. “How good you felt to touch… You have no idea how many times I’ve wanted to just bend you over and…”

You gasp, feeling him start to move his hand, rubbing your clit in slow circles. “And just fuck you,” he says finishing his sentence. 

“Need to fill you up,” he says and moves you until you’re over his dick. “Can I?” 

You nod excitedly. Who were you to deny him when he’s so cute asking for permission? 

He slides in, and you remember just how good it feels to have him inside of you. Your walls stretching to accommodate his size, the biting pain that melts into pleasure, there’s nothing like it. He makes the most of it immediately, moving in sync with you. 

“So perfect,” he moans, like he’s finally gotten that relief he’s needed so badly. 

It’s clear he’s desperate for you, and only you.

“Want my cum to be dripping out of you for days,” Bob rasps, as he thrusts harder. 

That was a surprise.

“O-okay,” you squeak. He looks at you like he’s starving, like only you can satiate this aching hunger that’s eating him alive from the inside out.

You had never heard Bob talk like this, but you kinda liked it. 

He locks eyes with you, something fierce and tender flickering there, then pulls you flush against his chest. He starts thrusting into you with inhumane force, which makes you drool. His breath brushes your ear as he whispers, “You feel that? That’s all for you.”

“Bob!” you scream as he bounces you up and down on him with vigour.  You cry out his name so loud, you swear the other Avengers might hear it over the potted plant chaos. It feels so good, you swear you’re about to lose your mind.

“Tell me you’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” you reply immediately.

He slows down, holding you by the hips and rocking you gently, the head of his cock pushing right against your sensitive spot. He leans in and kisses you like he’s scared you’re going to disappear, his whole body pressing into the moment, as he pours every ounce of feeling into it.

You're his world, and in that kiss, there’s no mistaking it. He wants you just as much as you want him.

He pulls back, kissing you on the forehead. Before you can even think of whining at the loss of him, you’re in the air as he flips you over with his mind. That was going to take a lot of getting used to. 

You end up back on the bed, legs spread, waiting for him to fill you up again. The anticipation is almost killing you and just when he decides to tease you, pushing the head of his cock against your entrance but not giving you want. 

“Bob, please…,” you beg, looking behind you to try and convince him with doe eyes and a pouty lip, but an invisible hand forces you to face the front and arch your back. You can feel Bob’s both of actual hands replacing his dick, spreading your wet folds apart.

“Don’t tease me like this,” you complain, still at the mercy of Bob’s invisible hold on your hair. Then catching you off guard he gets underneath you and starts licking at your pussy.

“Bob!”

He sucks your folds hungrily, like he was starved of you, before flipping you around over like a rotisserie chicken to get more access. You land on your back, chest heaving as you look up at Bob, so determined to please you. 

“You’re so beautiful, can’t believe I have you all to myself,” he praises before diving back in and turning your brain to soup.

You’re about to close your legs, too sensitive to the feeling, but the plant now sprang back to life with impeccable timing, catching them to keep them open. The vines deepen the stretch of your legs to allow Bob all the access he could ever want.

You watered it every day, gave it sun, and now it betrays you, just when you think you know a plant. Traitor.

He laps you up, your slick coating your lips as you continue to squirm. “Gonna die…,” you breathe out, and you’re surprised you’re not already dead. 

You try sitting up, but again that invisible force pulls your body around like you’re a puppet. He takes your arms with his mind and pins them above your head as he continues to please you with his mouth. 

“So…mean…” you whine to which you feel the vibration of his chuckle on your pussy. 

When you look down, you catch his eyes, glowing gold and full of desire for you. 

Just when you feel like you’ve had enough, you feel his fingers rubbing on your clit and more fingers pressing on your g-spot? Or at least you thought it was his fingers, but when you looked down, Bob’s hands were under your knees, so he was doing it with his mind. You didn’t know he had that much control, but you’re glad he did. 

“Bob, you’re fucking magical,” you say, as you let your head loll against the sheets. 

If his telekinesis wasn’t keeping you flat, you’d be arching your back off the bed as you scream out his name again. 

The moment you finish is something you’ll never forget. You’re whining because you can feel the orgasm coming but a final lick on your clit, as he looks up at you sends you crashing.

You fight against the hold the plant has on your legs, and the hold Bob has on…well, the rest of you, but it’s no use. The orgasm rolls through your whole body as you’re practically forced to stay still. 

He finally lets you go and shoo the plant away from your thighs. 

“Are you okay?” he asks, checking up on you, and you nod. You may be slightly (very) disorientated but you could fuck until the sun came down and then continue to fuck until the sun came up again. 

He pulls you up to a seated position, arms wrapped gently around you, letting you catch your breath as he whispers sweet nothings in your ear, words soft and warm enough to melt you.

“Want to keep going?” he murmurs, voice low, lips brushing your skin.

“More than anything,” you breathe, and before he can respond, you shift, taking him by surprise as you climb on top of him, eyes locked with his.

The look on his face?

Completely undone.

His Adam’s apple jumps and he gulps, eyes locked on you like he’s trying to memorise every inch.

You were so beautiful, so sure, so sure of him. It made something ache deep inside him.

“You want no one else?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper, needing that confirmation. 

“Just you,” you say without hesitation, and it’s all he needs to hear.

You run a finger slowly down his abs, watching the way his muscles tense beneath your touch.

Then your desire takes over, and then leaning down, licking a line from the bottom of his abs to the top, savouring the way his breath catches, the quiet, broken sound he makes in response.

He's yours, and right now, you're making sure he feels it. You even feel his whole body shiver when you do that, a subtle tremble beneath your touch, and it gives you a quiet satisfaction. It’s something special, knowing you can unravel him like this. That even someone as powerful as Bob Reynolds can fall apart in your hands.

 He’s looking up at you with wide eyes, “Always wanted to do that.”

They were perfectly crafted. What were you supposed to do, not lick them?

You hop back on top of him and start rubbing his cock against your entrance, knocking him out of his stupor. He reaches for you immediately with a quiet beg, “Please.”

You can never handle it when he asks you for anything, so you oblige. Slowly, you lower yourself on his cock but when it comes to riding him, it’s hard and fast. 

He’s crying out your name as he clutches at your hips. 

You roll your hips faster and the plant comes to help you this time, pulling his hands from you and holding his arms down. Even though he could break the hold at any time, he’s rather enjoying being entranced by you. The way your body moves made him want to give you anything and everything. 

“You like this?” he asks, voice needy but happy. He loved seeing you feel good; he loved being the one making it happen. 

“I like everything you do to me,” you say back, breath hitching, fingers threading through his hair as you pull him closer.

And the way he looks at you then, like you just gave him the universe, makes your heart stutter in your chest.

You slow your pace for just a moment, catching your breath, and his eyes, before leaning in to press a soft, tender kiss to his forehead.

It’s gentle, the kind of kiss that says I’m here.

But next thing you know, you’re being plucked off of him and placed at the edge of the bed so your trembling bottom half hangs off of it. He was putting you through your paces today, that’s for sure. 

You feel him suddenly behind you as he runs his fingers over your body with reverence and lays a soft kiss on the small of your back. He pushes you legs apart and pushes in without warning but at this point, to his cock, your pussy was a second home. 

You grip the sheets as once again you’re being ganged up on by Bob and the plant. You feel tendrils wrap around your legs and ankles, lifting you in the air to create more space for Bob and invisible hands grab your hands from their death grip in the linen to place them behind your back.

He’s fucking you so hard, the bed is shaking. You can quite literally hear the legs groaning under the pressure and screws coming loose as it scrapes, inch by inch, across the floor.

“More, please, more…” you blurt out, your mind halfway across the world

In response, the plant wraps around you more, pushing you back to meet his thrusts. The sound of your hips meeting his echoes in the room so loud, it’s obscene. 

“Only want you,” he says, his voice sounding completely wrecked. 

He’s so deep inside you now, stretching you out so perfectly,  you can barely handle it.

Your legs spasm and shake, you know you’re close, and so does he.

“I’m close too, I know,” he says like he’s reading your mind and picks up the pace. You’re barely holding on, moaning so loud you might lose your voice. 

You wanted to be fucked senseless and you suppose this is it. 

The toe curling, leg shaking, drool inducing pleasure tears through you once again as you slobber out a series of “Fucks” and “Bobs”.

And before you can catch your breath you feel his cock twitch inside of you then you’re being flooded with his cum, it feels never ending. He just keeps pumping you full of his load before he presses down on top of you, kissing everywhere he can reach. 

“I love you so much,” he pants out, almost quiet enough that you don’t catch it.

He freezes.

Then suddenly, he’s off you, untangling himself, backing away like he’s afraid he said too much. Your limbs, once wrapped up in Bob and the tentacles, now lie free and cold in the absence of him.

He won’t look at you. His hands fidget. His breathing’s uneven. He’s spiralling. He’s thinking too hard.

What if it was too soon? What if you thought it was stupid? What if—?

“I love you too.”

His head snaps up, eyes wide, meeting yours. You’re looking right at him, that beautiful, grounding smile on your face, the one that always reminds him of sunshine after a hurricane.

“I love you,” you say again, slower this time, to make sure he knew you meant it.

Then you hold out your hand.

And when he hesitates for half a second, you yank him back down onto the bed, right next to you, where he belongs. 

The moment you two settle, you hear a creak, then another, and before you know it, the whole bed collapses with a definitive thud. All you could do was laugh, breathless and tangled in sheets with him.

“I’m sorry. Got a bit carried away,” he says sweetly, laying a gentle peck on your cheek. Bob Reynolds, folks. Talking to you all sweet as if he wasn’t railing you so hard, his bed collapsed.

You look around and see the plant sitting there innocently, like it hadn’t just caused a full-scale disaster. The state of Bob’s bed has the place looking like a tornado tried to redecorate.

“Seems you had a lot pent up,” you say, brushing his hair out of his eyes. “So did I.”

He nods, quiet for a beat. “One of us should’ve said something.”

“I agree. So let’s agree to communicate,” you reply, exasperated but softening, “instead of letting a plant interfere and tear the tower apart… again.”

He smiles, small, sheepish. “Deal.”

Slowly, his eyes flick to the plant in the corner. “Do you think that’s why the plant did this?”

The plant had been oddly in tune with both of you, following your every move like you were its favourite reality TV show. You sigh, dragging a hand down your face.

“Fuck, probably…”

Then, the door slams open.

“Wait! There are naked people in here!” you yell instinctively, cuddling up to Bob, who yelps and fumbles for the blanket.

Alexei freezes mid-step, unbothered. “Just checking you and Bob still alive,” he says, then nods toward the chaotic hallway behind him. “There’s a team meeting. Everyone’s… angry.”

You groan into Bob’s shoulder. “Of course they are.”

You both get dressed and peek your head out in the hall. The vines are gone, but there’s a significant amount of damage (those flowers could pack a punch) that they left behind.

When you step into the living room, you’re happy to see everyone’s alive and unfucked. 

The yellow and pink flowers sit peacefully without a care in the world in the middle of the room, with the rest of the Avengers, who look like they just survived a hard-fought battle. 

You and Bob waddle out of the wreckage and stand in front of them.

“Hey guys…,” you say sheepishly, brushing a leaf out of your hair. This was the second time a plant-related attack happened on your watch, so safe to say you weren’t feeling too great.

“Again? Really?” John throws his hands up. The plants got him the worst, as he was only left with his beret, boxers and his shield. “How did the other two get here?!”

You shrug, half-defeated. “I think the first plant summoned the other two?”

A collective groan and chorus of exasperated sighs ripple through the room. You think you hear Ava mutter about “never trusting a flower again.”

“How?” Yelena asks, exhaustion rife in her voice. 

“With a dance?” you say, instantly regretting your own words. “It was a kind of shimmy,” Bob adds, trying to be helpful, and you squeeze his hand with a smile. 

There’s a long pause.

Bucky sighs, rubbing a hand down his face. “That’s it, we’re banning plants. Or we won’t have a tower left to work out of.”

“Agreed,” you and Bob say in unison. 

Main Masterlist || Marvel Masterlist

[gooseraider]

Staaaaaaawp imagine just yelling "babe! Sunscream" to ellie and putting on her pretty face

Or just being on a summer family trip and ellie and reader just being all cute and kissing or fighting in the pool

Stoppppppppp

Ellie, reader, joel, dina and jessie in a family tripppp

I cant

family trip with ellie

“ellie please move over, i can barely feel my arm.” you whine while slightly pushing her away.

“well, if you haven’t noticed there’s not exactly anywhere else to move.” she says in a rather sarcastic manner.

you guys are currently packed into a four seater truck that’s headed up to the mountains for the next few days. every year ellie, her dad, and her two friends (who are basically her siblings) head up to joel’s cabin in the mountains to escape the summer heat. this is the first family trip where ellie has a girlfriend and in true girlfriend fashion she begged joel to let you come on their trip. it didn’t take much convincing as joel already loved you.

so here you are, cramped in the back of joel’s truck with ellie sleeping halfway on your body, dina and jesse bickering over whether there are more doors or wheels in the world, and the urgent need to use the bathroom.

a couple hours later, y’all arrive at the cabin, “ellie baby wake up, we’re here.” you say, gently shaking ellie.

“already? damn, thanks for being such a great pillow babe.” she says, placing a kiss to your face.

the cabin is nothing short of beautiful, exterior covered in chiseled wood and stone with a breathtaking lake just outside the front of the house and surround by tall lush redwood trees.

you hear joel from the other side of the truck, “okay yall, we’ve made it. everyone go take your bags inside and i’ll get started on dinner.”

everyone nodding in acknowledgment, grabbing their bags and heading inside. “c’mon, let’s hurry inside so we can get the best room.” ellie says taking your hand and practically dragging you inside.

once in y’all’s room, ellie pulls you down with her on the bed, your body intertwined with hers. “i can’t believe i get to share a bed with you for the rest of the week.” she says, rolling you on your back and kissing you hard. the kiss quickly becomes intensified and ellie’s hands are roaming under your shirt.

“hey horndogs, joel wants everyone downstairs for dinner.” you two pull apart instantly at the sound of jesse’s voice.

“jeez, ever heard of knocking?”

“ever heard of keeping it in your pants? oh wait, no you haven’t. you’re like the horniest person i’ve ever met.”

ellie goans, shutting the door and muttering a soft “fuck you” under her breath. “we’ll finish this later.” ellie whispers in your ear, taking your hand and guiding you downstairs.

outside, you all are sitting around the fire pit, plates of food in hand, and telling stories that make your ribs hurt.

“and then, she fell off the horse as it ran away.” joel explains, barley finishing his sentence due his own laughter.

”i did not fall off that horse, he kicked me off.” ellie quickly coming to defend herself.

“it’s okay baby, we can’t all be great horse riders.” you giggle, rubbing a supportive hand on her shoulder.

“so..anyone else got any embarrassing stories about ellie? i need a good laugh.”

ellie flips joel off while you and dina look at each-other, knowing exactly what story yall want to tell. and so for the next fifth-teen minutes you and dina talk about the time ellie tried to make friends with a clown and ended up getting chased five blocks by said clown.

“okay i’ll admit, it wasn’t one of my best moments, but it’s pretty impressive that i out ran him.” ellie says.

“that’s because the clown was freakishly short, you can only run so fast with short legs.” dina says through laughter.

“alright yall, it’s gettin’ pretty late, think it’s time to call it a night?” joel suggests while gathering everyone’s plates.

after everyone heads inside, you and ellie are back in y’all’s shared room. you two have spent the past couple of hours laying in bed watching random youtube videos.

“y’know what would be fun?” ellie asks with a mischievous look on her face.

you turn to her raising an eyebrow, “what?”

“swimming in the lake.”

“you can’t be serious, it’s like midnight.”

“no it'll be fun, we can pretend to be mermaids or something.”

“no.”

“pleaseee, i promise it’ll be fun.”

“if we do this you have to shower with me tonight.”

“deal.”

you and ellie are now outside the cabin, the only source of light coming from the moonlight reflecting off the lakes surface. ellie is the first one to get in, “c’mere, why’re you just standing there?”

“it’s cold outside ellie, and i’m sure the waters even colder.”

“i’m here to warm you up but you have to get in.” ellie says in a teasing tone.

you start walking towards the water, instant tensing up when you feel the coldness of the water. ellie swims up to you, taking your hand and pulling you deeper into the water.

“ellie stoppp, it’s cold.”

ellie wraps her arms around you, pulling you as close as possible. “you warm now?” ellie asks, kissing up your jaw.

“mhm, very warm.” you say, softly whimpering as she continues kissing down your neck.

“hey i thought we were gonna play mermaids.”

“we are, i’m a mermaid that loves kissing her beautiful girlfriend.” she says kissing your lips.

your gaze settles on ellie’s face, admiring the way the moonlight captures her features perfectly. her vibrant green eyes now blending in with the dark forest trees, her freckles now more defined by the moonlight, her lips and cheeks flushed pink from the cold. “you’re the most beautiful girl ever.” you say, running your hands down her cheeks.

her light pink cheeks turn multiple shades darker, “not true, cause you’re actually the most beautiful girl the ever walk this earth.”

“i beg to differ but i’ll let you win this time.”

yall continue to swim until you feel your bodies cannot withstand the cold anymore, deciding to head back inside to prepare for bed.

you open the front door, hearing it creek slightly. “shhhh baby, you’re gonna wake the whole house.” you just roll your eyes, heading back to the room.

ellie walks in instantly flopping on the bed. “ughhhh ellie no you’re soaking wet and you have to shower.”

“do i have to?”

“yes, you promised you’d shower with me, now get up and c’mere.” you say, pulling ellie up from the bed.

you and ellie’s shower was anything but productive, yall spent half your time in the shower washing each-others hair and giving each-other mowhawks. “you look like a wet duck.” you say, giggling at ellie who’s head was covered in shampoo.

after a semi successful shower, you and ellie are now dressed in comfy pajamas, holding each-other under the covers. “goodnight baby, i love you.”

“i love you more.” you whisper

“i love you the most.” ellie whispered, kissing you on the lips, quickly ending the debate.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

the brightness from the morning sun wakes you up and you immediately notice the lack of ellie’s presence, and as if on queue ellie walks into y’all’s room, “morning sweetheart, gotta get up, we’re going to the lake.” she says, placing a mug of tea on your nightstand.

ellie plops back onto the bed pulling you into her arms, lightly scratching your head, “joel has sent us out on drink duty today, so we gotta go to the store soon.”

“mm okay, grocery shopping date yay.”

jesse calling yall down for breakfast pulled you both back to reality, “wish we could stay in bed all day.” she mumbled.

“when we get back we can stay in bed all week if you want?”

“i would want nothing more.” ellie says kissing your head, getting out of bed, pulling you with her and leading you downstairs.

after enjoying some delicious pancakes dina made, you and ellie were in joel’s truck, on your way to the grocery store at the bottom of the mountain.

the drive there was peaceful, country music was playing softly in the background and ellie’s hand was in yours, occasionally kissing the back of your hand. yall arrive at the store, heading to go grab a shopping cart.

you ask ellie, “what did we need again?”

“drinks.”

you wack her arm, “i know that genius, what kind of drinks.”

“joel said whatever we want.”

“okay, this should be ea-“ you pause mid sentence as you watch ellie climb into the cart.

“ellie, what the heck are you doing?”

“taking a seat on my royale throne, what’s it look like im doing?”

“you’re unbelievable, i’m not pushing you around the whole store.”

“but you have to, this is my royale throne and i’m royalty, so you must obey me.” she says in a really bad british accent.

you end up pushing ellie throughout the store, her lap full of lemonade and soda, ellie declares it’s time to check out now (she’s secretly tired of being in the cart but refuses to tell you).

“wait before we check out i wanna get sweet tea.” you say, turning the cart away from the checkout counter.

“who the fuck even likes sweet tea?” disgust evident in her voice.

“me duh.”

“no way, i would’ve never dated you if i knew you liked sweet tea.” you gasp.

“how dare you.”

“sorry baby but i don’t think i can be with someone who actively enjoys sweet tea.” you just roll your eyes, smacking the top of her head.

you finally convince ellie to get the sweet tea and now yall are finally heading back to the cabin.

“joel’s gonna kill us” she’s says

“why?”

“cause we were in the store for like an hour.”

“we wouldn’t have been in there that long if you just bought the sweet tea like a normal person.”

“whatever, i still stand by what i said, sweet tea is absolutely nasty and anyone who likes it is a freak.”

“don’t call me a freak!”

“hey, not my fault you’re a sweet tea loving freak.”

back at the cabin, you two bring in the many drinks you bought. “what took you girls so long?” joel asks.

“someone here wanted to pick a fight with me over sweet tea.” you say gesturing to ellie.

she groans, “oh my god, stop with the sweet tea talk.”

“dina and jesse are out there by the lake if you want to join them.” joel says.

out by the lake, you and dina are taking some photos while jesse and ellie get ready to go dive for the fish in the lake. ellie is about to go get in the water when you call out for her, “ellie c’mere!” she turns around and jogs over to you.

“what’s up babe?”

“you gotta put on sunscreen before you burn and turn cherry red.” you say already reaching for the small bottle.

you take a small amount and carefully rub it in on ellie’s face, you notice how her freckles have multiplied since being outside and how her eyes look extra pretty in the sun “your skin is so soft for someone who doesn’t have a skincare routine.”

“what can i say, it’s my young and youthful face.” ellie says as she makes a couple of model faces.

“yeah, i guess you’re going to be sexy forever.” you say giving her a kiss on the lips.

somehow you got roped into playing a game of chicken, you’re on top of ellie’s shoulders, trying your best to push dina off jesse and into the water. “c’mon babe you got this!” you hear ellie shouting from below you. you eventually are victorious and successfully push dina off jesse. ellie celebrating your victory by giving you a fat kiss on the lips.

you guys play another round, this time it’s you versus ellie. “i love you babe but i don’t think you’re gonna win this one.” ellie says, obviously too cocky for her own good.

“we’ll see about that.”

to your surprise you actually managed to push ellie into the water. “what was that you were saying earlier ellie? yeah that’s what i thought.” you say, turning to give dina a big high five.

ellie swims over to you, ”just so you know i let you win.”

“didn’t take you as the sore loser type ellie.”

“i am not.” she says, splashing water at you

“don’t splash me!” you say, splashing her back

she splashes you again and before you know it you two are full on wrestling in the water. she’s dunked you under water at least five times by now so you swim under water and pull her feet out from under her, dragging her down to the bottom of the lake.

ellie comes back up, “that had to be a form of attempted murder.”

“it was not! you’re just a bad swimmer.”

“wanna test that out? i’ll race you to tree on the other side.”

“bet.”

you ended up losing.

“who’s the bad swimmer now?”

“still you.”

ellie splashes more water at you, “wrong answer.”

you and ellie end up sitting on some rocks away from everyone else. there’s a silence between you two, not awkward, just comfortable. ellie’s head finds its way into your lap, eyes fluttering closed as your nails rake through her damp hair.

“we should head back soon.”

ellie sighs, “can we just stay here for the rest of the day?”

“as much as i would love to, it’s gonna get dark soon and we’re still in the middle of the forest.”

“don’t care, i’ll fight off any bear that tries to eat us.”

“and i’m sure you’ll put up a great fight against the bears.”

you and ellie eventually swim back towards the cabin and head inside. you two head upstairs to freshen up, while you’re in the shower ellie takes this time to sketch in her journal. more specifically she sketches you sitting on the porch, you swimming, and the way you look at her like nothing else matters.

“whatcha drawing?”

ellie looks over to see you exiting the bathroom in one of t-shirts and a pair of shorts, “oh nothing, just random stuff.” she says while closing her journal.

“i know you’re lying els.”

“you don’t know that.”

“you’re ears are bright red and you’re fidgeting.”

ellie didn’t even notice she was fidgeting with the hem of her shirt, “i was drawing you.” she says in a low tone.

“huh?”

“i- uh was drawing you.”

you smile at her.

“i know i know, it’s sappy and you probably think im a creep or someth-“

ellie gets cut off by you kissing her, “i don’t think it’s creepy at all, in fact i think it’s super cute.” you say while pulling her into a hug.

later that night everyone’s gather around the fire pit again, marshmallows on sticks and cups of hot chocolate in hand. after many silly campfire stories, everyone starts heading to bed. except for you and ellie, you two are wrapped up in a shared blanket, collecting warmth from the fire.

“i’m really glad im here with you.” you say, snuggling closer to ellie.

“me too, you make everything better.”

silence.

“no seriously, i couldn’t imagine my life without you. i don’t know how i was living before i met you, but all i know is i don’t want to continue a life without you.”

“i love you so much ellie, thank you for inviting me into your family and your world.”

“it’s easy when the person you’re inviting is the most beautiful and amazing girl in the world. i love you so much, more than you’ll ever know.”

a/n: hope yall enjoyed!🪿

[wickwoods]

𝐎𝐩𝐞𝐧 𝐇𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬-

Ex-husband!Dad!Eddie Munson x AFAB!Ex-wife!Mom!Reader-

I found the divider on Pinterest! Creds to original poster <3

Word Count: 4.5K

Summary: A couple of months after your divorce with Eddie, you meet his new girlfriend at a Harrington pool party. Too bad she’s a total bitch, though.

Warnings: 18+, Smut, Dom!Eddie, Sub!Reader, Unprotected sex, Eddie doesn’t exactly cheat, Reader and Eddie have two kids together, No use of Y/n, Eddie cums inside reader, Reader has boobs and pussy, PiV, Oral sex (fem receiving), A snarky comment about how reader “should” be eating…These are the main warnings but please feel free to let me know of any I missed, happy reading! <3

You heard her voice before you saw her.

“Eddie! Grab my purse from the backseat!” You turned over to the wooden gate when it slid open, locking your eyes on her. Roxy, Eddie’s new girlfriend.

‘She’s pretty.’ You decide in your head. ‘Too bad she’s a total bitch.’ There were multiple occasions where your friends had complained about her behavior. The most recent being Nancy complaining about Roxy trying to give her parenting advice when she didn’t have kids herself.

You watched as she made her way to the large white table where you sat at and pull up a chair to sit on. Eddie strolled in a few moments after her, taking a seat next to her and setting her purse down on the table.

Roxy didn’t greet you, and you didn’t bother to speak to her either. If only she knew how to keep her mouth shut. “Do you know how many carbs are in that? Salads are way better for a body like yours girl, trust me.”

Your eyes widened with surprise at the girl's nerves. You shifted your gaze to Eddie’s bright red face. “She serious?” You ask. You turn back over to Roxy, her face stone cold serious. Your eyes didn’t falter as you responded in a cold tone, “I gave birth to two children. My body was a home for them. I am comfortable in my body, sorry you’re not comfortable in yours.”

Your hands made a loud smacking noise as you slammed them on the table, making Eddie and Roxy jump back in surprise. “Fucking bitch.” You muttered as you pushed yourself up from your seat, turning on your feet to walk to the back screen door where Wayne, Steve, and Nancy were standing.

You couldn’t believe it. Who the fuck does she think she is? She had no right to comment on your body. God knows you went through enough of that in High school.

“You alright, sugar?” Wayne’s raspy voice rang through your ears as he flipped a burger patty on the grill. “Yeah I'm just gonna head inside for a couple of minutes, Nance, can you watch the little gremlins for a bit?” She smiled and nodded her head, “Of course.”

You gave her a quiet thanks and made your way inside. Unbeknownst to you, a certain metal head was trailing right behind you. He made himself known with a loud clear of his throat. You tried to ignore him and pretended to be hyperfocused on the bowl of macaroni and cheese resting on the counter.

“Hey,” Eddie walked over to where you stood and reached for your forearms, “I’m so sorry about that. I’ll tell her to watch her words around you-“ You shook your head from left to right. “No, Eddie. Keep her away from me or we will have a problem. Keep her away from my kids too.”

Your eyebrow twitched as it usually did when you got mad and it made Eddie smile. “Alright, sweetheart. Let's go out there and enjoy the day. I still gotta say hi to the little troublemakers.” He smiled at the thought of the children running outside. They were the perfect blend of you two. Everyone could see it.

You both made your way outside, being greeted by more family spread around the Harrington backyard. You greeted anyone who was close enough to hear you and walked over to where Nancy stood talking with Robin. You kept your gaze on Eddie and watched as he ran around with the kids.

You could swear you had heart eyes at that moment. If there was one thing you would never disagree on it was that Eddie was a great dad. The best you’ve ever seen. He cared about his children and it was clear just how much he did. He took the role very seriously.

“Are you getting in the pool? I think I am.” You heard Robin’s voice snap you out of your thoughts. “Maybe later.” You replied.

A little after the sun began to set, you decided to finally step into the large pool. The surface was gleaming with the sun's glare of sunshine and it looked beautiful. Eddie was already in the water, holding baby June in his arms. The ten month old squealed as her father lightly dipped her in and out the water.

You looked to the edge of the pool, seeing your five year old Ronnie swimming with his bright yellow arm pool floaties clung onto his little arms. “Momma! Look at me! I won Auntie birdie!” Aunt birdie- being Robin- was pouting playfully at the corner of the pool. You summed up from their faces that they had a small swimming race and that Robin had let Ronni win.

“That’s amazing baby!” The enthusiastic tone you had on didn’t let him know that you knew Robin had let him win. He basked in his glory a bit more then moved on to play a new game. Eddie looked up to where you were standing and asked, “You coming in?” You nodded, reaching for your t-shirt. You lifted your shirt from your torso then moved on to the jean shorts you were wearing.

You felt his blazing gaze on your body as you revealed the dark red bikini you had on. It was one of his favorites back when you guys were still together and you knew it. It was exactly why you never bothered to buy a new one.

His eyes tore away from you when June splashed her tiny hands all around him. “You little menace!” Her giggles rang throughout the backyard as Eddie tickled her belly. You stepped in and swam over to them, holding your hands out and calling June's name.

The baby girl looked at you and gave you a big gummy smile. She was such a happy baby. “Are you ruining daddy’s hair?” You cooed when she grabbed a fistful of Eddie’s hair, yanking it lightly into the water. “You encourage this sick behavior? You are a sick woman, sweetheart.” You giggled.

Robin swam over, Ronnie trailing right behind her. She grabbed June from Eddie’s grasp and said, “I’ll take the little munchkins to get some food. You guys enjoy the pool.” You knew what she was doing. The tiny smile on her face as she looked at you said it all. You didn’t try to stop her. Neither did Eddie.

“Alright. Bye Robs.” Eddie said. He stared at you awkwardly for a minute before speaking, “So..how have you been?” You quirked an eyebrow before responding, “I’ve been good…just dealing with the kids. June entered her walking stage so that’s been…something. She just wants to walk into anything that screams ‘danger’.”

Eddie chuckled awkwardly, avoiding your eyes as he did so. You couldn’t stand the awkward act. It made you feel like you guys were strangers all over again. “How about you? How’s life treating you?” You asked him. “Well, I can’t complain. Things are okay for the most part. Wayne was finally promoted to the big manager position so that’s a great thing.”

Your eyes widened in excitement. You knew that one of Wayne’s biggest goals from working at the plant was to become one of the few managers there. “That’s amazing! I’m so proud of him.”

Eddie smiled at your display of affection for his uncle. He couldn’t help but compare the way you and Roxy responded to the news. Roxy had only hummed and smiled when his old man gave them the news. She didn’t bother trying to hide the fact she wasn’t listening to a single word he was saying. He stared at you with a longing gleam in his eyes.

He seemed like he was about to say something but was interrupted by the voice of none other than Steve Harrington. “You guys mind if we join? No? Okay, great.” Not waiting for a response, Steve ran in, jumping and causing a big splash. You squealed and turned away in surprise.

Expecting it to happen, Eddie only smiled and watched as Steve shook his hair out like a dog after a shower. Nancy followed in suit, causing another big splash. This time, Eddie turned away and swam over closer to you.

You both turned back when you heard Steve speak again. “You guys wanna play….” He paused for a dramatic effect. “Chicken fight?” Eddie responded almost immediately, “Game on, Harringtons.” He looked at you and motioned for you to get on his shoulders. You obliged, hopping on with precise movements so you wouldn’t hurt him.

This wasn’t your first rodeo of the game with the Harringtons across you. The most recent time you guys played was back in ‘86, right after graduation when you guys took a trip out of Hawkins.

The game began, you and Nancy squirming on the guys’ shoulders as you fought to push the other into the water. The guys were cheering on, and even Dustin and a little Harrington joined in. You fell in, and Nancy was whooping with pride along with Steve. Eddie turned to you and chuckled when you came up from underwater, hair stuck to your face. “It’s alright sweetheart, we’ll get them next time.”

The night dragged on, and at around 7:50, Roxy’s voice was heard once again. At some point you had heard her arguing with Eddie on how she didn’t wanna go into the pool because her makeup would be ruined.

“Eddie! I want to go home! I’m tired.” She whined. He heaved out a sigh and began to climb his way up the three steps at the edge of the pool. You decided to get out at that moment too. “I’ll be back, I’m just gonna drop her off and come back for another burger. Wait for me?” One look of his dark brown eyes, and you felt like you were under a spell.

“Yeah, of course. I’ll be here.” You smiled as he tossed his keys in the air once before catching them and walking over to Roxy.

When he came back, you were already sitting down at the white table and dressed back into the outfit you came in. You held June in your lap as she babbled on to herself.

Ronnie was in the seat next to you with another small burger on the styrofoam plate in front of him. It had gone cold a couple minutes earlier when he began to listen to his uncle Dustin intently. Dustin was rambling on about a new Marvel comic his girlfriend Suzie had gotten him for his birthday.

“Hey, I’m back. I’m gonna get a burger really quick.” He walked over to the grill and served himself before coming back and taking a seat on the other empty seat next to you. Wayne was sitting in front of you, you had been talking to the old man about his new position at the plant and asking him questions about the perks.

“Well I'm very happy for you, Wayne. You deserve this more than anyone I know.” He gave a big smile, looking almost shy at the praise. “Thank you darlin’…Well I oughta be headin’ home. Got a big day tomorrow. I’ll see you guys soon.”

He gave his goodbyes to everyone, hanging a little longer to give plenty of hugs and kisses to his grandkids before finally heading home.

After all the food was done and everyone was worn out from all the socializing, each person bid their goodbyes to the Harringtons and made their way to their respective cars. You and Eddie were the last ones left parked on the edge of the Harringtons sidewalk.

You were about to open the back door to strap the kids in when you heard Ronnie’s little voice behind you. “Daddy, can you come to our house and tuck me and Junie in?” The little boy had your eyes and he knew the effect it had on Eddie. He made his best puppy eyes and stared directly into Eddie’s.

Eddie both loved and hated when he did. Loved because it was just about the cutest thing he’d ever seen. Hated because well…he couldn’t say no to any requests his five year old would make. “I don’t know buddy, ask your momma.” He looked up at you with a smile as the five year old turned to you with the same eyes he used on his father.

You hummed for a couple of seconds and responded in a teasing tone, “Hmm I don’t know Ron, maybe i’ll only let him come over if you…give me a bunch of hugs and kisses.” Your voice went a bit high pitched at the end of your sentence as you dropped down to your knees and wrapped him up in your arms, landing small kisses on his little cheek.

He giggled as you did so and you released him then turned to Eddie. “You follow us in your van?” He responded, “Yeah.”, pulling out his keys and making his way over to the old, beat up van.

“I’ll see you guys there!” He hopped in and started the engine. You quickly strapped June in her car seat and Ronnie in his. He kicked his little legs in happiness and it brought a smile to your face. You could feel the love he had for his dad radiating off him. You began to make your way home, Eddie’s van following right behind your red convertible.

You arrived a few feet ahead of Eddie's van. He parked right behind your convertible in the driveway, hopping out and walking up to the back door of your car where the kids were. He unbuckled them from their seats, sticking his tongue out in an attempt to make them laugh. It worked, of course.

Once you all were inside, you began your usual night routine, this time with Eddie’s help. It wasn’t often he came over at nights to tuck June and Ronnnie in. He preferred to be over at the house during daytime and to tuck them into bed when they were at his own apartment.

For a moment, it all felt normal again. Like a peace that was never disturbed by the divorce papers you both had willingly signed. After bath time, two bedtime stories, and a load of cuddles and kisses, Ronnie and June were settled in and deep in their sleep.

Eddie flipped the light switch next to the door off and with practiced stealth, shut the door without making a sound. Triumphantly, he turned to you with a smile and took a playful bow.

You giggled, turning on your heel to walk back to the kitchen. You were about to offer him a glass of water, but he beat you to it, surprising you with some news.

“I broke up with her…” His eyes held an expression you couldn’t quite put your finger on. It was hard to tell what he was thinking about at the moment. Of course you were happy he wouldn’t have to deal with her nasty attitudes anymore, but it didn’t mean you still didn’t feel bad.

“Oh, Eddie. I’m sorry.” He shrugged his shoulders casually. “It’s alright, sweetheart. Just glad I won’t have to put up with her anymore. What she said to you was…out of pocket.”

You smiled. Eddie had walkways been so protective of the people he cared about. God forbid June or Ronnie ever got hurt by another person, Eddie would be on their case for the rest of his life. You pondered in your head for a while before gathering the courage to ask, “Do you wanna stay for a while? Watch a movie?” He nodded.

“Yeah, of course.” You both made yourselves comfortable on opposite ends of the couch, you on the left, and him on the right. You went with your favorite movie genre, Horror.

Midway through the movie, you saw Eddie jump back when the red haired murderous clown in the movie got a little too close to the camera through your peripheral vision. You giggled to yourself and turned to look at him.

“You alright there?” you teased. He squinted his eyes in a playful glare. “Glad you find my fear hilarious, sweetheart.” Ever the drama king. You giggled even harder and it brought a smile to his own face. He slowly moved over to where you were sitting, putting both his hands on each side of your torso.

Your eyes widen in fear. You let out a little “no” but his mind was already made up. Squeals escaped your lips continuously as he began to tickle your sides.

”No! No, stop! I’m sorry!” You managed to get the words out in between your giggles. “You’re sorry?” He paused for a few seconds before picking up right where he left off. “G’nna have to do a lot better than that, sweetheart.” He smiled when your giggles got a little louder.

You stopped moving and giggling completely when you felt something prodding your thigh. “What’s?- Eddie…are you?…” He looked mortified. In sync, you both look down to see that Eddie was hard. His first instinct was to push himself off you.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry.” He put his head in his hands, looking almost ashamed of his hormones. “Eddie..” You tore his hands from his face, forcing him to look at you. “It’s fine. Stop freaking out. We have two kids together.” You attempted to make him feel better but you could still see the embarrassment behind his brown eyes. “I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

You pressed your forehead against his, and pressed a light kiss on his nose. “It’s okay…relax.” He turned his head upwards slightly, about to press a kiss to your lips before pausing midway. “Can I kiss you?” You nodded. “Please do.”

He didn’t hold back, his lips finding place in between yours. His lips sped up like he had been craving it since the last time you guys ever kissed. You didn’t mind, this is what you had been craving for a while. He pulled away, leaning down enough to attach his lips to your neck. Pretty noises escaped your lips when he nibbled on a certain spot.

“Ed-Eddie, let’s go to the room.” You had to pull his head up from his neck when he didn’t respond. His eyes were blown with desire, the brown irises now replaced with wide black pupils. “Yeah-shit, yeah.” You were about to stand from your place when you were swept off the couch in one fell swoop.

A small gasp escaped your lips and you looked at Eddie in surprise. He didn’t speak, only using one hand to shut off the TV. He spun around and made his way into your guys’ old shared bedroom. You trailed kisses down his neck in the meantime and even left a couple of marks on the right side of his neck. God, you just realized how bad you’ve been missing him.

How bad you needed him.

When you guys made it into the room, he laid you down carefully on the bed. “Beautiful girl.” He leaned in again, connecting his lips with yours. His tongue swiped against your lower lip, letting a bit of drool drip down your chin. You granted him entrance, his tongue expertly finding yours and tangling them together in a heated dance that made your thighs clench as best as they could with his leg in between them.

Feeling the tug of your hand on his shirt, he pulled back just long enough to take the black t-shirt off. You caught a glimpse of some tattoos that were etched into his skin permanently, including the one he had gotten for you two years ago.

It was nothing crazy to the point where people could immediately understand he had gotten it for you, just a small piece that only you two understood held a deeper meaning than he let on. Next to come off was your outfit.

Eddie’s hands were cold as they undid the neatly tied bow of your bikini. He pressed his lips between your swell breasts, leaving a path of purple bruises down your stomach. Your back arched into the air in response to his lips.

He pulled himself up just enough to attach his lips to your right nipple. You responded with a whine, him sucking on the rock hard pebble in response.

“Eddie, I need you, please.” Your eyebrows were furrowed in pleasure, a pit of pleasure burning in your stomach. If you didn’t have him soon, you were going to explode. Your hands reached down, undoing his belt buckle with eagerness.

One hand stroked against his dick in the process and it made him grunt in pleasure against your nipple. You pulled his bowers down along with his boxers. He stood up for a minute to shake off the garments so they landed on the floor away from the bed.

When his dick was exposed to your eyes, you reached down between your bodies, tugging on it and giving a couple of strokes to his tip with your thumb. “Fuck sweetheart, you’re gonna make me cum before I can even get in that pretty pussy.” He chuckled.

“Then hurry it up.” You sassed. He reached over to the nightstand next to your bed, moving his hand around inside the small drawer in search of a condom. When he realized there was none, his jealousy spiked up immediately. “Where’s the last condom we had?”

You stared at him sheepishly before responding in a meek voice, “I might’ve had someone over once last month…You can’t blame me! I was really horny.” He stared at you with squinted eyes. “You had a girlfriend anyways!” You tried again, but his face twitched in thought. “You know…I never slept with her.”

You felt genuine surprise. Eddie had always been a horny individual, it was no wonder you guys had two kids. You figured they must have shared a bed more than once while they were dating so you didn’t feel as guilty when you slept with the guy you had over.

“How was I supposed to know?” You muttered. “Doesn’t matter, sweetheart. Y’know why?…because I'm going to make you forget that man. Gonna fuck you so good you’ll only remember my name after.”

His words made you whimper and your thighs got embarrassingly wet with your slick through your jean shorts. He made quick work of taking your shorts and underwear off with the help of your hips lifting off the bed.

He let out a groan when he made contact with your glistening pussy. “I missed her. So pretty.” Using both his calloused hands, he spread your legs open by your thighs before slipping a finger in between your shining folds to toy with your clit.

You let out a moan and grabbed the sheets in a tight grip, your knuckles turning white with the force. “Fuck, I love watching you fall apart for me.” His finger slipped in with his words, thrusting at a sensual speed. Your hips thrust forward. You fucked yourself on his finger for a while before he halted your movements by pressing his other hand on your lower belly.

A second finger slipped in, making you gasp/moan in surprise. The sounds that were coming out of you were unrecognizable and embarrassingly loud, but you couldn’t help yourself- he was making you feel so fucking good.

He leaned in to press a kiss against your folds, then gave an experimental lick to your clit. “Eddie, please. Need your mouth baby.” Never being one to decline the offer, he began to eat you like a starved man.

Wet noises of his tongue flicking up and down filled the room. You managed to keep your voice low enough to the point where nobody but Eddie would be able to hear you. Your shaking legs were a dead giveaway to just how much you were enjoying this anyway.

“Cum on my tongue sweet girl. Wanna taste your cum. Show me how good I make you feel.” You bit your bottom lip harshly to contain the whine that so desperately wanted to get out. “M’close Eddie. So close. Mmm…love your mouth.” You felt his smile against your cunt and looked down to meet his eyes.

One final suck on your clit and you were seeing stars, cumming so hard, your legs were shaking. “Ahh fuck, Eddie.” His tongue flicked up and down for a couple seconds before he came up from between your legs, chin glistening with a mix of your arousal and cum. “Tastes so sweet. Just how I remember.” He winked.

“You ready for me to fuck you, sweet girl?” You wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him in for a kiss. “So ready for you Ed’s.” He reached down and took a hold of his cock, hissing at the contact of his cold hand. You can feel the tip of his cock rubbing through your folds, making you moan, desperate for him to give you the delicious stretch of his dick.

“Shh, I know sweetheart. Just needa be fucked so good don’t ya?” You nodded, your mouth dropping open when he finally thrust his tip in. Out of everyone you’ve ever been with, Eddie was the only man who could ever give you the satisfying feeling of being stretched with only his tip.

His hands found a place on each side of your head as he thrust his hips forward, making inch by inch enter you slowly. “Fuck me, Eddie. Please baby, I need it so bad.”

He couldn’t hold back anymore, pounding his hips against your pelvis over and over at a steady but fast pace. “Fuck baby. So tight. Mmm squeezing my cock so fucking good.” You mewl loudly in response.

“M’yours Eddie. Pussy made only for you.” The sounds of his full balls smacking against your ass filled the room. It only fueled Eddie’s primal urge to fill you up with every last drop of his cum. A string of little “ah ah ah’s” left your mouth when his thrusts didn’t relent. His tip managed to nudge against the spongy spot that made you see stars.

“Right there Eddie. Don’t stop, please.” He chuckled darkly. “Wasn’t plannin’ on it sweetheart. Never wanna stop fucking this pretty pussy. All mine.” His lips met your harshly, spit mixing and teeth clashing against each other. There was no holding back your moans anymore.

You moaned loudly into his mouth when you felt the band in your stomach snap. Your hands trailed behind his back, leaving dark red scratches along his pale skin. You came with a loud moan, your legs shaking once again.

He came a second after you did when he felt the squeeze of your cunt against his dick. “Fuck, sweetheart. G’nna fill you up so full of my cum, give you a third baby. Wanna see you all pretty and pregnant with my child again.”

When you both came down your highs, he pulled out slowly, hissing at the cold breeze when he left your warm hole. He reached over the edge of the bed and grabbed his abandoned shirt, using it to wipe up the remaining drops of his spend on your pussy. When he finished, he dropped down next to you, pulling you close to him and wrapping his arms around your neck.

“G’night sweets.” You smiled against his chest. “Goodnight Eddie.”

Note: Pleas enjoy this horny monstrosity while I work on November Rain part two <3

[astirysk2electricboogaloo]

the godfather?! close, (ish) but ACTUALLY it's the looney tunes parody of goncharov from the early 2000's that got mostly scrapped because warner brothers didn't feel a childsafe version of goncharov was really possible or good to be associated with the looney tunes name, and the mess that was it's production.

and quite frankly, they were right. this thing has pretty much been buried and scrubbed out of existence. everyone that worked on it didn't want to be associated with it because the finished product was such a mess nowhere near the original after being handed off to three different teams that couldn't agree on anything killed it That Bad™. it has almost as many production hell issues as el terror, (the terror. b roll jack nicholson movie that is a HOT MESS) but somehow ended up way worse. by the time they got a finished product out, (at least as finished as warner bros was willing to keep spending time and money on) nobody wanted their name on this thing.

what did make it out in leaks cuts and adds so much from the plot of goncharov it may as well be an entire other movie. they also tried to add a few modern jokes but it really didn't match the tone this "parody" was supposed to have.

for starters, they cut out andre entirely and replaced him with some american woman named clara. clara's also a secret agent for the mi6, (and she's very southern. like southern as sweet tea.) who wants intel on the italian mob in naples to give to the us government, for some reason. this is supposed to be extremely significant and they never explain it.

also they put naples in australia. there's a globe zoom out where clara steps out of new york across the ocean into the middle of australia nowhere near italy. the next scene is her dramatically walking through a market where the background characters are speaking italian. one of them is a kangaroo.

goncharov and clara have an affair and it's very obvious. nothing explicit since this was supposed to be family friendly, but really obvious.

the clock scene takes place in front of a barbie pink version of big ben, in space, on the fucking moon. it's actually made of cheese and has a bite taken out of it.

apparently goncharov is actually an alien and there's an entire sub plot where he's sabotaging his superior's invasion of earth.

he's also in his original planet's military but got bored and hid on earth until "goncharen" found him. goncharen looks similar to him according to the script, but images leaked of her character are porky the pig in very oversized drag with double d's. kind of like bugs bunny but i guess since he's playing katya and clara, AND sofia they didn't want to seem too redundant. also she's his sister. this is mentioned briefly in a fourth wall break introduction of her by goncharov, (played by daffy.) and then her character literally vanishes and is never mentioned again. she fades out of reality with a wobbly ghost voice like she's giving him information from the great beyond.

there's a scene where katya and clara are arguing above an escalator. bugs accomplishes this by switching sides of the screen and outfits, even sofia who is watching this shit go down in the background from 15 feet away. he manages this for 11 minutes until he drops katya's shoe and watches as the stairs of the escalator lift up, form a mouth, and eat the shoe. it then catches on fire.

the scene then jumps to all of the characters screaming in some kind of argument with exaggerated hand gestures. it's a mess of yelling in italian, southern accent english, and italian again but in a british accent. one of the voice actors slipped "i am being paid peanuts for this bullshit. i am allergic." in italian into this scene.

the entire scene is also inexplicably on the ground floor. there was no explanation for how bugs got to the ground floor from the 9th.

daffy walks in struggling to eat a comically long piece of cheese off of a slice of pizza. he gets distracted by his three girlfriends argument with each other and everyone else, chokes on the cheese and fucking dies. (they also straightwashed katya and sofia.)

bugs is too busy arguing with himself and everyone else to notice until the room goes quiet with everyone having a somber expression including daffy who's fake dead on the floor. the only noise in the scene is coming from the burning escalator in the background. bugs starts screaming in a pitch only dogs can hear. the sound didn't change but it cuts to a group of dogs eating trash in an alley who perk their ears and all look to the left. this scene also looks like the simpsons and may be a reference to it.

it then ends with all of the characters singing some cheesy song about friendship (?????) and doing the can can behind daffy who's still pretending to be dead but now he has giant bug antennas on his head that has pink feathers taped to them. some of them fall off.

the credit music is a mashup of katya's song and everytime we touch by cascada.

they also cut out ice pick joe and did not give him a replacement. apparently yosemite sam was considered but they made him a sensei character that trains goncharov to fight. i still don't understand the point of this.

[wakandamama]

Something to Believe In

A/N: Enough heavy angst and smut, come get some fluff and get emotional yall!

It's Smoke and Annie young/puppy love meet cute!

It is a long fic tho because this fic was originally intended just for Ao3 but! I feel like sharing it here due to some of my mutuals: shout out @spaceshipsandpurpledrank @cherrynews @soufcakmistress I wanted to add that I quite literally pulled from stories of my granny childhood as the daughter of a corn sharecropper in the 1920's in rural Oklahoma as reference for things. RIP&L to Ethel💜🕊️.

Trigger Warning: Child abuse, Dog attack

In need of medical help after dealing with their father. Mary leads the teenage SmokeStack twins to a special friend of hers. Smoke finds out there Angels just may be real and can get him high. Annie may have to admit that Mary was right, that the quiet twin is quite charming and is quite cute.

Elijah never had a reason to believe in anything that wasn’t his brother or his own two hands. Angels took his mama before he could even meet her. The spirit of his great-great-whatever never gave him food when his belly ached or a hat to keep the sun out his face. The devil never offered him a glass of cold water on a hot day and God’s hands never stopped his daddy’s from beating him and his brother.

What the fuck did Elijah need faith for? 

All Elijah ever needed was his brother and Smoke.

That’s all he needed, neither a preacher’s sermons or card reading could tell him different.

Smoke is 16 years old and huffs with every step. He takes deep and deliberate breaths that are shoved out between his teeth with every barefoot stomp over the Mississippi dirt. Stack groans every now and then when Smoke’s steps falter from his own weariness on the uneven ground and Stack’s bleeding head is jostled in the walk. They come to Monroe’s backyard but before they can go for the house, a 15 year old Mary bursts out the backdoor with her hands frantically waving for them to back into the treeline. 

“Mary?!” Smoke hisses tightly through a wince, speaking painfully stretches his swelling cheek. Mary startles as Smoke spits out blood from his busted lip between their feet. 

“Ya’ll pa, here!” Mary informs him. She gently tries to coax the oldest of them to set his brother down but Smoke shakes his head, tightening his grip on Stack’s legs.

“Stack needs help. Daddy kicked him all in his chest and down the steps. He landed on his face and ain’t get back up.”

“Shit…” Mary pauses to brush dirt off the side of Stack’s face. She frowns in thought, they all tense when Big Eli’s voice booms from Mary’s front porch. Ms. Monroe hollers for Mary and the pale girl bites her lip in thought. Her mama hollers again and Mary snaps her fingers in realization.

“I got it! Lets go Miss. Greenwood’s!”

“The VooDoo lady? Hell nah, someone gonna see and they gonna tell Unc Jeb, then he gonna tell Big Eli!”

“She is a medicine woman and she can do stitches and she lives far out! And is she ain’t there, we got Annie!

“Who the Hell is Annie?”

“Her granddaughter! Don’t worry she’s just as good too! Now C’mon before they get nosy ‘bout me.” Mary argues, waving Smoke to follow behind her. 

Mary leads them back down the hill and through the thicket to one of the less traveled dirt roads. It was easy to follow the pale of Mary’s waving hands and worried chatter in the coming night as the sun sank further down until the sky was barely purple-blue, fireflies blink ahead of them as cicadas rattle echo through the air.

Almost loud enough to drown out as Stack’s moans turn into wheeze-y and laborious pants.

Almost.

Smoke looks at Stack’s watch from his brother’s limp arm and huffs to find they had been walking for nearly 40 minutes. Mary is a speck of moon beam in front of them, like a worried lighting bug.

“Just gotta turn down the slope.” Mary says over her shoulder. 

Finally, they arrive at the shack cabin of Miss. Greenwood and Mary rattled the door with frantic knocks. Smoke had caught glimpses of the old woman every now and then but really only knew rumors about her. She had moved back home to Clarksdale just two years ago after her daughter died in Baton Rouge from consumption. If Smoke was being honest, he was scared to go to her for help.

But, he was scared of his brother dying more.

Fuck, he only had a few baker nickles on him. Nothing for the butcher, the pharmacy or the grocer. No way could he pay any kinda price for the care his brother may need.

The door swings open and instead of the round old woman with white colored plaits and a blind eye…. Elijah is pretty sure this is an actual angel. Through the beaded curtain that acts as a screen dorm is a girl.

 It was a girl his and Stack’s age, holding a kerosene lantern high so she could see them all in the coming night. Elijah can’t help but notice how her rich skin reflects back both the sliver of the early moonlight and the gold of the cloudy lantern. The girl is plump and soft looking, her hair in two puffs on the side with a cornrow front, her face full of apprehensive concern and her eyes….

Those coffee coals of hers stare deeply into Elijah’s eyes, like she’s reading his soul for a moment. 

“Annie! Is ya meemaw in? My friends need some help, bad.” Mary says as she points her thumb at the bloody twins. Annie finally turns her eyes to Mary and shakes her head with a sorry pout on her thick lips.

“Granny’s over at Pleasant, helpin’ deliver a baby. Whatchu need, what’s happening?”

“My brother’s hurt. Got beat and didn’t get up.” Smoke speaks up gruffly. He tenses a bit when Annie comes off her porch stairs with silent and strong steps. Once close to them, enough that Smoke gets a whiff of citrus and herbs off her, she examines Smoke. Annie’s fingers barely graze the swell of Smoke’s check before he winces back, making her finger tips brush the tender flesh of his busted lip instead. 

“Don’t worry ‘bout me, my brother!” Smoke insists with begging eyes. Annie nods, putting a hand on his shoulder for a moment before addressing Stack. Annie turns his head towards her and mutters in Yoruba under her breath at the sight of him. Annie steps closer and places her head on Stack’s back as her free hand pats on the side of his ribs. 

Smoke flinches hard, his hands have to grip into Stack’s jeans so he doesn’t shake as Stack howls in pain. Stack wheezes rattle through Smoke’s body like a ghost shoved through him. 

“Ribs and a head rattles forsur’. Bring ‘em in and put ‘em on the bed near the kitchen. Mary-girl go run to the pump and fill me a bucket with some water, then put that on the stove.” Annie instructs them all as she leads Smoke inside. Annie lights four more lanterns while Smoke eases Stack down to the bed and for the first time in nearly two hours Stack says something.

“ ‘Moke?” He rasps. 

Smoke swallows thickly, sitting himself besides Stack’s head and grasping his brother’s jittery hand with his own trembling fingers. Smoke’s resolve is the only thing keeping them both steady, he gently shakes his head as he wipes tears and blood off his brother’s face. Smoke is careful of the mass of bruises and swelling that reach all the way from Stack’s forehead, over his right eye and meshes over his nose and upper lip. 

“Easy, Stack. Easy, we gotcha some help.” Smoke informs him. Both twins wince as Smoke finds a dirty gash dragged back behind Stack’s ear.

“ Sh- sh- sh’ orry. Got..got…got ta running-g-g my ‘ip.” Stacks stutter as his eyes flutter and roll back in pain. It takes a long moment but he’s able to blink harshly, showing that blood has inked the white of his eye, red.

“Big Eli ain’t shit! Don’t you be sorry, just hold on man.”

“Pa’s j-j-jus-sta….” Stack trails out, closing his eyes instead and letting his head rest to the side as a wave of pain forcing him to breath with fast and shallow pants that barely let his lungs fill with enough air. Stack jerks up as he starts to cough and blood flicks off his busted lips. Smoke swears and holds Stack’s head up until the bout of coughing stops and he can weakly breath again.

“Get his shirt off then help him try and take a full breath. Slow down his breathin’.” Annie instructs as she finally comes over to them. She sets down a big jar of moonshine and a round tin case, she opens it to reveal vials of iodine, an ear trumpet, sewing needles, Cloverline salve, and huge rolls of bandages. 

“Water’s starting to bubble!” Mary hollers as she watches the pot of water on the high fire.

“Start counting to 200.” Annie tells as she helps Smoke undress Stack’s upper half. 

“Any of his teeth broke? Did he spit out blood?” Annie asks and Smoke creases his brows in thought.

“Nawh, all his teeth was there but I think he bit his tongue bad. His spit was red, he was droolin’ it earlier." 

“Shit,” Annie tuts “Liquor’s gonna shock him too much right now. Mary get me that light wood pipe and matches. It’s by that mint hanging to dry out back. You know how to smoke?” Annie asks, not even pausing to see the look of disbelief on Smoke’s face at the question. 

Oh… that right… she just met him. 

She ain’t something all knowing, of course she doesn't even know his name.

“Yeah.” Smoke nods as Mary hands him the pipe, then the matches and she goes back to her post at the pot. Muttering numbers under her breath, she had just reached the 60’s

“There’s reefer in there. Try not to take it in deep, Just get it puffed up and blow it in his face. That’s all the pain relief I can get ‘em right now. Do it.” Annie commands as she pours a little of the moonshine onto the ear trumpet and wipes it dry with a rag.

Smoke takes a deep pull off the pipe, trying his damndest to keep the smoke in his throat and mouth, but the skunk-like herb creeps further down into his chest. He coughs and lets his fist curl in frustration as the cloud goes above them (tobacco never did this shit!). Smoke takes another hit of the pipe, forcing his lungs to hold steady and quickly blows it out, aimed at Stack’s face. 

He takes another hit and blows it out. 

Takes another hit and blows it out. 

Takes another hit and blows it out.

Before he can drag on the pipe for a sixth time, Annie snatches it from him. Smoke swears he can feel every line of fingerprints on Ainne’s finger tips as they brush his hand. Smoke feels like he’s floating up and down as he watches Annie with her angel fingers wrap some kinda wet herb in a cheese cloth rag and carefully place it in Stack’s mouth, muffling his whimper of pain.

“You bouta green out, boy! I needa ya here, ya hear?” Annie tells Smoke, her words send the older twin crashing back into his body, before he can respond Mary shouts 200. Smoke heard sloshing and the tiny chant of ‘hot, hot, hot, hot’ until the voice echos away and suddenly there is a pot of warm water to the left of him. 

Annie softly grabs his wrists and leads Smoke’s hands to hold either side of Stack’s face who had become more docile and settled, his good and open eye a bit glazed with a coming high. 

“Do your best to keep him from buckin’. Okay, Sugar?” Annie instructs, Smoke stares at her plush hands on his hands, amazed at how still they were for once. Annie gives a soft chuckle and tips Smoke’s chin up, for him to look into her eyes. He blinks rapidly and tries to clear his daze just to get lost in the dark Mississippi night that is Annie’s eyes. 

“Smoke!” Mary tuts, pinching the meat of his arm. Elijah crashes back into his body again and takes his commands with a nodding grunt. Annie lets him go so she can kneel over and put the ear trumpet to Stack’s chest.

“Deep breath, Stack. C’mon.” Mary gently coaxes as she starts to gently wash the blood and dirt off him. Stack does as such with a whimpering wheeze. Annie listens to the other side and grimaces, she tentatively presses on his right side where his ribs are, starting at the bottom and going up. She gets to the eighth rib and they all wince as Stacks jolts and cries out. Smoke and Mary jump in to comfort him while Annie rubs laterally over the bone. 

“Weak, not broken.” Annie notes and continues to go up. They jolt again as she finds another spot, she sighs wearily and gives both brothers a sorry look. 

“Broken.”

For the next 30 minutes they work in a tense silence save for Stack’s occasional whimper or out cry. On his right, from his seventh to his fourth rib is broken, the rest bruised and his left shoulder is strained. 

“Sit him up.” 

Smoke does as such, getting behind Stack and pulling him up until he is mostly sat up and supported by Smoke holding his shoulders. Annie feels his back and notes where the backribs were injured. 

“Mary wash his back, then wash out his mouth. I gotta get something for the swelling and to numb him.” Annie says while she quickly gets up and busies herself gathering different herbs into a mortar bowl.

Mary moves to wash the dirt off his back and Smoke takes the other rag and coaxes Stack to let him squeeze water in his mouth to swish, then spit. He does it two more times before Stack’s head fatigues and he lets it flop Smoke’s shoulder with a shaky whine. 

“Eveything gonna be a’ight bro. I swear it, Eli ain’t shit. You-you just gotta  hol’ out. Alright?” Smoke encourages as he forces Stacks head back up and makes him clean his mouth again. 

Annie comes back, and finally Stack actually looks at her.

“You?” he puffs and Annie gives a comforting smile as she tips his head back.

“Annie Greenwood at your service, sorry to meet like this. Now can you open your mouth for me, I need you to swallow this.” she says gently and Stack’s swollen lip twitches with mirth. 

“Onna fir’ t date?”

Mary breaks out in pitchy chuckles as she shakes her head in disbelief and starts to clean blood off his neck. 

“You can’t have Annie, you got me.” Mary teases through the teary eyes and Stack gives a wheeze and twitch of his lip again. His hand clumsily grasps the front of Smoke’s shirt. 

“You ca’ get ‘Moke ‘den, Ann.” 

“Elias, what the fuck! Open your mouth for that medicine nigga!” Smoke scolds, warmth blooming under his brown. One foot in the grave and his idiot brother is still running his trap. 

Annie takes it in stride, barely hiding a chuckle behind her smile and shakes the power of crushed herbs into his mouth before guiding him to take a swallow of warm Valerian root tea. Stack smacks his lip in distaste.

“Grass?” he mumbles and Annie rolls her eyes. 

“Tumeric mostly, and some other things. The tea will help numb ya out and let you rest some while I treat you.” Annie explains gently as she guides Smoke to rest his brother back down, Mary slides in and pillows Stack’s head in her lap. Her hand rubbing his temple and muttering coos of comfort to him

“What’s next?” Smoke asks and Annie hums as she sets out more things from her kit. 

“Once he's down, imma rub him with the Cloverline, then we’ll wrap up his ribs and hopefully patch up the gashes he got.” Annie tells him. Smoke moves from Stack’s side to kneel next to Annie’s, looking over her shoulder at all the things sat out. He reaches for the jar of Cloverline and Annie stops him by bumping into his shoulder and shaking her head

“Don’t bother right now. Let’s worry about you.” Annie says as she studies his busted lip, swollen cheek and bloody elbow from where their father was able to get a backhand on Smoke and send him to the floor of their porch before kicking Stack down the steps of it. 

Smoke shakes his head and goes again but Annie stops him by snatching the jar from him and holding it behind her back. She straightens up her kneel so she can glare in his eye, it makes Smoke blink in surprise.

“You ain’t cleaning up shit if you still got dirty shoes. Take a moment…. Uh.. damn.. What’s yo’ name?”  Annie asks, her look of resistance growing bashful at realizing they were never introduced.  

Oh Lord, she had some strange (and cute) boy all in her granny’s house and didn’t know his name!

“Smoke.” Annie frowns her brow. 

“Ya mama named you Smoke?”

“My mama ain’t name me nothing, my name’s Smoke. Now give me that jar, girl, we gotta get Stack set.” Smoke said, tipping forward to try and snatch the jar back, Annie stretches her arm up and back. 

“Call me girl again, and imma call you mule!”

“Girl! Whoa!” Smoke tips forward too far, his equilibrium still thrown from his own exhaustion of the day and fading high from the reefer. Mary gasps as Soke collides forward into Annie then they both go down.

Stack blinks sleepily with a lazy turn of his head and whispers a chuckle at the scene. Mary cringes but keeps messaging his head as he starts to drool on her skirt. 

Smoke is staddled over Annie, his eyes widened in awkward surprise with trembling, clumsily placed arms on either side of her shoulders that keep him hovered over her. Annie blinks up at him with just as much surprise as well. Her arm holding the jar still stretched over her head and the other clutches the front of his shirt to further support him from falling on top of her. 

They breathe together for a moment, before Annie slowly starts to push up and Smoke follows her lead and leans back off of her. Once they were both up right and steady Smoke swallowed nervously and clutched the bottom of his shirt. 

“Sorry,” he said quickly. Annie just nods, too rattled for a retort.

“Uhh… Stack’s sleep.” Mary comments and it snaps Smoke’s attention. Sure enough his brother’s chest was gently rising up and down instead of the painful jolts of earlier. His face slack instead of twisted in pain. 

“Damn, you drug him?” Smoke tries to joke and Annie shrugs as she opens the Cloverline jar. 

“Of course, I did.” 

“Huh?”

“I said of course I did. Dem weak ass puff you blew on him wasn’t gonna numb him out much longer. He ain’t in any pain so he can start to rest and heal.” Annie explained simply, like Smoke just asked her the time. 

“Tolda she’s a medicine woman! Last time we had to give Stack my momma’s wine and he was all hungover the next day.” Mary says, she bites her lip in nervousness at the deadpanned glare Smoke sent her at Stack’s snore. 

“So all that mojo jojo potions and spells shit work? Gonna need true love’s kiss to wake him up or do he turn into a frog first?” Smoke says, feeling his senses come back to him. Just to lose them a moment later when Annie quickly jabs her knuckles into his side and makes him wheeze. Smoke turns sharply to address her after gathering his breath and gasps to find a gleaming and sharp pair of scissors held at his eye level. 

“It’s quiet time for you boy, you wanna a task so you can sit there and think? Unroll that,” Annie dropped the roll of bandage in his lap, her glare and scissors gleam never leaving his eyes, “You-a perfect match, unroll it enough to bind your chest three times and when ya done. Cut.” 

Mary tuts and shakes her head as Annie smoothly twirls the scissors on her fingertips so it spun and she could hand the handle to Smoke. The older of them huffed, making sure to glare and flare his nostrils but ultimately got up and walked to the corner to do as Annie commands. 

“Okay Mary, you take a handful of this and get his left rubbed down. I’ll take the right and then we’ll roll him and do his back the same way.” 

Later that night, Mary lays curled next to Stack on the mattress as he rests finally properly bandaged and stitched by Annie. Smoke sits on the steps of the house holding a cold cloth to his lip while Annie addresses his elbow. He breaths through the little flares of pain focusing on losing himself to the night instead as she cleans and wraps. The glittering stars, the shades of darkness in the moonlight, the cool breeze shifting leaves. Yet….the cicadas and frogs can’t out rattle the sorrow and fear of his thoughts. 

“You shakin’.” Annie says softly. There isn’t any pity or sad concern in her tone, she just whispered a fact and it makes Smoke swallow. 

“Yeah, I do that. I needa cig.” he tells her just as quietly and she hums.

“I can get ya that in a bit. Let me see your lip.” 

Smoke turns to her, handing her the cloth so he can clutch the straps of his overalls to hide the shakes. Annie tips his head toward the lamp light so she can investigate.

“Ain’t nothing but time and something cold healing that lip. Some aloe vera and yarrow mash would work on that cut. Keep ya face pretty.” Annie bites her lips in abruptly at the last comment of hers, her shoulders chasing up to her ears as she feels Smoke smirk under her fingertips. 

“Keep me pretty huh?”

“It prevents scarring is all I was tryna say!” she excuses, taking her hands back. She darts her eyes to the stars and Smoke still stares intently at the white of her eyes.

Smoke hums, “Is that gonna cost extra? I only got some bread nickels. Shit… I don’t know how imma pay ya back at all actually.”

“You ain’t gotta worry a-”

“Nah! I owe ya Annie Greenword, I ain’t now bum like Eli. I pay my dues and imma need you to know your worth.” Smoke insists. Annie sighs, closing her eyes. Smoke tilts his head as she says something in the tone of a prayer to the ground. The language from her lips sounds off but familiar, like when his auntie or lil Sammie would slip into tongues on Easter. 

“I ain’t know hoodoo people prayed. Doesn’t that make yall mouth hurt? My uncle’s a preacher. He’s always going on about rebukin’ and shit.”

“Prayer is an action anyone can do. My tongue don’t burn anymore than yours when I do it. Unless, you tryna tell me your God be setting yo teeth on fire?” Annie asks back and Smoke scoffs.

“I don’t talk to that nigga and he don’t ever say shit to me. So it’s nuthin’. Don’t need him or Lucy or ghosts.” Smoke tells her, he grips his hands into fist then shakes them out. 

“No offense.” he says after their silence became awkward. (Again!)

“So…. What's to believe in then? What makes you go on? Who can ya ask for help?” Annie asks and Smoke cringes as he can now hear pity from her

“My brother I guess…. That imma get back what I put in… I like being able to rest and shit be okay. So… I guess that’s what I believe in, something that’ll make shit okay.” 

“That’s something.” Annie whispers.

“Yeah, I guess.”

The both turn from each other and stare into the night, the quiet between them soft, resolved. Stack’s snore resonates behind him and Annie watches as Smoke relaxes another degree, like ice melting. 

“So… what I owe you, Annie?” Stacks says to the stars, the words make Annie settle back on her arms.

“What’s your name? Your real name? I’m Antonia.”

“I see…. I’m Elijah.”

“Elijah ...okay… so we’re even now.” Annie smiles, moonlight gleaming off her teeth and Smoke shakes his head with a soft grin of his busted lip.

“Nah we ain’t, but I’ll let it breath.”

---------------------------------

Smoke startles awake the next morning to a goat bleating from the doorway and Stack still snoring in his ear. Mary still sleeps, curled up in a chair diagonally from the two brothers wrapped in a quilt. The goat bleats again and Smoke blinks heavily as Annie shoos the animal on and goes back to her chores of feeding the chickens. 

Smoke snorts, wiping at his face as he gets up with a wobble, swearing to himself that the only thing ever going in his lungs again is tobacco and air. He shuffles to the porch and watches Annie for a quiet moment as she shakes out the last of sunflower seed to her chickens. 

“Mornin’” Annie greets, back still turned to him as she inspects the wire of the coop.

“Uh, Mornin’.” Smoke cringes as his voice croaks then cracks. Annie’s shoulder hitch with a small hidden chuckle but she continues on with her inspection. 

“My Grandma sent word. Said she ain’t gonna be back until this evening so y'all can rest up here for a bit longer.” Annie relays and Smoke hums. He shakes his fingers out as the craving of nicotine makes his lips dry. He pats his pocket and sighs in defeat to find nothing, he’s smoked the pre-roll Stack had made him before dinner the other night. All he had was some tobacco stuffed in an old Murray Pomade tin. 

“Uhm… you gotta pipe or something? An empty pipe?” 

Smoke finally makes his way down the steps and to Annie’s side. She curses under her breath to find that something had dug and pulled at the wire in the back, leaving it open. 

“Yeah I do. Damn, gonna have to run to the Chows sometime today.” 

“Oh! I can get some wire for ya, get it fixed. It can be part of my pay for what I owe ya.” Smoke negotiates and Annie chuckles with a shake of her head.

“I told ya, Eljiah! Your debt to me was your name.. Ya paid up, boy.”

“And I told you that ain’t no even! I ain’t a chump who can’t fix no coop, just gotta get a smoke and bite to eat real quick to get going. I’m pals with Bo and can getta deal on some new wire, some burlap too. I'll set a barrier an-” Annie crosses her arms but allows Smoke to ramble on and on about all the things he could fix or improve for her. He trails behind her as she does her chores; Annie wordlessly hands him sticks that had fallen in the yard from the wind. 

“Paw musta been awful hungry… he don’t usually hit ma face.” Stack mumbles as Smoke helps him wash and change his bandages while Mary snuck back home to get the brothers some fresh clothes. Stack winces but can’t help to keep poking at the cheek bruise and the underswelling of his black eye. He squints into the piece of mirror that Annie had reluctantly propped up at Stack’s insistence to see himself.

“Big Eli shouldn’t been hitting you at all!” Smoke grumbles as he forces Stack’s hand and arm up so he could start applying the Cloverline. 

“He was hungry and I knew better. You know I knew better than to go sneakin’ that big ass piece of chicken. He w-”

“Sush! Pa ain’t done shit but take the guitar down to Pleasantville. That nigga ain’t pick a bag in two weeks, he ain’t caught a fucking fish. He ain’t done nuthin’ but stank and play that raggedy ass guitar.” Smoke says, talking over Stack for once. 

“He made rent day tho, an-”

“Stop excusing that nigga!” Smoke ends up barking and the whole room winces. 

“Easy.” Annie tuts quietly from where she stirs a pot of grits on the stove. 

Both brothers give her matching side glances, then matching sighs of tension. Stack grunts in pain as breathing in so deeply hurts, he forces his breath through his teeth and lets his head fall forward to rest on Smoke’s shoulder in search of relief.

Smoke carefully rubs his brother’s back, “Sorry… it’s getting hot outside,” Smoke mutters and Stack give a shallow nod. 

“I know.” He mumbles before sitting back up and letting Smoke finish re-wrapping him in a sad silence. Once done, Smoke helps Stack get up and sit at the small dining table. Annie sets a dish of grits with a side of eggs and half a slice of ham in front of him, Stack smiles gratefully before giving a suspicious squint to the cut of tea she sets next to it.

“Once you finish your food, imma need you to drain that whole cup of tea.” Annie says and Stack hums.

“Will I atleast stay awake long enough for Mary to get back wit’ my clothes?” 

“Take ya time eating, Mr. Moore.” Annie tells him with a growing smirk and turns her back. 

Smoke shakes his head with a small grin as he takes a seat, Annie sets a dish of grits, ham, and eggs in front of him too. 

“Aw shit, you better lock up ya sugar bowl Ann.” Stack warns. Smoke gives an annoyed kiss of his teeth and twitch of his lip at his twin for letting his sweet tooth be announced. Annie shrugs and slides a little jar of sugar onto the table before settling with her own plate.

“I don’t need no sugar for some grits. Stack’s head still rattled.” Smoke insists.

“Not you lyin on me infront of me! Ann let me tell ya, this nigga makes brown rice white wit’ sugar anytime he can.” 

“No I don’t!”

“Yes you do!”

“No I-” Smoke trails off, letting his fist hit his thigh before relaxing as both brothers watch Annie sprinkle two large spoonfuls on her portion of grits before giving them a shallow stir.

“I like a little sweetness in the morning too. We had a rough night.” Annie explains before digging in. Stack just chuckles and shakes his head as he starts to eat as well. Smoke hums before helping himself to three spoonfuls of sugar and digging in. 

Soon Mary joins them, all finish breakfast and the girls go out back to give the brother privacy to get changed. Annie takes Mary down the way towards the berry bushes to collect blackberries. 

“So,” Annie starts, “ those are the twins you always talkin’ ‘bout.” 

Mary blushes a little and looks intently at the inner branches of the berry bush. 

“Yup. I usually stick more to Stack, when they get done pickin’ for the day. Stack takes me to run tricks on them crackas at the train station and pool hall. He even taught me how to pick a pocket! Smoke is all shy and shit, kinda boring but he’s cool. Real quiet like you be, sometimes. He likes fishin’ and playing cards, you can always find ‘em playing solitaire. He’s always reminding me to put on aloe vera if we out in the sun for too long, he's such a worry wart.” Mary rambles.

“ Solitaire? Seems like a pyramid or spades kinda guy.” Annie says and Mary tosses a bad berry to the side.

“He is, but he only partners wit Stack or Bo. He taught me all the rules but Stack taught me all the tricks on how to really order dem books!” Mary brags and Annie chuckles.

“Fishin huh?”

“Yeah, he’s the only one of us that can swim good. He got me to tread the water and float. Stack sinks like a hole inna boat! My poor fella.” 

“Oh! Stack is ya fella?” Annie grins and Mary giggles.

“Yeah, he just don’t know it yet. Imma do that love spell you taught me on him and we gonna fall in love and move all the way to Cali and have a wedding day parade.” Mary gushes. Annie has to bite her lip to avoid laughing in her friend’s face. She thinks over Mary words for a second and her brows furrowed in thought. 

“What love spell I teach you?” Annie asks with her hands on her hips and Mary goes bright red. The pale girl shoves a handful of berries in her mouth to avoid speaking but Annie continues drilling her with a wise look.

“Uhg!” Mary cringes as she swallows a sour berry and is forced to speak.

“Well you ain’t teach it to me yet! It’s that one ya granny was telling Daisy how to do about two months ago to put that lock on Mr. Lincoln’s son! The one spell made with her monthly blood! Soon as I start raggin’ you gotta teach me how to putta lock on Stack! That hussy Jo’Mae was all up on him at Cornbread’s birthday party last week and he was kissin’ her cheeks! So yo- dontcha laugh at me like that Annie!” Mary scolds as Annie has to grip the branch she was at and burst with giggles. 

“Girl I ain’t gonna teach you that shit!” she chuckles out and Mary let her basket fall to her feet

“Why not? We could each lock up our men wit it!” Mary bargains and Annie howls again, holding her gut and tearing with laughter.

“Sionsiere ni? You 15 Mary! You don’t even get monthly-es! The folks before ya finna be confused you sniffing around wit kinda offering.”

“I can find some then!” 

“Mary you ain’t finna steal some poor woman’s blood cloths over some nigga!”

“Elias ain’t any ole’ nigga! He’s mine! And you gotta help ya girl out Annie, we gonna be sister-in-laws. Think about it! I lead you to Smoke and you lock me to Stack!-”

“I ain’t worried ‘bout that boy! He done already got on my nerves all night and all morin’! 

“Don’t you play me Annie-girl! I heard you call him pretty last night!

“Tch! Girl that wasn-

“Now focus! Those two brothers are always at the hip, so we gonna have the same wedding day! So you gotta help me put the work on ‘em” 

Annie just shakes her head and wipes the berry juice off her fingers. “Sorry Lil Mary, but it’s a no. Besides, that ain’t the kinda root I want in my spirit. But…. I will say… you have a powerful will for manifesting, keep it up.” Annie states. She giggles again as she doges Mary pelting her with black berries. 

The two finish their picking and head back to Annie’s house. Stack is sitting in the rocking chair on the porch, head tilted back on a pillow and snoring sleep. Smoke stands at Annie chicken coop, shirt tied around his waist as he works to re-tie the salvageable wires back to the roof nails. Three hens peck at the ground under him curiously while Smoke has to occasionally glare down at the rooster that threatens to peck his shins.

“Boy! I thought I told you to leave my coop alone! I gotta go to Chows for supplies!” Annie scolds as she sets the basket in Mary’s hands. One hand goes to her hip and the other pokes his shoulder in scolding. Smoke waves off her words and bends down another wire to mold to the nails with a pair of pliers. 

“Girl hush! I told-ya Imma fix it! Now there is still good wire here, I’m tryna see what ya got to work with before I waste a trade wit Bo.” he mutters. Annie smacks her lips when the weak wire chips then falls to the ground instead of forming a new hook.

“See! The wire’s shit.” Annie points out as she grabs it from the ground before her rooster can inspect it. Smoke shakes his head and grabs it from her with a frown.

“Fine! C’mon, we going to the Chow’s.” Smoke grumbles and Annie gives him a wide eyed look.

“What?” 

Annie watches as Smoke marches away from the coop to the door, wrestling his shirt back on. Mary wiggles her eyebrows at Annie from her position sat at Stack’s feet and Annie throws a handful of grass at her as she follows after Smoke.  Before she can cross the threshold of her doorway, Smoke is handing her the messenger bag he’d seen Miss. Greenwood carried when he’d helped Bo unload the supply truck. 

“Now, how you know this was my bag?”

“Is it?”

Annie huffs, “It’s my granny’s. Mines the navy leather one,” she points to the thinner bag on the stand rack next to the doorway.

Smoke nods, “I’ll remember that,” he says as he trades the bags and steps towards her.

“Now, c’mon let’s get to the Chow’s. Ya said ya Granny ain’t getting in ‘til late right? I can getcha coop done by then. Be part of what I owe ya.” Smoke says. Annie lets out an exasperated sigh and rolls her eyes.

“Elijah, I done tol-”

“Aht Aht! What I tell-ya last night. A bull ain’t got nothing to the Moore Mule, girl. Here’s ya bag.” Smoke shuts down. Annie can only stare him down, her doe eyes full of disbelief at his audacity. 

Smoke holds the gaze firmly as he offers her the bag again, not dropping the gaze until she takes it with a quick sling over her shoulder. Smoke offers her his hand next.

“Mary! Lay a cold wet town on Stack for about 30 minutes. Then you gonna wake ‘im up Stack and give him some water and that second dose of tea. Cloverline on any of his complaints.” Annie instructs, her head barely turning in the lighter girl’s direction in favor of scanning Smoke’s hand. 

“Uhh, okay? How long ya’ll finna be?” Mary asks.

“Bout two hours." Smoke answers for them both and Mary nearly gasps.  

Annie just hums, she walks ahead and down her steps, ignoring his hand but leading them towards the road. Smoke stuff both into his pockets and gives Mary a curt nod.

“Don’t let him drown in drool, Lil Mary.”

“Oh, uh, okay?”

“Good.”

Mary watches in disbelief as the two older teens leave down the path. She watches until the back of them is lost to the haze of the heath and delta dust. With a huffing pout Mary settles into the chair next to the snoozing Stack, grabbing his hand and admiring the lines of his palms.

“Ain’t fair, she already got her man wrapped around her finger and mines snoring away!”

---

As the two young teens travel, Smoke makes sure to keep a step ahead and to the left of Annie. It allows her to still walk on the stable ground but not be out in the road or the first to confront if any trouble comes their way. Not a sound nor word is had between the two of them, besides the cicadas, birds, and the dirt crunching under their shoes, all was quiet.

Annie must admit, it’s a nice quiet to share with someone. Her granny would be huffing about the heat and the judgement of others at this point.

The last countryside marker before the edge of town is Mister Wilks covered wagon and mule. The resident forager that lives and sells from the cart, is a light skinned older fella who was all vinegar and made a strict living on sellin’ the wild onions, greens and mushrooms  he’d gathered from the thickets on the east side of the Anderson plantation. Annie would like to say she didn’t mind the mean ole coot at all, if it wasn’t for one thing about him.

His damn mutts. 

Wilks had two of them. A bulky boxer that usually minded the business of foxes and chicken more than anyone else, and a feisty redboned CoonDog, usually tied with braided leather to the back hitch on the wagon when not accompanying him to the thickets. 

Annie tenses at the sounds of tugging cord and harsh barking sounds of Wilks' coon dog. That thing hated everyone but Wilks and the boxer. In the heat of the day, Wilks rested inside while both dogs were tied to a large wheelbarrow under a tree next to the wagon with just a set of deer antlers and a bowl of water for entertainment.

The dog hadn’t even seen the two teens proper on the road and was already barking and lunging to get at them. Annie thinks of the frayed leather and twine acting as leash and the back of her neck hurts. Annie goes to warn about her bad feeling but Smoke has already moved. The muscular teen steps back from Annie to swoop down and grab a thick stick off the ground. 

Annie looks in awe as he tests the swing of it and comes back to her side, putting himself between her and the aggressive dog, then enclosing her under his arm. Smoke pauses them for a second to look her up and down before turning his attention to staring down the growling animal as they start to walk along again. Annie is blessed to be brown as the way Smoke’s heavy arm pressed on her back makes her all flustered. Annie’s head drops and she looks at her feet, praying that they won’t stumble because… maybe Mary was right… Smoke is awfully pretty.

 Smoke bumps her hip with his when he feels Annie’s steps become shy then taps the side of her chin with a finger. Annie jerks her head up to look at the side of his face as he continues to stare down Wilks yapping dog, the mutt continues to growl and snap but never truly lunges for them.  

“Don’t bow ya head in front of a mutt. It’ll think it can bite ya and you’ll yield if you do. Keep walkin’ how ya was and gon’ forward, we almost in town.”

Annie nods with a swallow and does as such. They go forward and make it past, the barks stopping abruptly once they are down a ways on the path. Smoke lets out a big sigh and turns his head forward, they get a few more steps before Annie’s neck aches again and she grip Smoke’s wrist hanging on her.

“Watch ya back!” She shrieks.

A snarl echoes behind them, the boxer was the one to pop his tie and charges with low growls for them. Annie backs away just as Smoke whirls around and shoves her behind him. With a brutal swing he connects the stick with the top of the dog's head, sending it dizzy but now truly angered. 

Smoke stays low and in between the dog and Annie, meeting each of the growl dog’s lunges with another successful swing. Annie scrambles forward and grabs a large rock off the ground in one hand and the other grabs a fistful of Smoke’s shirt in the back. Before he can holler or question her, Annie drags him with a jerk to the left. The dog’s teeth chop at air instead of mauling into Smoke’s shin how it originally intended to and Annie grunts as she pitches down the rock and lands with a thud on the boxer’s back. 

The dog yips in hurt defeat and bounds away from the two of them towards home, tail between its legs.

Smoke and Annie both heave for breath, both shake with the dump of adrenaline at the attack. Smoke tosses the stick aside and grabs Annie’s shoulder, he inspects it hands and arms first before looking over her face. 

Annie can’t help but grasp his wrists and  do the same. 

“You good?” Smoke pants and Annie nods.

“You, you?” she croaks and he nods.

They go still after another moment just trying to breath. However, the angry yells of Wilks, running stomps and more barking sound behind them and break their moment of reprieve.  Smoke swears, he turns his back to her and points a thumb to his back.

“C’mon!”

“Boy, you ain’t carryin’ me! I ain’t no stick!”

“We ain’t got time for this shit!”

Smoke whirls around and squat, “Elijah!” He wraps an arm around her hips and lifts with a slight grunt. He takes a moment to brace her legs to his chest with the other arm then takes off in his flour-bag carry of her. Annie yelps, her hands scrambles to grab the shoulder and back of his shirt as Smoke takes off in his flour-bag carry of her. 

She watches as Wilks and his non-injured dog race closer and closer to them. Annie closes her eyes tight and prays for strength to Smoke’s legs and for anything to obstruct their chasers. 

She opens her eyes to witness Wilks tripping over his own dog and hollers to beat it next. Smoke gains more speed and a firmier grip on her body.

All Annie can do now is close her eyes and pray she can handle this kinda ride. 

Five hours later, four dollars spent, three more rolls of bandages used, and a wild story told twice later; Annie has herself with one freshly repaired chicken coop. Annie nods as Mary helps Stack into his shoes, the twins and pale girl having to head to Mary’s house soon if they wanted to make it for supper. 

Annie walks out the house towards Smoke who firmly closes the new hatch door with a small smile of accomplishment. 

“ Elijah?” 

Smoke jumps a little at the sound of his name, but doesn’t let that smile fade. He may admit it later to his brother in the dead of the night but… Annie’s presence was starting to put a fuzzy and light feeling in his chest in a way that reminded him of that reefer weed from the night before. The fire in her eyes, the care in her voice, the way she wasn’t afraid to hold a blade up to him, the feeling of her soft and juicy skin pressed to his. Annie sure was something Smoke’s never encountered before and he hoped to have again.

“Antonia?”

“Here, you ought to wipe off before y’all move ‘round.” She hands him a dripping wet washcloth and with a nod he starts to wipe down his face and neck. Annie inspects his good work as he does so, letting her nails drag across the new wire and netting, she chuckles to find her rooster's approval with a cocky tut.

“This is a mighty fine coop, ‘Lijah. Oughta pay ya for something this nice.” she praises and Smoke shakes his head lightly with a puff of a laugh.

“Is that so?”

“Yea, name ya price,”

“Humph… how about, bangain’ up a knucklehead brother?”

Annie whistles sharply, “Elijah Moore, that’s a lowball bargain! You gonna have to up that price cus imma need you to know your worth.”  Annie smiles sweetly as that draws a real laugh out of him. Smoke settles himself against the side of the coop, washing his hands and looking Annie over. (She looked too pretty in this denim dress and white headscarf, her curls billowed like a halo out the top.) 

“...Well… hook me up wit breakfast again, it was pretty good. Ain’t had something that fillin’ in a while, it started my day.” Smoke compliments and Annie hums as she steps forward into his space.

“I think I can arrange it, catch ya at Hopson's witcha plate?”

“Nah, meet me at Sunflower.”

“Yeah, I can do that… let me see ya wrist.” 

Smoke does so without question. 

The pink of Annie’s tongue pokes out a tad between her lips as she ties a bracelet made of braided navy colored cord around Smoke’s wrist. Smoke can’t help but note it’s the same color as her satchel’s strap from earlier and that a turquoise bead from her necklace secures the knot of it. 

“That pays off some of your tab.” Smoke says and Annie smiles.

“And it adds to yours. I wanna go fishin’ next Sunday.” 

“ I gotta hidden spot on the creek, all trout in it. I’ll bring the poles, you bring the worms.” plans and Annie nods.

“That’ll cost you, Elijah.”

“You bargain hard, you may be too expensive for me.” Smoke jokes.

“Bring ya head my way and I’ll show ya how to pay it.”

And just like that, Annie and Elijah deal is sealed with a kiss.

_______________

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[sydwritess]

The Life of Racing Pt. 1

Lando Norris x fem!reader

Summary: through it all, the racing, the media, the meetings. What matters to Lando the most is you. His home life is just as important as track life. Some days, he doesn't balance it easily. But through it all, the both of you try. Going through some challenges, but always coming out together, hand in hand again.

Second Person POV

Notes: my first F1 series! Requests are open!

01 02 03 04 05

You were a well know journalist in the F1 community. You were known more for what your write. Articles on driving life, as well as interviewing drivers about their F1 experience as a whole.

To say the least, you were well respected in the community, and by the public, you were known as an influencer to. You showed up at multiple events and races, surly not as big of a base as the drivers, but people knew you.

You were hired by f1 around a year ago. Climbing your way up the ladder in the workforce.

You were grateful to be working there. And you weren't alone in it either. Your best friend, Lewis, has been by you for what feels like forever, seeing how your families did know each other too.

Article after article. Late night after late night. You got so well ahead that some of the drivers started talking to you and hanging out with you on paddock. Which tells the story itself, seeing how you were an interviewer.

Your main focus was on the McLaren team. Zak, your boss, knew you were a 'hard worker' from the moment he saw you, he said.

Now you were at the Canadian GP. You were walking out of the paddock and into the McLaren garage, sitting down at a desk they watched the races from.

You got out your laptop, notebook, and pen. Cliking it quickly on the desk, out of anxiousness.

"Y/n, did you get those interviews recorded today?" Zak asked, walking by you in a hurry.

"Yeah. I'm working on it." You say tiredly.

It was a long day to say the least. A long week. You look over to your right, seeing Lando sit down next to you.

He smiled slightly before logging into a computer.

"Looks like someone can't keep up with this job." And engineer said from the back.

"Will you shut the hell up?" You say, slamming your pen down and looking at the person. He just put his hands up in defense and turned around.

"Fucking Christ." You mumble, turning back around to your laptop.

"Y/n, do you need to go home? It's been a long day-." Zak said quietly, walking up behind you.

"No. I need to get this done." You say. He takes a deep breath before walking away.

You were working silently for a couple of minutes, writing down notes from today's interview.

"What are you working on?" Lando asked quietly, leaning over and looking at your screen.

"Just... today's interview." You say. He nodded his head silently.

"You know. Don't listen to Gerard. He's always and asshole." He says, a slight grin forming on his face.

"Thanks." You say, smiling slightly.

You continue working on different article drafts for Zak, hoping to get them published this week.

Next to you, you hear Lando sigh deeply, rubbing his hands on his temples slowly. He had the replay paused on his crash.

"You shouldn't let one crash define who you are." You say quietly.

"What do you mean?" He asked, looking at you with a straight face.

"Within the short time I've been here. I can tell your the type to beat yourself up about one mistake. You just... shouldn't." You say.

"You know, you definitely have some great opinions." He says, smirking.

"It's called... being open minded." You say, letting out a huffed laugh.

You continued to work on your drafts, while also looking at the interviews from today. You were deeply focused on what you were working on, signaling out Lando's voice.

"Do you want to hang out tonight?" That came clear to you.

"We can. But I'm just going to be reviewing the race. Nothing special." You say.

"That's fine. We can work, or do whatever." He smiled.

"Yeah, okay meet me at my hotel room around five." You say. You write down the floor and room number and give it to him.

"Fancy." He said slyly.

"Please, I bet you have a full house out there." You joke.

"Maybe. Maybe not. But..." He holds up the paper. "I'll meet you there." He says.

It get's closer to evening time, and people start to leave. You begin to pack up your things and leave the garage, walking down the paddock strip.

The crowds were dying down. There was a long line to get out of the gates. You walk around to the back entrance, mainly for workers.

You walk up to the gates, security guarding the entrance.

"Ms. Y/n, right this way." One of the guards say. He walks right next to you, leading you to your car.

You look at him slightly confused along the way.

"It's a new protocol. Anyone who works here, or who is known to the public eye, unfortunately needs escort." He says.

"Right, okay."

You walk down to your car, the guard opens your door for you.

"Thank you." You say, he nods and shuts it when you get in.

You slowly drive out of the parking lot, making your way out of the circuit and into downtown.

You made your way through the heavy evening traffic and to the hotel. You quickly walk through the lobby, and to the elevators.

It took a minute before the doors finally opened. You stepped inside, clicking the 30th floor button. The elevator slowly rose to the top.

You got off and walked down the hallway, entering your room at the end.

It was big to say the least. A little foyer at the front. Straight in is a small living room, to the left was a kitchen and small island, and to the right was a small hallway leading to the bedroom and bathroom.

It was spacious, which you were grateful for seeing how you were spending over a week here.

You kick off your shoes, putting them under the bench near the door, and dropping your keys down on the table.

You walk into the living area, quickly turning on the TV, putting on the race to review for work.

You walk over to the kitchen, grabbing a wine glass and a bottle of Barolo wine.

Your pour some into the glass and go sit int he living room, watching the TV and taking down notes.

You continue the notes that you need to when you hear a light knock on the room door. You walk over to it, and open it slightly. Lando stood there.

"Hey, come on in." You say, moving over. He walks in slowly, standing across from you as you close the door.

"I'm just finishing his up." You say, lazily pointing to the TV as you sit on the couch.

"It's alright, I don't mind watching me be a brilliant racer." He teased. Sitting down to the left of you.

"Yeah, I mean, you totally didn't crash or anything." You smile. You press play on the race, grabbing your notebook.

"You've got a lot of notes." He says.

"Got a lot of writing to do." You say.

You keep you eyes on the TV, writing down details of different laps. You are mid sentence when Lando reaches over and takes your book and pen, setting it down on the table.

"Hey, what are you-" You cut yourself off when he put's his hands around your waist, effortlessly pulling you onto his lap, gently kissing you on the forehead.

"I hate hiding us." He sighs. You reach your hand to the back of his head gently.

"I know. But you knew this when we started going out." You say.

"Is it wrong to want to brag about my beautiful girlfriend all over social media? Or tell people that your mine when walking around the paddock?" He whines.

"No, but you can't. It might get us in trouble." You say.

"By who?"

"By our boss. Who does, might I add, have a very, very high temper some days."

"We could find a new job."

"Your really willing to let go of a Formula One career for a relationship?"

"If it means I get to stay with you, then yes." He said, putting his head into the crook of your neck.

"You'll be fine. At least we get to be together after work."

"But it's to short of time." He mumbles into your neck. There was a pause, a deep silence.

"Do you know why I crashed today?" He asked, looking up at you.

"Why?"

"Because you weren't there to hold my hand, or kiss me before getting into the car or I couldn't post you on Instagram the night before." He said, slowly, and sadly.

"So am I just your good luck charm?"

"No- no, no I'm just saying. I missed you, that's why I crashed." He said, backing up his answer.

"Hmm, I think you crashed because you thought you could get through a gap that wasn't big enough." You say, looking him in the eyes.

"Because I wanted to impress you." He said, smirking.

"Impress me?"

"Yeah. Like how you impress me."

"How do I impress you?" You ask curiously.

"Because, some people might think your just another journalist, but your good at what you do. And you even need a security escort to your car at work." He said.

"Yeah, and he told me it's for every worker on the circuit."

"He just said that to make you feel not special." He said, pausing. "He downgraded my girlfriend."

"Downgraded? Lan I don't think-"

"Yes he did." He interrupted.

"Okay... whatever you want to believe." You say, smiling. He leans to the table, grabbing your book and pen.

"You can write again." He smiles.

"Thanks." You say. You flip open the notebook to an empty page, and start writing something.

Lando tried to peer over to your book, but you turned it away, closer to you. You finish writing your sentence, and give it to him.

"Lando Norris, states privately that he crashed into Oscar in Canadian GP due to his secret girlfriend, journalist y/n, y/l/n, not giving him a kiss before getting in the car." He mumbles.

"Y/n." He gasps. "You can't write this!" He said, scrambling the notebook back into your hands.

"Oh I'm sorry. Weren't you the one who wanted to brag about e everywhere?" You ask.

"Yes but that's different. That is my love. This." He said, tapping on the page. "Is just calling me out."

"I thought." You pause, working up fake tears. "I really thought you loved me." You say.

"Awe come on, don't be sad. I do love you." He says, cradling you in his arms like a kid.

"It's a joke."

"Not a very funny joke." He says sternly. You stay like that for a couple of minutes in silence. The race playing in the background.

"Can I spend the night tonight?" Lando asks.

"You really want to risk that?" You ask, pulling your head away fro hi.

"What do you mean?"

"What I mean is that you and Oscar are only a couple floors above us. He's staying right next to you. And he's suspicious of like... well everything." You say.

"So, I can just leave early."

"Right. Did you forget he has early training tomorrow?"

"Wait- how do you know that?"

"Because there's a calendar in the team garage."

"Okay, then I will leave extra, extra early." He says, smirking.

"Whatever you say." You smile.

Hey loves! Pt. 1 of 'The Life of Racing' is here! Hope you like it, any more chapters to come! Comment ot be added to the F1 tag list! Requests are open!

Tag list:

@mimisweetz

[vouges]

word count: 750 - nsfw, minors do not interact.

Tattoo artist Simon! who had a busy schedule, very high in demand yet for some reason always had a spot available for you.

Tattoo artist Simon! who swore the discount he gave you was just a friendly gesture, brushing it off as a way to make a loyal client feel appreciated.

Tattoo artist Simon! who never did more than necessary, the touch routine and practiced, yet with you he always let his fingers linger longer than they needed to, almost caressing, before you heard the familiar buzz of the needle.

"Gotta keep still for me, yeah?" he murmured, "Can’t be messing up my pretty canvas"

Tattoo artist Simon! who felt like a fool every time his cock hardened when you’d send through a picture of your healed up tattoo, with a sweet little thank you message always accompanied by a heart that pathetically made him want to cum in his boxers.

Tattoo artist Simon! who insisted you were just another client, even as he fucked his fist to the images of you engrained into his mind. He felt like a desperate mess, cock achingly hard as ropes of cum shot out, splattering across his stomach all from the slithers of skin that he’d seen when tattooing you. God, how easily you made him feel like an inexperienced virgin.

Tattoo artist Simon! who messaged back embarrassingly fast when you asked if he ever wanted to meet up outside of just a tattooing session. He cringed afterwards, noticing the typos and the awkward combination of emojis used.

'A thumbs up and two smiles?' he thought to himself, 'Real great Simon, should've thrown in the entire happy categories of emojis whilst you're at it'

Tattoo artist Simon! who couldn't believe his luck when you and him wound up on your sofa after dinner and a few drinks at a local pub but makes no move to question it as you both kiss messily, tongues dancing and hands reaching everywhere they can with the current restriction of your clothes.

"Wow- this is actually happening, huh?" he mumbled as you kissed messily, hands grasping at each other, "God, you've no idea how long I've been waiting for this"

Tattoo artist Simon! who had to bite down on your shoulder to muffle the groan that escaped him as he bottomed out in you for the first time. Hands gripping your hips tight enough to bruise as if he was scared you'd disappear if he let up.

"Fuuuck-" he whispered shakily as he tried to remind himself you had neighbours and very thin walls, "God that feels so good."

Tattoo artist Simon! who quickly gave up on any attempt to be quiet once he heard how pretty your moans sounded, selfishly wanting them to grace his ears with every thrust as he tilted your head back, not wanting you to stifle your moans with the cushions underneath you.

"Shit- no, keep making those sounds," he murmured, breath hot against your skin, "Wanna hear every single one of ‘em, don't go quiet on me, doll"

Tattoo artist Simon! who honestly felt like he'd never experienced sex this good, even on a less than comfortable sofa that he knew would leave him sore in the morning, it was worth it as he felt your pussy clench around his cock, so warm and tight, milking him for all his worth.

"Fuck- so...so, good-" he almost whined, punctuating each word with a thrust, his balls slapping against your skin as he increased tempo, "Could stay like this forever."

Tattoo artist Simon! who kissed you with so much more care than you'd ever expect as you both came, you gushing around his cock as his cum shot out, painting your walls, before slowly oozing out from where you were both connected.

Tattoo artist Simon! who had to take a moment to admire the sight of your blissed out face as you lay back on the sofa, slick with sweat and his cum running out of you.

Tattoo artist Simon! who laughed as he lay beside you on a sofa that was way too small, the both of you talking about everything and nothing at all before realising you'd both denied wanting this for so long.

"I tried so hard not to like you, thinking you were too good for me- hoping it would keep the thoughts at bay," he chuckled, a contagious sound as he ran his fingers across your skin, "Didn’t work for shit obviously with you wanting me just as bad."

[xuyiyang]

The last time I read something from you was on my last uni break, and now I'm currently in the other one because I realized in my mind I need time to process everything you wrote. And I was right. This was something.

I LOVE THIS. I'm a sucker for doctor/surgeon Na Jaemin, so I just ate this up. I had to take a few moments to read, especially the initial part with Aseul, seeing her intentions of doing what a mother should do besides her condition really stabbed me. At first, I felt so lost because I was ready for all that doctor drama, but slowly everything unfolded, and I realized there was no better way to start than with part of Aseul's story, so no complaints.

I feel like from what I've read of the other protagonists, this was the one I connected with the most. Outside of the similarities (I'm her, she's me), I feel like anyone who reads this will detect that idk she felt so real? Her emotions, reactions, silences, everything about her. Her life nearly collapsed between her career, rotations, friends, patients, doctors, Haneun. So much was going on, but she still made the effort to keep everything afloat.

I loved seeing Jaemin's fatherly side; sometimes it made me wish responsible fatherhood was possible /jk. How he adores Haneun, where he gives his all for her safety, was a beautiful read and sometimes frustrating since not everything can always go well ;( Let me tell you, when I read the summary I never thought Jaemin would be Haneun's biological father, that was a good slap on my face jshdjs but nothing better than reading a hot dilf, her cute daughter, and a hot intern and future mother🙂‍↕️

Haneun made me want to be a mother, that's enough. And I ADORE her scenes with the protagonist. Sometimes I just wanted to skip the Jaemin parts with her because I know Haneun is a mommy's girl (you can tell me otherwise, but I won't change my mind🙂‍↔️). I cried a lot, especially with the mama part, I just wanted to hug y/n:(((( we're both crybabies

As for the relationship between Jaemin and the protagonist, sometimes I wanted to punch him, he just pissed me off, she's too good for him imo. Their relationship had all the possible emotions, making for a very good development from the purely professional, open up emotionally, to fucking in the office(? I loved their dynamic. AND I LOVE THE TENSION so I ate up too those scenes where they would sneak away and those illegal things ;b

Jaemin:

You don't know how frustrated I was when I saw cameos and references to the other books (which sometimes I didn't understand like Jeno and Nabi are not together??? who's his fiancee?? Maybe the are and I'm just so dumb or idk) and having to give me spoilers because I wanted to keep reading but well, I asked for it ajbfjdjs

Regarding smut, I said this in my back to you reply (hopefully I continue reading it after sending this) you always make me read things that I'm not a big fan. I'm not a devoted vanilla girl but sometimes I felt like:

So it's kind of funny that I always detach reading because I can't with some kinks but with your works that never happens akbfks. Your like my therapist but of kinks.

Messy sex 🥳WE CHEERED ngl it was funny that they were interrupted fucking. Wdym your sucking nipples while your daughter is dying??? But I didn't think it was going to be such a cliffhanger. Please tell me that Haneun doesn't die pls pls pls

You're an amazing writer. I was so invested in the Aseul arc and all that research you did for this story WOW it only demonstrates your commitment to what you do, and for that reason, you always deliver the best. I'm not that great with words and my English sucks, but hopefully this contributes to your ego because I will be insufferable if I ever write all of this series. As I said last time, be proud of your work :)

heart to heart

word count - 44k words 

genre - smut, fluff, angst, age gap (10 years)

pairing — surgeon!na jaemin x intern! mc 

synopsis — your attending, dr. na jaemin, is all frost and control, never meeting your gaze, never letting your name pass his lips. but when his delicate, ballet-loving daughter, haeun, clings to you, calling you “mama” with heartbreaking certainty, you find yourself caught between aching shyness and a growing, dangerous desire. the tension between you and jaemin smolders, silent and electric, until tragedy cracks his careful world: a black swan dimming his ballerina dove.  in the chaos, you gamble everything—career, reputation, even your heart—to keep haeun safe. and when the crisis passes, jaemin’s gratitude is anything but clinical: he teaches you things no textbook could, drawing out every trembling confession and every secret longing, until you’re begging to be ruined at his hands.

chapter warnings — explicit language, explicit sexual content(18+), explicit themes, greys anatomy (and early 2000s medical shows) inspired, early 2000s vibe, power play, dom jaemin/sub mc dynamics, rough sex, intimate sex, explicit language, rough attending-intern sex, ‘teach me’ bimbo kink, sir/bimbo dirty talk, throat grabbing, choking, forced eye contact, spit in mouth, spit as lube, face slapping, riding cock, begging for cock, loss of virginity, forced to beg, “be my fucktoy,” licking cum, cum on face, breast sucking, breast slapping, face fucking, legs spread, praise and degradation, crying while fucked, size kink, making a mess, throat fucking, being held open, orgasm control, daddy kink, grinding, public risk, denied release, “good girl” praise, ownership, dominant doctor, ruined for anyone else, crying after sex, body worship, being used, clean-up with tongue, possessive aftercare, this fic is deeply inspired by classic medical dramas—think grey’s anatomy—and if you know lexie grey, you’ll recognize the mc’s big heart, wild memory (photographic memory) and relentless optimism in a world that rarely offers comfort. please be warned: this is an adult story in every sense. it explores mental illness, physical illness, trauma, life and death. infant death is prevalent in this part, this chapter is set a year after part one, haeun is now two and she speaks, she’s adorable in this part, her dialogue might get some getting used to, i use hyperrealistic toddler speech, themes of found family, non-traditional parenting, single fatherhood, overwhelming child adoration, possessive child affection, haeun finds her mama this chapter🫶, oooh back to you lovers will love a very integral scene, important character cameos, domestic intimacy and loving, explicit depiction of medical caregiving (feeding, medication, inhalers, chest pain, child understanding illness), very innocent, naive, joyful two-year-old perspective (toddler-centric worldview), lots of ballerina scenes🩰, this chapter is the most traumatic thing i’ve ever written i’m warning you guys lol.

𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄, 𝐅𝐈𝐂 𝐌𝐋

listen to 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 whilst reading <3

Nana Haeun wasn’t born into safety, she was stitched into it, woven gently with every kiss pressed to her tiny forehead and each whispered promise murmured against the quiet rhythm of her heart. Her first breath was drawn in darkness, sharp and sterile beneath unforgiving fluorescent lights, every gasp met with the echo of her birth mother’s cruel promises, insisting that she, an innocent, harmless baby, was “a parasite,” she’d whispered into her swollen womb, vowing to end her before she ever saw the world. That voice, fractured by schizophrenia, tried to smother her life before it began, branding her existence an insolent wound that must be cut away. But in Jaemin’s arms, she discovered that breath could become a hymn, that lungs could fill not with fear but with sunrise. He’s her healer and her harbor, the quiet hands that steady her wildest turns, the steadfast voice that calls her home when her own heartbeat quivers. Once her world was measured in the soft taps of tiny ballerina feet, Haeun’s eager kicks pressing bright hopes against from the inside of her mother’s belly, it was answered by cruel blows, fists hammering those hopeful walls, and poisoned pills that seeped through her veins before she ever drew breath. Each kick, a yearning for warmth and welcome, was met with pain and whispered curses, branding her an unwanted burden long before she could see the sky. 

She had lain on that rooftop once, an unforgiving stretch of gravel and broken glass, where her mother pressed her down like a discarded doll and vanished into the night, the city’s distant roar her only lullaby. Beneath a cold sky that offered no promise, the wind scraped across her tiny form, a cruel witness to a world so high and yet so achingly alone. Yet all of that has melted into memory now, replaced by sunlit mornings in Jaemin’s arms where the ache of old wounds dissolves beneath his gentle hands. He greets her first breath with a soft hymn of “Good morning, my baby girl,” pressing his palm over her scar as though sealing her fragile universe against every shadow. In that quiet communion, her heartbeat becomes more than survival—a lyric he has memorized, each beat a vow that darkness will never claim her again. With the tenderness of dawn itself, he lifts her onto his hip and carries her to the window, draping a pastel quilt across her shoulders like morning mist. She leans in, cheek brushing cool glass, eyes wide as she watches dust motes drift through golden beams. a private constellation just for her. Then, with a mischievous glint in her eye, she reaches upward and he lifts her higher so her arms spread wide. “Catch the sunshine,” he whispers, and she giggles, the light pooling in her laughter, weightless and free. His own laughter follows, a warm ripple through the hush and in that single, sunlit moment, their two hearts entwine, radiant against the pale promise of a brand-new day.

Now, when dawn slips beneath the curtains, it finds her spinning barefoot on hardwood floors, small feet tapping like raindrops, laughter tumbling free in a melody pure enough to make grief shrink back into shadows. The room blooms with her light, bathed in honey-yellow warmth, and he watches from a distance, he’s never too far, eyes soft as he tracks her tiny orbit. She’s his white-winged dove, dancing on shafts of dawn that he gently coaxes into being, every flutter of her tiny feet a silent ballet across the floor he holds steadfast beneath her. In his arms, she becomes a ballerina in a sky of gold, spinning free because he is the quiet tide beneath her, the gardener of her every blossom, the steady tide that carries her laughter like petals in the wind. His fingertips trace invisible barres along her spine, guiding each unsteady pirouette, catching her at the slightest tremor so she never knows the sting of a misstep. He’s both mirror and anchor: her reflection in his soft gaze and the sure shore to which her wildest leaps return. In that hushed intimacy, her breath warm against his chest, the soft coo of her coalescing joy, he finds his own rhythm, the echo of two hearts learning the same secret dance: that true safety is found not in unbroken floors, but in the embrace that steadies you when you dare to fly.

She is both blossom and sun—fragile yet radiant, always turning instinctively toward the calm certainty of his love. Like a sunflower rising and falling with each movement of the sky, her eyes seek his, brightening to match his smile, dimming gently into sleep beneath his patient whispers. Her joy pulls him like a tide, relentless and steady, and he submits willingly, the shore shaped entirely by her ebb and flow. Where once her body was fragile, uncertain beneath hospital wires and the cold hum of medical machines, now she blooms fiercely in soft cotton dresses, embroidered daisies stitched by patient hands, and bunny ears peeking shyly from rumpled blankets. Their home has become her garden, nurtured quietly by his tending: every small gesture a gardener’s touch, careful, attentive, coaxing growth from soil that once felt barren.

It isn’t the hospital monitors that kept her heart steady now, it's the way he folds her socks carefully in pairs, tiny and mismatched in colors that make her clap with delight; the way he pours her cereal gently into her favorite bunny bowl, letting her believe each scattered spill was perfect; the soft notes of lullabies he hums against the delicate curve of her back as she nestles into sleep, feeling at home in his arms. Her world is plastered in her art. endless sketches of Dada and Haeun hand in hand, ribboned hearts and sunbursts curling around their figures, each page a testament to the joy they share. On one especially proud morning, she unveiled a crayon masterpiece, letters wobbling with toddler earnestness: “Dada Nana Jaemin and Baby Nana Haeun.” She needed a little help lining up the words, so he steadied her hand with gentle fingers, whispering each name as she traced it into being. That single drawing, taped above the kitchen sink, sings of their shared promise: two names, two hearts, sketched side by side in bright, uneven strokes—forever echoing the laughter and love that fill every corner of their sunlit home. She had saved him long before he ever knew she was his; a tiny heartbeat pulsing through his darkest hours, a silent promise that the sun would rise again. Now every morning he wakes, breathes her name, and returns the favor.

Jaemin—the healer, the gardener, the tide; hands quiet yet strong enough to mend, soothe, and anchor. His love was not loud, but it is relentless, threading through their days with gentle insistence. He checks her pulse with instinctive care, fingertips soft against her small wrist, listening not for crisis but for reassurance, proof that she’s truly safe. And she—his bloom, his ballerina, his bright-eyed sunflower—moves freely because he keeps her grounded, the constant gravity beneath her dance. The miracle was never that she was cured; it was that she grew at all, wild and sure, petals unfurling season after season beneath his tender gaze.

He doesn’t raise her in silence but in careful, whispered symphonies: mornings bathed in golden sunlight filtering through curtains, tiny shoes lined crookedly by the door, one perpetually missing its partner; bunny dolls scattered across every room, worn and beloved, silent witnesses to the life she lives fiercely and loved. She has no memory of sterile rooms, harsh hands, cold stares, only the safety of her father’s arms, the rhythmic lull of his breath, the warmth of his lips against her scar, murmuring affirmations of bravery that make her chest swell with pride.

In every soft cradle of his hands, Jaemin tends the fragile promise of her life like a patient gardener coaxing a bud to unfold. His fingers trace the curve of her scar as tender as raindrops on new petals, and with each gentle touch, she unfurls a little more—cheeks rounding into blooms of laughter, limbs stretching toward tomorrow’s light. The wonder isn’t that she is cured—no surgeon’s stitch can grant that miracle—but that under his unwavering care she grows, season by season, into a fearless flower in a world that once sought to trample her. Haeun turns to him as a sunflower greets dawn, her whole being seeking the warmth of his steady gaze. She glows in his presence—bright as buttercup yellow against the grayest day—because he is the sun he promised to be, rising without fail at the edge of every morning. And he, in turn, lives for the orbit of her joy: her smile a beacon that draws him from exhaustion’s shadows and sets him splendidly alight, each day begun anew by the radiance of her trust.

She moves through their home like an untamed waltz, every step a wild arc of delight that defies her tender age and frail beginnings. Yet at the moment her pirouette falters, his hands—steady as mountain roots—reach out to catch her, guiding her spin with invisible strings of devotion. In that interplay of freedom and safety, her dance becomes their shared choreography, her wild heart carried safely on the tether of his unwavering love. Their pulses draw them together in a silent orbit, two small worlds bound by the invisible pull of love’s truest measure. Each thump of her mended heart echoes in his chest like a whispered vow, and every quiver of his own steady rhythm reassures her that she need never face the dark alone. They circle in perpetual motion—he circling her delight, she circling his steadfastness—until the space between them dissolves, and all that remains is the warm gravity of two hearts beating as one.

She never ponders the emptiness of a mother’s embrace, for in his arms she finds every warmth she could ever need—each bedtime story whispered against her crown like a sacred incantation, every strand of hair braided by fingers that tremble only with devotion, each “dada” breathed in reverence as though it were her lifeline. Her triumphs—the first unsteady totter across sunlit floors, the proud proclamation of her own name, the peals of laughter that follow the tickle of sea foam on her tiny toes—are his proof that miracles are born in the hush of ordinary moments. Jaemin hadn’t planned this destiny, yet the role of her father settled around him as naturally as skin: fierce in his protection, unwavering in his claim, magnetic in the way his gaze maps every contour of her joy. There was never a moment when he felt unprepared; “I’m her dad,” he always says with deliberate pride, voice rich and certain, and in that single declaration he binds himself to her unseen scars and brightest smiles—healer, guardian, and loving architect of her world—forever. In that moment his possessiveness becomes a shield around her heart—a healer’s oath, a guardian’s embrace—perfectly tailored to the role he was born to fill.

Their days are marked by tenderness so palpable it settles like golden dust on every surface, each sunbeam catching the soft hum of their routines. Sticky notes cling to the fridge—“milk, bunny snacks, new crayons”—while photographs crowd every shelf: sand speckling her curls at the edge of the tide, raincoat canaries splashing through puddles, the hush of afternoon naps with his stubble brushing her temple. Her laughter spills free and unmeasured by any heart monitor, gauged instead by the brilliant sparkle in her eyes, the rosy fullness of her cheeks, the fierce certainty with which she clings to warmth and wonder. They orbit one another like twin suns, each heartbeat a secret force pulling them ever closer into their shared daylight. Every morning arrives as a vow whispered in the hush of dawn, that shadows can be left behind, that healing arrives not only in medicine’s measured drops but in soft-spoken promises and gentle hands. She rises because his arms are unwavering; he breathes because her smile is unstoppable. In their perfect, private orbit, grief fades into legend, replaced by the glow of a sunrise they kindle together. And though she remains a fragile, still-sick infant—her world threaded through daily doses and careful checks—love endures as their truest balm, the most potent healer of all.

The night Jaemin carries her across the apartment threshold is thinner than paper, so quiet it seems the walls themselves hold their breath to keep from startling the life bundled against his chest. Only hours earlier fluorescent lights had carved harsh angles across the NICU, alarms blinking like erratic stars, but here the hush feels padded, a space softened purely for her. She doesn’t cry—not once. She only blinks up at him from the muslin blanket he’s swaddled her in, eyes wide and moon-bright, as though she already knows this is where her story begins again. He lays his cheek to her downy crown and murmurs, “This is home now, baby girl. No one ever leaves you again.” The promise tastes like salt on his lips; he sets her on the center of his bed because nothing else feels good enough, clicks on the night-light, and sinks to the hardwood beside her. For months after, he sleeps there on the floor, body curled toward hers, shadow learning to orbit her shape the way gravity bends to a star.

In a heartbeat his life reroots itself around her tiny pulse. The revolving door of late-night shifts, faceless bodies, and the anesthetic haze of barroom shots slams shut; liquor drains down the sink, pills flush away in a swirl, and the phone numbers that once cluttered his call log delete themselves like ghosts. He trades silk sheets for cotton crib sheets, echoing hallways for lullaby-soft rooms. He wakes to midnight squeaks instead of alarms, scribbles feeding times on Post-its in place of surgery times, and swaps designer cologne for the faint vanilla of baby lotion. Yet none of it feels like sacrifice—only relief, the ease of stepping into clothes he must’ve been born for.

The first dawn after brings a hush so luminous it almost hurts. He stands over her crib long before sunrise bronzes the blinds, tears pricking when he realizes the tiny rise and fall of her breathing belongs to him. When her eyes flutter open, he vows again—quiet, sure, irrevocable—to be healer, guardian, everything. Her fist curls around one of his fingers; for the first time since med-school cadavers and late-night code blues, his hands tremble. On the second night, Jaemin’s front lock clicks and in strides Lee Jeno, suitcase rolling behind him, expecting nothing more than a couch and catch-up beers. Jaemin opens the door with swollen, sleepless eyes and a tiny girl balanced on his arm, her face bright with a gummy grin. “She’s mine,” he chokes out, voice shredded by awe. Jeno’s breath stalls; shock drains the color from his knuckles where his grip tightens on the suitcase handle. Haeun—still so new, still so innocent—reaches out and seizes Jeno’s offered finger with startling strength. In that instant the apartment’s thin hush swells with something unnameable.

Jeno sinks to his knees, throat working around words that won’t come. “How…?” he starts, tears glassing his lashes as she coos at the stranger she’s already decided to adore. Jaemin folds to the floor beside him and spills the entire impossible litany. For a year he felt the silent tug of a child’s presence in his life, an invisible orbit he couldn’t name, only to learn later that the unseen pull had always been his own daughter’s. How he’d doubted whether he was even her father, but the moment the test came back positive, relief seeped into him like dawn breaking through night. How legal storms finally broke open, papers signed in midnight ink, how the cardiology files are thicker than her storybooks. He speaks of her heart’s zigzag scar, the medications timed like metronomes, the surgeries penciled in for seasons that haven’t arrived. Jeno listens, palm cupped protectively beneath her slipper-soft head, and when Haeun gurgles her approval his composure fractures: a wet laugh, a soft sob, the glaze of saline on her tiny brow where his tears fall.

Finally he whispers, voice hoarse, “Why does she look like my ex girlfriend?” The name, his lost love, his unopened letter, hangs brittle in the air. Jaemin’s shoulders cave; he tells of the mother whose mind ruptured into shadows, who called the child a parasite and tried to drown her future in pills and fists. He recounts a rooftop’s cracked tar where her newborn lungs first tasted sky, and the silent vow he made when he found her: never again.

The apartment stills around them, the hush broken only by Haeun’s shy coo. Jeno, gathering himself, extends a gentle hand. “May I hold her?” he asks, voice soft as apology.

At first she hesitates, little brows knitting as she peers up at Jaemin, as if seeking permission in his steady gaze. Then, with a tiny nod and an uncertain “Da?” she accepts. Jeno lifts her into his arms and she perches on his knee, curls brushing his collar, eyes wide as she studies the man who is now her “Uncle Nono.” Her laughter sparkles free when he tickles her ribs, a sudden bell of delight, and she babbles “Nono! Nono!” before leaning forward to bury her face in his shoulder.

Jaemin watches with a tender smile, then begins to introduce his daughter in the proud, loving way of a father who cannot contain his devotion. “This is Nana Haeun,” he says, voice rich with warmth. “She’s one year and one month old, already she stands steady on her own two feet, though she still totters when she’s very excited. She loves blueberries more than anything, they stain her lips purple, and she refuses peas every time, scrunching up her nose until you pick them off her plate. Her favorite toy is Bunny, the scruffy rabbit you see peeking from her sleeve, and she insists on bringing him everywhere, even to the kitchen for pancakes.”

He leans closer, brushing a lock of hair from her forehead. “She has a habit of humming to herself when she’s concentrating, on stacking blocks or turning pages in her books—and she’s fascinated by birds. Whenever one chirps outside the window, she freezes and whispers ‘tweet-tweet’ under her breath.” His eyes glisten as he adds, “Her laughter is like sunshine after rain, and she gives the best hugs, arms wrapped so tight you can’t help but feel she’ll never let go. She’s brave, even when her chest feels tired, and she’s already learned to tell me every time something hurts. 

Jaemin’s voice softens to that fond, almost reverent register he reserves only for her. “She’s absolutely wild for yellow,” he begins, brushing a curl from her brow. “Sunflower dresses, rubber ducks, banana slices, the whole world has to glow for her. She points at anything canary-bright and says, ‘Yew-yow!’ like it’s the greatest revelation on earth.” Haeun nods solemnly, as though confirming the report, then twists so she can peek up at the kitchen wall where her crayon masterpiece glows in golden scribbles. “And she’s already a dancer,” Jaemin continues, pride blooming warm beneath his ribs. “Saturday mornings we go to a toddler ballet class, tiny barre, tinier tutus. She copies every plié, even if her knees wobble, and bows at the end like she’s on the grandest stage.” Haeun responds with a shy flourish of her free hand, then giggles when Jeno pretends to applaud, whispering, “Encore, princess.”

“Movie nights are sacred,” Jaemin adds, eyes crinkling. “Barbie and the 12 Dancing Princesses, Barbie Swan Lake, Barbie Princess Charm School, she chants the lines under her breath, claps when the credits roll, then begs, ‘Again, Dada!’ We make popcorn, though half of it ends up in her lap because she’s too busy reciting dialogue.” 

Haeun nods vigorously, parroting, “Baw-bie!” before leaning into Jeno’s chest with a sleepy hum.

Jaemin’s tone grows gentle. “She loves cuddles, too—proper koala hugs that last forever. If I try to put her down before she’s finished, she does this wounded little gasp.” He demonstrates, drawing a hand to his chest and widening his eyes in mock heartbreak. Haeun copies the gesture with a tiny dramatic sigh, which makes Jeno erupt in quiet laughter. “She’s always been brave in water,” Jaemin goes on, “so I started teaching her to swim at the hospital hydro-therapy pool. She kicks like a tadpole, keeps her chin above the surface, and squeals ‘splash!’ until we’re both soaked.” He pauses, thumb smoothing the edge of her sleeve. “She sleeps through the night now, nine hours straight, can you believe it? But those first two months…” His gaze drifts, shadowed by memory. “She woke every two hours, gasping, chest aching. I used to sing until the pain eased, then dose her medicine and pace the room until dawn.”

Jaemin straightens, warmth returning to his expression. “Daily meds are still a must—digoxin in the morning, furosemide after lunch—but she takes them like a champ. We chase each dose with a sip of sunny-yellow mango juice; that part she adores.” He chuckles. “And she counts everything. Steps, stickers, kisses. Yesterday she gave me nine smooches and told me, ‘Ten tomowwow!’ as if love is just another milestone to tackle.”

It takes Haeun scarcely a breath to decide that Jeno belongs inside the small, sun-soaked circle of her heart—she gauges goodness by the steadiness of a voice, by the gentleness of arms that wrap without squeezing, and in him she feels only softness—so she scoots higher against his chest, cheek resting over the thunder of a stranger’s heartbeat that already sounds like home. Jeno eases one broad palm along her back, eyes bright as he introduces himself in a whisper thick with wonder. “I’m your Uncle Jeno, sweetheart. I'm your Daddy’s best friend since we were barely taller than your bunny.  We used to race bikes till our knees turned to bruised peaches, we shared lockers, secrets, and every dream we own, and now my biggest dream is to watch you grow.” He vows to be the giant who slings her onto his shoulders at parades, the steady anchor beside her daddy during long hospital nights, the supplier of endless yellow crayons when hers wear to hopeful stubs, and the keeper of spare bunnies in case the original gets too loved to hop. He promises to be the shoulder she can nap on during long hospital waits, the giant who lifts her high enough to steal kisses from clouds. He tells her she is the greatest surprise a life can deliver, a gift wrapped in sunrise and ribboned with courage, and he vows, under his breath so only she can hear, that no shadow will ever touch her while he stands guard. When each pledge he tickles her ribs until soft hiccup-giggles bubble up; he counts them like free-throw swishes, grinning when she clamps his thumb in her tiny fist and coos at him. 

“I travel a lot because I play basketball in the big, shiny NBA, but every flight will bring me back to you. I’ll send postcards from every city, teach you to dribble when your legs are ready, and cheer louder than anyone each time your brave heart beats another milestone.” He promises postcards splashed with city skylines, miniature jerseys stitched with her name, courtside tickets the moment she can sit still for four quarters (or at least two). “You’re the most precious, most beautiful girl ever, you know that? I’m going to love you so much it’ll make the stars jealous. Now, can you say ‘Uncle Jeno’ for me, princess?”  She furrows her brow in fierce concentration, tongue poking the corner of her mouth, and after a heartbeat of determined silence declares, “Unca… Nono!!”—the mispronunciation is a triumphant bell that rings straight through his chest and seals the promise forever.

The moment Jeno settles on the couch, Haeun is already shimmying across his lap, tiny feet pattering like raindrops on soft carpet. She flings her arms around his neck and chirps, “Unca No-no!” in a voice so bright it feels like sunshine. He scoops her up and she giggles, “Hee-hee, No-no hug!”—words tumbling over each other as she buries her cheek in his stubbled jaw. Jeno’s laughter rumbles through her like a gentle drum, and she peers up at him with wide, trusting eyes.

“Do you like tickles, princess?” he teases, fingers poised. 

She clasps her hands together, nodding twice, and coos, “No-no tickle me, pwetty pwease!” The plea is so earnest that he can’t resist. His fingertips dance over her ribs and she squeals, “I wuv you, No-no!” between bursts of laughter, then commands, “Kissy time, No-no, mwah!” pressing a sticky peck to his cheek.

He responds with a gentle smooch atop her head, murmuring, “I love you more, Haeun.” She stretches up to catch another kiss, then snuggles closer. “More cuddle, No-no!” she demands, snuggling into the crook of his arm as if she’s always belonged there. When he tries to shift away for a moment, she tugs his collar, giggling, “Again, No-no! Again!”—and he leans back into her pull with a soft sigh of delight.

Jaemin’s throat tightens and his eyes brim as he watches Haeun nestle against Jeno’s chest—her world blooming wider with every laugh they share. She senses the swell of his emotion and lifts Bunny, tapping her velveteen paw gently on Jaemin’s nose. “Dada happy,” she declares with baby certainty, bright eyes never leaving him. Then she turns and pokes Jeno’s cheek, cooing, “No-no happy!” Her smile deepens as she traces her finger over her own heart. “And Hae-hae happy!” she adds, voice ringing like tiny bells, and in that gilded moment both men exhale softly, hearts full to bursting.

Jaemin presses a gentle palm to Haeun’s back and murmurs into the hush, “She’s the most loving girl I’ve ever known, once she decides you’re hers, you hold her heart forever. She doesn’t waste a moment: she knows good people by their kindness, and her instincts are never wrong.” Haeun lifts her head, eyes bright as moonlit dew, and peers between the two men—Uncle Nono’s warm grin and Daddy’s steady gaze—then snuggles closer to Jeno, patting his chest with a solemn “Safe… safe.” Jeno’s fingers drift through her curls as he whispers, “You’re the sweetest little one, Haeun. You’re making me want to be a daddy now.”

Haeun’s eyelids droop as she nestles deeper into Jeno’s arms, the soft glow of the living room wrapping around them like a blanket. Above the coffee machine, a chart of medications stands guard; yellow sticky notes remind them to buy fresh crayons, and a stack of ballet shoes waits patiently by the door for tomorrow’s dance. She yawns, forming a perfect little “O,” then tucks her head beneath Jeno’s jaw and murmurs, “Night-night, No-no.”

He brushes a kiss across her forehead and whispers, “Good night, my princess,” voice warm as honey. He and Jaemin share a glance, Jeno’s eyes glisten in the fading light. “She’s perfect, you know,” he breathes.

Jaemin’s heart bruises with gratitude as he watches his best friend’s finger traced gently along the soft curve of her cheek, Jeno murmuring promises of beaches and birthday balloons while she blinks up, entranced. The three of them stay like that until moonlight curls through the window, Jeno rocking her with doctor-steady hands, Jaemin steadying Jeno with his own. Somewhere between those breaths, Haeun drifts into sleep, safe between healer and brother, the world outside shrinking to the quiet thunder of two men learning what it means to love a fragile universe more than themselves. Jaemin’s nod is quiet but resolute. “She’s more than perfect.” And in the soft stillness that follows, Haeun’s gentle, even breathing fills the room, a reminder that sometimes the greatest miracles curl up in your arms, small and fragrant as mango juice and sunrise, teaching you that love can rebuild worlds.

By the time Haeun turns two, Uncle Nono has settled into her world as surely as sunrise. When Daddy’s pager chirps at dawn or the weight of night shifts pulls Jaemin into the hospital’s hum, Jeno swoops in, cape optional, but always present, in a flurry of laughter and pastel balloons. He whisks her out on “dates” that feel as grand as any gala: trips to the corner bakery where she perches atop the counter stool, sugar-dusted cheeks pressed against the glass, declaring each pastry “just right” before he buys her a strawberry tart. They wander through the park on golden afternoons, Jeno’s giant hand cradling her small grip as she toddles over sunlit paths, stopping to examine every snail trail like it’s the world’s greatest wonder. On rainy days they build fortress cities on the living room floor, she barks commands in her baby-soldier voice, “no-no, we need more pillows!” while he salutes with a stuffed bunny and bows to her with theatrical flair. When Daddy finally breaks away from the hospital lights to join them, he finds Haeun perched in Jeno’s lap, curly head tipped back in gleeful abandon, eyes shining with the simple trust of a child who knows love has many arms.

She adores him without reservation, her second-favorite person only behind the strong rhythm of Jaemin’s heartbeat, and each reunion is an event. The moment she spies him through the front door, she squeaks “Unca Nono!” and launches herself into his open arms, tiny legs kicking as though she could fly. She plants a sticky kiss on his cheek, delivered with the solemnity of her own “hello, my boyfwen!”—and his laughter rumbles through her like a joyous promise. Jaemin watches with a mock glare that softens at the corners; this is the purest proof that her heart has room for more than one home. Even in the quiet of bedtime, she clutches Jeno’s hand as he tucks her in, babbling about tomorrow’s “bakey date” and “pawk walk,” and he strokes her brow while whispering, “Sleep now, my sunshine,” weaving a lullaby that carries her seamlessly between worlds. In every shared glance, in every crumb of cookie handed across the table, their bond deepens, a testament to how fiercely a child can love, and how joy multiplies when hearts open wide.

Fatherhood slips over Jaemin like a name he’s worn all his life. He never hesitates when paperwork asks for relation; he writes father in bold, black strokes, no trembling pen, no half-apology. During rounds he introduces himself with steady pride: “I’m Dr. Na, and this is my daughter, Haeun.” He offers no elaborate backstory when curious residents fish for gossip, just a soft shrug and, “She’s my miracle,” because what else could explain how perfectly the title fits? It glints on his tongue brighter than any academic honor, shields him fiercer than any white coat, and he carries it the way a lighthouse carries flame. steady, undeflected by wind or doubt. 

Love remakes her daily: she isn’t cured but she gleams. Her cheeks are plump with color, lips a soft rose, eyes forever laughing as though every moment is worth celebrating twice. Each dawn he lifts her shirt and traces the silver scar across her chest, whispering, “Strong girl.” She squirms and giggles—“Tickles, Dada!”—but lets him finish the ritual because she knows it hurts him more to skip it than her to endure it. A milestone board beside the fridge testifies to their victories in bright marker: “I said Dada 10 times!” “I walked to the elevator by myself!” “I read Bunny Book!” Photographs crowd the walls, her curls salted with beach sand, the first crayon portrait labeled ‘me & dada,’ tiny paint-smeared footprints meandering across a canvas they forgot to hang. Home is a living scrapbook, and she is its radiant center.

Beyond the front door their adventures bloom. At the park she flings fistfuls of sand while he feigns outrage, chases her until she squeals, then kneels to kiss the “warrior boo-boos” on her knees. At the beach she rides his back through foamy shallows, buries his feet to the ankles, and squeals when he wiggles free to tickle her toes. Bedtime is a hush of lamp-light and heartbeat; she drapes herself across his chest, small fist tangled in his shirt, and he hums until her breaths lengthen and her lashes flutter shut. Rainy days bring matching yellow raincoats and the percussion of puddle-splash; she insists on holding the umbrella though it drifts sideways, leaving them both drenched and grinning. And on quiet nights they sprawl across the living-room floor, crayons scattered like stardust. She draws a lopsided heart wrapped in silver scribbles, two stick figures holding hands beneath it, and turns luminous eyes to him: “Dada, look! Is us, me and you fowever.” 

Morning unfurls in honeyed ribbons exactly the way it always does, tracing the same sacred route through their apartment as if it, too, has learned the ritual. Light pauses first on the gallery of frames spilling off the bookshelf, yesterday’s fingerprints still smudging the glass, then glances across the rug where toys arrange themselves like familiar constellations, and finally lingers on the bunny-eared sippy cup forever half-tipped in its orbit, the sticky crescent of last night’s juice already part of the décor. Right on cue, Haeun streaks barefoot down the hallway, arms flared like a kite catching its favorite wind; Jaemin is already crouched, palms open, ready to receive the daily twirl that ends with her laughter filling the hollow beneath his collarbone. He breathes her delight, presses his nose to the downy spot behind her ear, and whispers the line that begins every day: “My ballerina.” Her answer—“Dada spin too!”—is the invocation, so he rises, hoisting her skyward, and the room seems built to revolve around that single orbit.

Their days unfurl as a living montage: at the park she flings sand that clings to her legs, shrieking when he chases her in slow-motion villainy; when she tumbles, he kisses “warrior boo-boos” and calls her the fiercest knight in the kingdom. At the beach she rides his back in the shallows, tiny arms locked around his neck, while he teaches her to spot shells and let the sea tickle her toes. Evenings drift into quiet story-time: she sprawls across his lap, head pillowed on his chest, fist tangled in his shirt while his voice threads through pages; before the final sentence her lashes still and her breathing steadies, proof that the safest harbor is still the rhythm of his heart. Later, when she toddles off to bed, he lingers over her lone baby shoe by the door, marveling that yesterday’s fragile infant is today’s fearless explorer, and that every “again, dada, again!” is a summons he is forever ready to answer.

From there the choreography never falters. At the table he balances her chart beside his coffee while she decorates his knee with green crayon dinosaurs; she hums the morning’s wordless anthem, and he threads gentle fingers through her curls, counting her pulse the way other people count blessings. Dressing is its own ceremony: she stands atop the bedspread, a benevolent monarch, while he presents two tiny shoes like precious offerings, “yellow or blue today, bug?” She slams her heel into the sun-bright pair, decree sealed, and he responds with the ritual kiss to her ankle, the same kiss reserved for future scrapes, sleepy fevers, midnight fears. Noon brings the kitchen rite: she “cooks” lunch, smearing yogurt across his nose, sending berries skittering underfoot, their shared laughter ringing like a bell that signals the hour. And when the light finally tilts toward afternoon, both of them are flushed and breathless, sipping water that tastes of contentment, secure in the rhythm of a day that never hurries, never stumbles, only repeats—perfect, familiar, unbreakable.

Haeun’s bedroom is a dawn-colored dream stitched from every shade she adores: cotton-candy pink dusts the walls in a watercolor wash, butter-yellow stripes climb toward a ceiling hung with tiny mirrored stars, and a tulle canopy as soft as spun sugar billows around her miniature four-poster bed. A ballet bar gleams beneath the window, its rose-gold bracket looping like ribbon, and pale wooden toy chests hide beneath scalloped skirts of fabric that whisper whenever morning breezes stray through the crack of the door. Plush ballerinas pirouette across framed prints, their tutus the exact blush of her favorite hair bows; even the night-light—shaped like a tiny moon in a field of tulips—glows the faintest peach at dawn, as if warming itself before she wakes. Here every detail is scaled to her wonder: the sun-splash rug that cushions bare feet, the low bookshelf where picture books stand with covers facing outward like pleased smiles, the cloud-shaped table forever dusted in rainbow crayons, and always Bunny, lounging royally beside her pillow, ears tagged with velvet bows that match today’s sunrise.

Across from her canopy, a low window seat brims with heart–shaped pillows, one yellow as buttercups, another pink as cotton candy, each embroidered with her name in looping toddler script. Tucked between them sits her grand, personalized music box. an opulent gift from Daddy after her first one shattered, its mother-of-pearl inlay and rose-gold filigree catching the dawn as she lifts the lid and lets her favorite lullaby spill out in tinkling waves. A row of glass jars lines the sill, each filled with colored sand she pinched from beach trips—emerald green, sunrise orange, blush pink—and she sometimes presses her fingers through the cork to feel the grains slip through her pudgy toes. Beneath the rose-gold ballet barre, her quilted patchwork bedspread slips across the daisied rug, each square stitched from Daddy’s old scrubs and the softest satin scraps, so every nap feels like a hug stitched by his hands. In one corner stands her play doctor’s kit, its tiny stethoscope coiled around a painted wooden heart. where she practices checking Bunny’s pulse as if she already knows that saving lives can begin with a single, careful ‘boom-boom.’ 

Behind the door, a measuring chart marks her height in cheerful scribbles beside a lock of hair from her very first birthday, a golden whisper of “grow strong, grow brave” that she tugs at on mornings when she needs a little reminder of just how far she’s come. Lastly, just beyond a scalloped archway stands her walk-in wardrobe, a pastel haven hung with tiny wooden hangers, where rows of frilly dresses, twirl-worthy tulle skirts, and her favorite sunflower-yellow pinafores sit ready for her day’s adventures. Each garment bears a story: polka-dot pockets for collecting dandelions, lace trims for moonlit tea parties, and pockets deep enough for Bunny to hide when he’s feeling shy. In this perfect little world, every morning’s first stretch and sunrise greeting becomes a celebration of the sweetest, bravest two-year-old ever to call it home.

She doesn’t always wake up here; most mornings find her toddling down the hall before daylight, curls bouncing as she seeks the comfort of Dada’s chest for their routine dawn cuddle. Today her dreams hold her still beneath the canopy. tiny fists curled, cheek pressed to Bunny’s velveteen ear, until a hush of motion lifts across the room. Jaemin eases the door wider, and pale golden light trickles in behind him; he pauses to drink in the lullaby hush, then draws the heavy curtains an inch or two, just enough for one slender blade of sunlight to slip across her quilt like a soft trumpet call. Dust motes swirl lazily, catching on the pink glow of the walls, and he stands there for a beat, letting the day breathe around her. When he finally crosses the rug, his footsteps are quieter than the flutter of her lashes. He kneels, gentle fingertips smoothing the damp ringlets at her hairline. then lowers his forehead to hers, warmth meeting warmth. “My princess,” he whispers, voice low as cello strings, “it’s morning time, baby, time to open your beautiful eyes.”  The words slip into her dream like a soft feather.

She stirs beneath the tulle canopy, eyelashes brushing her cheeks like the softest butterfly wings before her eyes flicker open, revealing pools of dawn-gold that shimmer with last night’s dreams. Her lashes tremble against the gentle swell of rosy sleep, and her lips purse into the tiniest pout before blossoming into a giggly grin. cheeks dimpled, mouth curving like a tulip greeting the sun. One pudgy hand reaches up to sift her honeyed curls from her forehead, the other clutching Bunny’s velvet ear as if it were her morning anchor, and she lets out a sleepy yawn that sounds half sigh, half song. Then, with all the wonder of a new sunrise, she breathes, “Goo’ mo’nin’, Dada, my bwight, bwight Dada!” in a voice so sweet it tastes like vanilla on his skin. Her toes wiggle beneath the quilt, nudging the canopy’s ribbons into a lazy pirouette, and before he can answer she adds with bubbly excitement, “Kissy time!”—tiny arms shooting up to pull his face close. Jaemin can’t help but smile as he cups her soft cheeks and tilts her head, pressing a feather-light kiss to her rosy lips; she giggles against him, eyes crinkling with happiness, and buries her face in his chest, warm as sunshine, while the promise of another perfect morning dances between them.

Jaemin eases open the blackout curtains just enough for dawn to drip across the nursery like warm honey, then sinks to his knees beside her bed. He lifts her covers just enough for cool air to brush her ankles, and she squeaks at the tickle, clutching his sleeve in tiny fists, letting out a breathy “eek!” Sunlight slides along the curve of her cheek, gilding the soft down of baby hair that refuses to stay tucked; it glimmers on the faint line of her chest scar, the only thing in this pastel kingdom carved from something harder than cotton and delight. Jaemin, ever the morning healer, reaches for the stethoscope resting on her nightstand, its tubing coiled like a sleeping serpent, bell still chilled from night air, and, as he does each dawn, warms the metal between his palms first.

She watches, bright eyes wide, already anticipating the ritual which never fails to steal his breath. Without prompting she scoots up, presses Bunny to one side as if granting the plush a front-row seat, and lifts her pajama collar to reveal the quick crescendo of her heartbeat. He positions the diaphragm with reverence, and the room stills—brushing hair from her temple, he closes his eyes, letting that delicate boom-boom thread through the tubing and straight into his own chest. The second he listens feel like small eternities: the uneven cadence is still there, the gentle lilt he knows by ear, but it is stronger this morning—steady enough that he smiles before he even realizes it. She inhales sharply at the stethoscope’s gentle weight, then, in her earnest toddler tone, murmurs, “My heart owie a bit now, Dada,” and he feels a swell of both concern and pride that she’s learned so well to tell him whenever she feels unsure.

She sees the curve of his mouth and giggles, cheeks pink from pillow warmth.  “Boom-boom good, Dada?” she asks, the words feather-soft at the edges yet crystal in their hope.

He taps her sternum once, warm as sunrise, and murmurs, “Best boom-boom in the whole wide world. But what do you do if I’m not with you but your boom-boom hurts and you feel an ouch?”

Haeun’s brow furrows in earnest thought, her chubby finger drifting to her lower lip as she emits a soft “Mmm…” that ripples through the golden hush. Her lashes flutter, eyes scrunching in concentration, and then she brightens as if a spark has flickered to life: she claps a hand over her heart and declares, “Tell big helper! Call Dada, come quick—‘Chest owwie! Dada come, Hae-hae need you! Pwease, my Dada! Huwwy up!’” Her triumphant gasp of memory echoes across the pink walls, and Jaemin’s smile blooms, pride and relief weaving through every beat of that precious little heart.

His answering laugh is half joy, half ache; he tickles the side of her ribs in reward, coaxing another ripple of bright sound from her throat as she claps Bunny’s paws together in delight.  “Correct, my smart baby girl,” he murmurs, planting a kiss just below her eye where a sunbeam lands, and she claps again, curls bouncing like yellow ribbon.

Jaemin watches as Haeun lifts the cold bell of the stethoscope to her chin, tiny fingers tracing the spiral of tubing with rapt concentration before she presses it to her ear and murmurs “siss-topo?” in a wobbling toddler lilt, only to break into delighted giggles when the word tumbles out all wrong. Her lashes flutter in the morning light as she shrugs one rounded shoulder, then bats the earpieces against her collarbone, creating a soft, hollow clatter that sends another ripple of laughter through her cheeks. When her plump hand drifts to his jaw and tugs gently, her bottom lip pops into an urgent pout, those bright eyes pleading in wordless insistence and she coos, “Hae hae want ‘nother kiss!” in a sing-song voice that makes his chest ache with love. He leans forward, brushing the pads of his thumbs over her warm cheeks before planting kisses on the tip of her nose, the crown of her forehead, and finally, her smiling lips, each one a soft promise that he will always be her safe harbor. All the while, Haeun wraps her arms around his neck with gummy-toothed abandon, sighing contentedly against the gentle rhythm of his heartbeat as the tender hush that follows feels more alive than any lullaby.

Then, with all the solemn pride her two-year-old world can muster, she straightens, plumps her little chin, and begins her litany of morning truths: “Hae-hae so smart, bootiful, so smowt—like Dada says!” She pats the faint line of her scar with one hand and beams, “Hae-hae’s hea-heart is good and strong, boom-boom go boom-boom all day!” Her voice dips into a whisper as she cups her chest scar and adds, “Hae-hae’s owie on hea-heart is so bootiful, like a shiny staw,” then lifts Bunny for emphasis and chirrups, “Dada lubs me, Hae-hae lubs Dada! Hae-hae tell Dada when owwie come!” Each declaration tumbles out in toddler lilt—mispronounced, endearing, absolute—woven from every promise Jaemin has ever whispered in her ear.

Jaemin’s heart swells until he can barely keep his voice steady; he sweeps her into his arms and presses a kiss to her temple where the scar sleeps, murmuring into the golden hush, “The smartest, loveliest princess with the bravest heart, always remember that.” She giggles, arms tightening around his neck as he rocks her gently, and he presses another kiss to her forehead before tickling the soft curve of her ribs in reward. “My favourite girl,” he whispers, voice rich with wonder, and she responds with a triumphant clap, curls bobbing like petals in a breeze, while the morning light bathes them both in the promise of every boom-boom still to come.

Jaemin slips from the room’s pastel glow and crosses the hall to his study, where two amber bottles stand like sentinels of her survival, one brimming with furosemide syrup, her “water pill” to keep little feet from swelling, the other holding digoxin elixir, his violet-tinted “heart helper” for mornings she needs extra strength. He lifts each bottle in turn, the glass cooling against his palm, and draws two plastic oral syringes into his waiting fingers. Between his hands, he rolls them slowly until the plastic hums with warmth, a ritual honed from months of dawns when nothing mattered more than the gentle promise of medicine.

He returns to find Haeun in the midst of a royal medical inspection, Bunny seated on the daisied rug, one earpiece pressed against plush velvet as she declares, “Boop-boop, Bunny heart go boom-boom?” Her jaw parts in a breathy “ooh,” every gasp a secret shared with the golden morning light. Her lashes tremble, unveiling eyes round and bright as though she’s hearing sunrise for the very first time, while tiny fists fly up to her cheeks in sheer delight. Even from the other room, a babbly “Wah, Dada… I wuv Dada,” slips free, her whole face aglow in worship of his return.

He kneels among her court of bunnies and smooths a curl from her forehead. “Ready for your heart medicine, my brave girl?” he murmurs, voice soft as spun sugar. She pulls in a trembling breath and nods fiercely, tiny chin jutting with resolve as she presses her lips together in a determined line, all the while her nose wrinkles at the memory of the bitter tastes. In that moment he sees her courage, eyelashes brushing her cheeks as she summons every scrap of bravery she’s ever learned from his gentle whispers, yet her quivering shoulders betray how ‘yucky’ the medicine truly is. Still, she perches there, a perfect angel of composure, because she knows it’s important. She’s his good baby: never a fuss, never a tear, simply obedient and brave, understanding that every measured drop is a promise of more laughter, more play, more mornings just like this one.

Jaemin lifts her chin and guides the first drop of furosemide onto her tongue; she opens wide, trusting him like morning trusts the sun, then gulps it down, the bitter syrup sliding warm through her throat. She grimaces, a small gasp, a momentary shudder, before he follows with the digoxin elixir: psshh, psst—each drop counted on his breath so she can hear him: “One… two… three… all done.” She presses a hand to her chest and lets out a tiny gag; her nose wrinkles, but when he whispers, “In a few minutes, fruit and fluffy pancakes, I promise,” her eyes light up at the sweet reward, and the tension in her shoulders melts.

Moments later, she tilts her head back, curls bouncing, and beams with triumphant pride: “All done! Hae-hae strong!” Her small chest pulses beneath his palm, the ‘boom-boom’ steadier now, but still a reminder that this ritual will return at midday and again at dusk. 

He brushes a kiss to her forehead and whispers, “Good girl, my strongest girl,” even as his own heart trembles with relief and the unspoken fear of days yet to come.

She taps the pale ribbon of skin, tiny brows knitting in earnest hope as her voice trembles through the sanctuary of dawn: “Owie gone? Dada, no more owie? I all better now?” Each word hovers between them like a fragile prayer, and Jaemin’s throat constricts, he gulps, tasting love and fear intertwined in that moment. He leans in, pressing a feather-light kiss to her questioning finger before she can slip it away, voice husky with devotion. 

He answers, “No more owie, baby—you’re all better.” He brushes a fingertip beneath her chin. Even as relief blooms in her bright eyes, his heart clenches at the cost behind every promise. He wishes with all his being that a single drop of syrup could erase the truth of midday appointments, the ritual of three daily doses, the specter of future surgeries waiting in the wings. Yet here she sits—his angel of innocence—believing wholeheartedly that medicine’s measured drop can mend what life has carved for her with a surgeon’s blade. He marvels at her faith, at the simple purity of her thought: that love and elixir might stitch her heart whole. Drawing her close, he murmurs into the curve of her ear, “Daddy’s here, always.” And for her, that vow is as potent as any cure.

His tone turns serious, the playfulness falling away like petals at dusk. “But if your chest ever feels funny—burny, tight, or sore—you remember what to do, my love?” He asks this question every morning, every evening, and sometimes in the middle of the afternoon, because he knows all too well how a simple misstep in communication can become a child���s last mistake. As the chief of pediatrics, he’s watched young, innocent patients slip away when symptoms went unspoken, when a child’s whisper of “my chest hurts” was mistaken for a fleeting ache. He thinks of the burning chest pains that herald fluid overload, the fluttering tremor that signals an arrhythmia, the dull “owie” at the temples that might mean dehydration or a fever creeping in. With Haeun, it’s different: it’s his daughter he’s saving, and his attachment is woven from both his white-coat vigilance and a father’s fierce love. He needs her to know, deep in her little heart, that no pang is too small to voice—that every twinge is a signal he wants to catch before it becomes something bigger.

She watches him, eyelashes trembling like the wings of a butterfly, then nods so earnestly her curls bob in agreement. “If chest burn— I need tell someone fast, ’kay!” She repeats in her precious toddler lilt, her words halting but resolute. “If head owie, tell big helper,” she adds, recalling how he taught her that even a bump or a bruise must never go unspoken.

He cups her shoulders, voice gentle but unwavering, “Exactly, my brave girl. You tell me, always.” In that moment, the room seems to pulse with unspoken vows: that medicine, though measured in milliliters, is only half the remedy, and that her own voice, taught and cherished, is the truest safeguard of all.

He shifts in the glow of morning light, his fingertips drifting to the pale ribbon of scar tracing her sternum, and for a heartbeat he simply watches the gentle rise and fall beneath his touch—each subtle ridge a testament to every battle she’s already won. The world quiets to the soft brush of downy hair against his palm as he leans closer, his breath warm and steady, and places a feather-light kiss along the scar’s curve, savoring the smoothness of healed skin and the miracle it marks. Haeun’s eyelashes flutter at the contact, and she offers him a sleepy smile, the corners of her mouth tilting into the tender promise of another dawn. He murmurs into the hush, “I love every bit of you,” then trails his lips to her collarbone in a soft vow, his heart full of awe for the smallest, strongest girl he will ever know

His own pulse stumbles at every tiny hitch he hears but he lets her laughter braid through the quiet, slowly the anxious flutter in his chest begins to mimic her delight. When the novelty fades he draws the cloth aside, tracing the slender scar that runs beneath the neckline of her pajamas with a feather-soft fingertip. “This line,” he whispers, “is where Daddy helped fix your heart; it means you’re the strongest girl I know, it means you can run so fast and play so fast, too,” each word a prayer wrapped in the certainty she trusts first and he chooses to believe second.

She presses her tiny fists against her ribs, eyes lighting up with understanding as she whispers in her toddling lilt, “It also mean I can wuv Dada, my bunnies, Nana and Papa and Uncle Nono, it mean I no broken heart, I wuv wuv wuv!” Her voice tumbles over itself in a rush of declarations, each “wuv” a golden echo in the pastel hush.

Jaemin’s breath catches, warmth flooding his chest as he brushes a kiss across her temple. “Yes, my darling girl,” he murmurs, voice thick with awe, gathering her into his arms so her head rests against his heartbeat. “Because your heart is mended, it beats for all the people you love and they love you right back, more than all the stars in the sky.” He presses one last kiss to the scar line, then holds her close, marveling that in her innocent truth lies a magic greater than any medicine.

Jaemin scoops Haeun off the mattress, her limbs curling instinctively around his torso, and carries her through the soft hush of the hallway toward the dresser where a pale-yellow dress hangs like a patch of sunshine waiting to be worn; he lays her across his lap, slips the cotton over her head, and buttons the smocked bodice while she chatters to Bunny about the morning’s adventures, each syllable puffed with earnest authority as she instructs the plush rabbit to “sit nice, no wriggle.” She pats the hem with pleased little sighs, fingers the scalloped sleeve, then presses a spontaneous kiss to his cheek before toddling toward the play mat, bunny clutched under one arm and curls bouncing with every uneven step as she narrates her own movements in delighted bursts—“Hae hae run, bunny run, boing boing.” He turns to the stove, whisk working through batter scented with vanilla, and listens as her wooden blocks clack against the floor in a rhythm that matches the quick pulse of his heart.

A moment later she reappears at the kitchen threshold, toes jerking on the polished wood as if the ground might wobble beneath her, arms stretched high, voice lilting, “Up, up, Dada,” and Jaemin lifts her without hesitation, tucking her on his hip so her dress billows like a tiny primrose petal; she watches the skillet with wide eyes, breath puffing against his neck every time a chocolate chip pops and melts into a dark freckle on the golden surface. “Pankie, pankie,” she sings, trying out the word again with extra consonants. He slides the first pancake onto her plate, fork in hand, and she “nom-noms” it in two bites flat, cheeks stretching into gummy crescents as she declares, “Mm-mm, Dada make me so yum yum!” Her laughter rings against the sunlit tiles and she claps her hands, then asks sweetly for more from the stack, holding it aloft like a victory banner while Bunny dangles from her tiny fist.

The laughter tips suddenly into a soft wheeze, almost swallowed by the sizzle, but Jaemin’s ears are tuned to every tremor in her breath; he slides the skillet off the flame, winds the inhaler from the standby cup on the counter, and seats her against his chest, murmuring, “Slow, my love, fishy breaths, remember?” She nods, eyes round, as he lifts her spacer with both hands, and he guides the mask to her mouth, pressing the canister twice in steady pulses while counting with her fingers—one, two—then taps her back as she draws deep breaths like they’ve practiced beneath blanket forts and under playground trees. The wheeze eases, her shoulders settle, and he softens his voice into the sing-song rhyme she loves, words drifting with their shared exhales: “When my chest feels tight and I feel huffy, I tell a big person, I get my puffy.” 

She repeats it around the mouthpiece, swapping consonants in that toddler tumble—“ches feel tite, I get my puffy”—then pulls the inhaler away and asks, “What’s ‘queeze’ mean, Dada?” He answers that it is the little ouch inside her chest, places her hand above her sternum so she can feel the last echo of quiver, and she nods with solemn comprehension, counting to five on chubby fingers before declaring, “Two puff, all done,” clapping once while Bunny receives imaginary medicine of his own. Her shoulders unfurl, the quick flutter in her ribs quiets, and she nuzzles Bunny against her cheek as he whispers, “All better, Dada.” She softens then, tipping her chin up and drawing it back just enough to make room. a tiny invitation shimmering in her eyes, so that when he leans in, his lips brush the apple of her cheek in a feather-light kiss, warm as sunrise on silken skin. A sigh flutters through her, breath gentle and full of comfort, and she turns her face toward him with a sleepy grin, thumb ghosting over his wrist as if to say, “Again.”

He brushes away the last smudge of chocolate from the corner of her lips with the pad of his thumb, tasting sweetness on his tongue as he leans in to press another gentle kiss across her cheek, soft enough to ripple the fine down of her hair, warm enough to press a smile beneath her lashes, her small brow lifting in sleepy invitation, he presses one more feather-light kiss before tucking a stray curl behind her ear. His voice is soft as velvet when he asks, “And if your chest still says ‘ouch,’ bubba, if Dada is in the hospital and you’re at preschool or with your babysitter, what will you do?”

She pauses, presses her plump fingers together in earnest calculation—one, two, three—then meets his gaze with all the solemn confidence her two-year-old world can hold: “Tell big helper! Call Dada! Say, ‘Chest hurt! Dada! Come quick! Hae hae need you, pwease!” He nods, heart swelling at the earnest tilt of her brow, 

He nods, heart swelling at the earnest tilt of her brow, then reaches out and tickles her underarm just enough to spark another flutter of laughter. She squeals, ribs wobbling, and bats his fingers away in mock protest before throwing her hands into the air and clapping with delighted abandon. “Correct, my smart girl,” he praises, voice thick with pride, and she beams up at him, cheeks rosy and eyes shining, as if nothing could be more joyful than knowing Dada is always listening.

“Dada’s just getting your breakfast ready, beautiful—play for a few minutes, then I’ll come get you again, yeah?” He stoops one last time to press a soft kiss to her temple and gives her a reassuring smile before slipping away toward the kitchen. Left amid her plush toys and tumbling blocks, she watches him go, Bunny clasped to her chest, then claps her hands with giddy delight, “play time, Bunny!” She begins arranging a tiny tea party for her stuffed friends. The gentle thrum of the cooker drifts through the doorway, and she pauses in mid-stir of an imaginary cup, head tilting as if listening for Dada’s return. When his footsteps echo back down the hall, she straightens, rosy-cheeked and eager, ready for the next bit of breakfast magic he has waiting.

He lifts her from the play mat and carries her over to the little wooden chair at the breakfast nook, the one painted pale yellow where she sits each morning, legs too short to touch the floor but feet kicking with excitement as she spies the plate piled high with her favorite chocolate–chip pancakes, juicy strawberry quarters fanned beside them, and a small glass of frothy mango juice Daddy made just for her. The moment her toes brush the footrest, she lets out a delighted squeal, “pankies, berry! juice!” Before she even picks up her fork, she lunges forward, hands on either side of his face, and belts out in her sweetest toddler croon, “Tank you, my wuv!” pressing a sloppy kiss to his lips in perfect morning ritual. Jaemin’s heart melts as he brushes a stray smudge of chocolate from her chin, leans in to return her kiss, then picks up his own knife and fork so they can eat together, him cutting the pancakes into bite-sized clouds, her scooping them up with determined earnestness, humming between mouthfuls, “Yum-yum, dada!” until the table fills with the soft rhythms of shared breakfast and the quiet joy of two hearts in perfect sync.

She opens in a little O of excitement, chews with earnest concentration. His heart blossoms at the gleeful crunch of fruit and the sweet sigh she exhales between bites. He watches the rise and fall of her small chest, offering strawberries and pancake clouds until she leans back, pats her belly with a contented grin, and announces in a triumphant sing-song, “All done! I full!” 

He grins, brushing a stray crumb from her chin, and murmurs, “That’s my clever girl,” before sweeping her into his arms and planting a kiss on her forehead.

Careful to keep breakfast magic alive, Jaemin gathers the dishes while Haeun toddles after him, wobbly legs determined, clutching her small plate like a treasure. She holds it out with a proud tilt of her brows and declares, “Here, Dada, bubba helper!” 

He coos, “Thank you, my little helper,” and takes the plate to the sink. As he rinses each fork and spoon, he hears her padding back to the play mat, blocks clacking and Bunny perched in her lap. Through the doorway drifts her soft song. her pumps-and-heart rhyme woven into nursery cadences “when my chest feels tight… I get my puffy…”—and he presses his palm to his heart, the tender ache of fatherhood swelling in his chest as he smiles down at the shining morning, more alive than any sunrise he has ever known.

Jaemin drops to the rug beside Haeun, fingertips hovering at the tender arch of her ribs, and launches his giggle attack without warning—light, teasing tickles that trace invisible kitten whiskers across her cotton onesie until her back arches and a fountain of laughter spills from her lips. Her knees buckle as she ducks away, eyes squeezed shut against a grin so big it threatens to burst, and she gasps out, “Dada, no tickle!” in a breathless squeal that ripples through the sunlit room like a chorus of bells. He shifts, letting her scramble onto his lap, and she retaliates with her own tickles—chubby fingers jab at his sides, pronouncing, “Got-cha, Dada!”—before she flings herself backward into a sea of throw pillows, clutching Bunny to her chest and whooping with triumph.

Before he can recover, she scrambles up again, reaches for his face, and unleashes her kiss attack—rapid-fire smooches across his cheeks, chin, and nose, each one sweet and sticky with leftover syrup from breakfast. “Mwa—Dada kiss!” she commands, pressing her lips to his in a sloppy toddler peck, then giggling when he pretends to swoon. 

His arms tighten around her as he leans in, returning each kiss with a gentle press of his lips, murmuring into the curve of her cheek, “Mine, all mine,” until her whole face glows pink and her curls brush against his stubbled jaw.

She launches straight into cuddle attack, curling her legs around his waist and burying her face in his collarbone like a sleepy koala, breath warm against his skin. He rocks her gently, one hand threading through her damp curls, the other cradling her back, and she sighs, “Dada safe,” as if that single phrase could still every storm in her heart. Her chest pulses against his shirt, a quick patter that tugs at his own ribs, so he brushes a finger to her temple and coaxes in a soft sing-song, “Big, slow breaths… fishy breathe… whoooosh,” guiding her through the rhythm that always calms her little boom-boom.

Whilst she’s playing, Jaemin kneels by Haeun’s pastel backpack, its canvas printed with tumbling ballerinas and embroidered with her name and begins their ritual. He gently opens the top compartment and lays in her folder of check-up forms, a folded change of pajamas in sunflower yellow, a pair of soft leggings in her favorite petal-pink, a sachet of clean diapers, wipes tucked into a little zip pouch, a thinner blanket stitched from Daddy’s own scrubs, and, of course, Bunny—all nestled like cherished guests awaiting departure. In the front pocket he clips the ‘Haeun Card,’ bright with rainbow trim and a smiling bunny sketch, laminated and punched with a hole: on one side her photo, age, and Daddy’s number; on the other, a tiny diagram and simple instructions on what to do if she goes breathless or finds herself unable to speak. Haeun toddles over, eyes wide as he smooths the card flat, and he asks with a flourish, “Who’s this, baby?” 

She reaches up, fingers brushing the edge of the card, and beams, “Haeun card! Dat’s me—Dada number, bunny!”

Next comes the kit inspection. As she perches on the daisied rug, curls tumbling, Jaemin unzips the canvas pouch and she watches with rapt attention while he pulls out each essential: her pink-and-white inhaler, two oral syringes of furosemide and digoxin syrup, the silicone ID band snug around her wrist, a pouch of graham crackers, a small water bottle, and Bunny, whom she settles into her lap with a proud pat. “If Dada not here and you feel huffy or ouchy,” he prompts, voice soft as spun sugar, “what do you do?” 

Haeun waves the card like a captain’s flag and declares, “Find helper! Show card! Say, ‘I need puffy!’”

He smiles, pride warming his chest. “Can you show Dada your puffy breath?” Without hesitation, she lifts the inhaler to her lips, inhales a big, noisy whoosh through the spacer, cheeks ballooning like tiny airbags and releases a triumphant grin. “Whoooosh!” she celebrates, clapping for herself even though she knows the taste is yucky. 

“And if someone doesn’t know, baby, what do you say?” he asks gently. 

She taps her bracelet, voice firm: “Help me! Heart owie. Call my Dada!” 

Jaemin nods, voice warm with pride as he ruffles her curls, “Good girl—you’re the smartest baby ever.” He kneels by Haeun’s play mat, gathering her little backpack and chart for today’s routine check-up. He smooths a curl from her forehead and says, voice soft and sure, “Why don’t you go into your playroom, baby, and let me finish packing? Then we’ll head off to the hospital, okay?” 

At the word “playroom,” her eyes sparkle like sunbeams on water, and she throws both arms wide, claps her pudgy hands, and squeals, “Yay! I wuv hosp’wal!”—so eager she nearly topples over her bunny-lined tower. Even as he clicks the last buckle on her bag. a tidy row of syringes, emergency card, spare socks, she pirouettes across the rug, humming their special tune. 

Haeun’s playroom is a riot of color: teetering towers of rainbow blocks, plush bunnies lined up like devoted spectators, and a carousel of wooden animals spinning gently across the rug. Sunlight filters through the curtains, pooling in gold-white patches where she crouches, clutching her bright pink toy phone as if it were the world’s most precious treasure. Lips pursed in solemn concentration, she presses it to her ear and coos, “Ring-ring, Uncle Nono? Uncle Nono, I wuv you!” before blowing a shower of kisses across the carpet that drift like dandelion seeds on the breeze. Her laughter, a tinkling bell, fills the room—and in that moment, even the statuesque bunnies seem to lean forward to watch her joy.

Jaemin slips in behind her, the weight of the morning’s medical charts melting from his shoulders at the sight of her delight. He sets the papers aside and kneels on the soft rug, voice low as velvet. “Perfect timing, my little sunflower, how do we call Dada if your heart says ‘ouch’ and I’m not right here?” He offers her a real phone, polished and warm in his hand. 

He offers her his own phone, gleaming in the morning light. Without glancing at the backpack’s laminated card, she grips the handset with fierce toddler resolve. Her stubby fingers flit over the numbered buttons she’s memorized from practice, she mutters each key under her breath. When the line connects, she takes a deep breath and announces with triumphant authority, “Dada! I Haeun! I sick, need help! Come get me, pwease!”

Jaemin answers in a playful whisper, “Hello—who is this brave little lady?” 

She puffs her cheeks in mock offense and declares at the top of her voice, “Dada’s girl! Dada’s pwincess!” 

Jaemin answers in a teasing whisper, “who am I lucky enough to be speaking with today?”

Her curls brush his hand as she corrects him, “I Haeun! Dada’s girl! Dada’s princess!” culminating in a delighted squeal that bounces off the walls.

He feigns surprise, voice laced with laughter: “I don’t know a sick princess—I only know my daisy queen!” 

She squeaks. “Silly Dada, it’s me! I sick, need help, come get me, pwease!” She throws her free hand on her hip, little brow furrowing in adorable stubbornness as she demands into the phone, “I Haeun! I Dada’s girl! Dada’s pwincess!” Her jaw juts, curls bobbing, and she stamps one chubby foot for emphasis before continuing, “Dada’s wittle sunfwower, Dada’s ti-ny ballewina, dada’s bwave stah!” She punctuates each title with a triumphant squeal, cheeks pink with pride and pout, daring him to deny that perfect, toddler-born declaration of love. 

He laughs, warmth flooding his chest, and murmurs, “That’s right—my Haeun. You’re my everything.” He brushes a kiss across her temple and adds, “Always call me if you need me, okay?” 

She hands him back the phone with a proud nod, buries her face against his side, and whispers, “Dada know me.” 

Jaemin gathers her into his arms, smoothing back a stray curl, and whispers into her ear, “Even if Dada isn’t here, I’ll come so fast to you, always. You are so safe, my baby girl.” At that moment, her packed bag by his side and her trust in his arms. Jaemin never makes it scary; every lesson is a promise that Haeun is never alone, that her small, mended heart is precious, and that—even when Daddy’s on rounds and can’t be in the room—she carries every tool, every rhyme, and every drop of his love to keep herself safe. Each practice round becomes an act of faith: her resilience meeting his devotion in a perfect, tender loop. The world feels safer not because her body is flawless, but because she understands its rhythms—and because her daddy believes in her, completely and forever.

The automatic doors slide open with a soft whoosh, and a breath of conditioned air lifts Haeun’s honeyed curls like petals caught in a breeze. She perches on Jaemin’s hip as always—warm and sure, her small body molded to his side as if that’s where she will always belong. One pudgy hand clasps the strap of his lanyard; the other clutches Bunny’s ear with white-knuckled conviction. He eases her toward the floor, expecting her usual burst of wild kitestring energy, but Haeun’s little legs stiffen and her arms clamp around his neck in a vice of need. “No, Dada,” she whispers, voice trembling as a quivering candle flame because in the quiet thrum of her chest she already tastes the tang of needles and machines hidden just beyond the next door. He pauses, heart tilting at her fear, and cups her face, thumb brushing the downy cheek beside her tense jaw. “We’ll be back home in a blink,” he promises, voice soft as dawn. Only then does she relax just enough to rest her head against his collar, tiny fists still clinging to his shirt, finding safety not in open corridors but in the steady warmth of his arms.

In Haeun’s eyes, the hospital looms like a glittering castle, its ceilings soaring toward the clouds and walls rippling in rainbow waves that shimmer beneath honeyed lights. Plush chairs line the corridors like soft, waiting clouds, and everywhere she glimpses, there’s murals of dancing whales and twinkling stars. Nurses in crisp white coats drift by like kindly giants, and on quiet afternoons she spies music rooms where pianos hum gentle lullabies and aquariums glow like jeweled oceans. Every door promises a new adventure, each one more wondrous than the last but none of it feels as vast or as warm as Dada’s arms. Nestled against his steady chest, the grand hallways shrink away until all that remains is Haeun and Dada, and suddenly she’s exactly where she belongs.

Jaemin’s arm trembles ever so slightly as he holds her against his chest, fully prepared for the inevitable toddler revolt and sure enough, after a beat of silent insistence, her voice pipes up again: “Down, Dada! Down!” She presses her palms to his shoulders and hops once, eyes wide in urgent command. 

He can’t help but laugh, a low, rolling chuckle that vibrates through her belly. “All right, bubba,” he says, easing her down into her own two feet like a practiced pro. She wobbles for a moment, then breaks into a grin as if she’s just won the bedtime lottery. He shrugs to himself; with toddlers, indecision is the day’s greatest pastime, and with his own baby girl, he wouldn’t have it any other way.

Across the lobby, light dapples in honeyed pools, dancing from chandelier to check-in desk. When Jaemin nudges her forward, voice low, steady—“Go on, say hi,” she peels away from his leg in three small, hesitant steps. She leans from behind Bunny’s plush head and offers a shy “Hi! I Haeun!” to the receptionist, her cheeks blossoming pink, then retreats instantly, face tucked against Jaemin’s calf. 

He rubs circles on her back, whispering, “My brave girl,” as though summoning courage from every syllable.

They slip into the echoing corridor, her ‘Echo Hall,’ she calls it, where every tiny footfall rings like raindrops on glass. At first she hesitates, toes skidding on the polished floor, but then she spots the cardiology wing logo, a cheerful duck in a heart and her face brightens. “Dada, look! Ducky!” she chirps, pressing her free hand into his palm as though drawing courage from his touch. Jaemin kneels beside her and lifts Bunny’s ear so it can “quack” at the logo, and the simple ritual sends her into a fit of delighted giggles. With her smile restored, she strides forward with newfound confidence, tiny trainers clicking in time, the echoing hall transforming from a space of nerves into a stage for her triumphant march.

Rounding the final corner, the world shifts into her kingdom: pastel murals swirl across the walls, shooting stars, angelic doves, dancing bears, color-dropped coral realms under the sea. Haeun bounces in his arms, squealing, “Look, the sharky still here!” as she’s spun toward her volunteer-made cubby: a tiny wooden locker painted with her name, inside which lives her pastel yellow blanket, a stash of Bunny stickers, and a water bottle printed with daisies. She tucks Bunny inside, locks the “door,” and claps her hands, delighted by the familiarity.

Nurses hail her from every station and she waves, flinging kisses like confetti. It’s become a habit here, every whisper and greeting calls her “Sunshine,” one her given name, the moment she steps into these halls. One nurse feigns a swoon, hands to her heart: “My word, she’s grown!” 

Haeun, ever the performer, spins on one toe, announcing, “Dada, I twirl!” before skipping to the corner aquarium. Nose pressed to the glass, she watches a pale yellow fish glide through the water. “Fishy swim swim,” she declares, brow furrowed in expert concentration, and names her new friend “Chicken” with the solemnity of a queen bestowing knighthood. In every step, every glance, every gleeful squeal, the hospital, once a chamber of fear, has become the bright palace of her safety, where her daddy’s steady presence transforms every corridor into a path of promise.

The next corridor gleams in fresh paint, tiles laid in perfect yellow-blue alternation, each square echoing her favorite sunflower hue. Haeun steps only on the yellow, toes splaying as though she’s finding secret springs beneath each one. She spreads her arms like wings and dances across the floor, curls bouncing in golden loops, while Jaemin follows two paces behind, cradling her backpack and watching with a smile that could steady any faltering surgeon’s hand. A passing oncology resident pauses mid-chart and chuckles, “Training her for ballet or heart surgery?” 

Jaemin shrugs, voice soft as dawn, “Maybe both.”

In the play alcove beyond the nurses’ station, she’s already a little celebrity. Children in wheelchairs wave when they see her, one older boy, his port catheter gleaming under fluorescent lights, shouts, “Sunshine, show me your dance!” She darts over, spins once in a fever of delight, then flings herself into his lap, hugging him like a baby bear reunited with its mother. From her bag she produces crayon-scrawled cards, bunnies with lop ears, hearts big as saucers, stick-figure doctors crowned with tufts of hair. She presses them into each child’s hand with solemn pride, her wide smile radiating promise.

Nurse Ahra greets her at the doorway like family, and they execute their secret handshake, tap-tap-clap-boop, before Ahra decorates her chart with glitter stickers, eyes dancing. “How’s my ballerina?” she asks, and Haeun, ever the performer, demonstrates a hopping “ballet move” before pinky-promising, “No hurt Bunny.” 

Dr. Hwang Renjun rounds the corner just as Haeun finishes her parade, scrub cap still in hand from an early-morning case. He and Jaemin, old friends stitched together by a thousand shared surgeries, exchange a brief, silent nod, the kind of greeting forged under operating-room lights. Renjun had assumed Haeun’s cardiothoracic care the moment Jaemin became “Dad” instead of “Doctor,” and that single fact steadies Jaemin’s pulse more than any beta-blocker ever could: the country’s most gifted heart surgeon watches over his daughter’s patched-up pump.

Renjun crouches until he’s eye-level with her, stethoscope charms winking pink. “How’s my best girl today?” he asks, voice warm. 

Haeun presses her cheek to the cool diaphragm and whispers, “Pump happy,” then adds a cautious little thumbs-up. 

He grins, taps her bracelet, and says, “I’ll see you for your check-up in half an hour, okay, beautiful?”

“’Kay, Dr. Nunjun,” she lisps, gummy smile brave but wobbling at the edges.

Satisfied, Renjun rises, claps Jaemin lightly on the shoulder, and disappears toward imaging. Haeun turns to the security guard, slaps a high-five, and chirps, “Thank you for keepin’ my hospital safe, mister!” before burrowing back into Jaemin’s side, small fingers twined in his coat, gathering courage for the half hour yet to come. 

This isn’t just a building. It’s the place where her heart was mended, where she first met her Daddy as more than a surgeon, where lullabies and soft hands carried her through the deepest shadows. For Jaemin, each return is a pilgrimage through hallowed halls of both memory and mercy. For Haeun, it remains a playground of miracles, a palace where her laughter rings louder than any alarm. Her joy does not erase the trials she’s endured—rather, it transmutes them, a golden alchemy wrought in every corridor she treads, every hand she holds, every heartbeat that calls her home.

At the far end of the nurses’ station, you’re hunched over a tower of post-op notes when a high-pitched squeal ricochets down the corridor like a fired confetti cannon. Heads snap up just in time to watch Haeun launch herself off the linoleum, bunny flapping behind like a medieval banner, and hurtle straight for you. She bonks her forehead against your knees on purpose, dissolves into hiccup-giggles, then wraps her arms around your calves with so much ferocity you’ll be wearing tiny-finger bruises tomorrow. “My bestest girl!” she crows, giggling so hard she hiccups bubbles of air. You scoop her up, notes forgotten, pager silent for once and she grabs your cheeks, eyes flickering with starshine. “Your eyes still shiny!” she declares, as if confirming the moon is still in orbit, then proudly offers a half-squished fruit snack: “For you!” She peppers your face with wet toddler kisses, left cheek, right cheek, nose, until the onlookers at the desk dissolve into open laughter. The weight of twelve-hour shifts and endless charting slides right off your shoulders; in this moment, the only patient in the world is the one beaming in your arms.

You cradle Haeun in one arm while she fumbles at her backpack with the other, then triumphantly produces a crumpled sheet of paper covered in wild loops of crayon. “For you,” she breathes, pressing it into your palm with reverent care. You unfold it to reveal three wobbling stick figures, one tall with a lopsided tie, one smaller with a bow, and the smallest with a spiraled scribble for hair, surrounded by suns and hearts. Her chubby finger darts across the page. “Dat’s Dada,” she announces, voice bright as morning, tapping the tallest figure. “Dis is me, Haeun,” she continues, pointing to the middle, “an’ you—you’re da shiny star!” She circles your little figure in yellow, then adds two enthusiastic hearts overhead. “We all together!” she declares, cheeks flushed with pride. 

Your chest tightens with a sudden gulp, warmth flooding your throat as a question alights in your mind, why does she love you so much? You blink down at her earnest grin, behind you, Jaemin’s gaze slides over your shoulder, cool and distant, a coldness you’ve become accustomed to, his jaw taut as if he’s asking himself the same thing. For a heartbeat the corridor hushes, broken only by Haeun’s gentle hum of pride and the tiny echo of your own unspoken wonder. You press a kiss to her forehead, your world both shattered and made whole by that simple, crayon-drawn truth.

She giggles, head bobbing, “I wuv you… an’ dada!”—and in that scribbled snapshot you feel full despite being confused, the tender weight of a love impossibly large for such a tiny hand to hold.

Jaemin, leaning against the counter, watches the spectacle with a deadpan glare sharp enough to slice through gauze. “Can’t believe you’re still her favorite,” he mutters, voice glacier-cool. 

Hyejin, rifling through lab slips, winks and calls, “So when’s the wedding?” 

Haeun claps like a deranged metronome and shrieks, “Today!” gripping your collar to steer you down the corridor aisle while you fight a losing battle against laughter.

Jaemin moves behind you with deliberate calm, his posture rigid, gaze fixed on anything but you. His eyes skim the ceiling tiles, flit across ECG readouts, settle on the slow sweep of the clock’s second hand, each tick a silent refusal to meet your own. The air between you hums with unspoken tension, warmth rising at the back of your neck as you march on—child leading you—caught in the orbit of her joy and his cool, brittle distance.

Haeun chatters at warp speed, cheeks flushed pink: “We eat lunch later? With noodles? And juice? And stickers?” 

You murmur, “Of course, sweetheart,” and Haeun’s whole face ignites. She squeals high and bright, knees bouncing, then flings herself into your arms as if gravity only holds for you. You sweep her up against your chest, her tiny legs wrapping around your waist and she presses her cheek into your collarbone, giggling breathlessly. Bunny’s ears flop against your shoulder and her curly hair tickles your jaw. Overcome with pure joy, she claps her hands against your scrubs and squeals, “Yay! Da best part of my day!” eyes shining like morning light. In that moment, nothing exists beyond the warmth of your embrace and her triumphant, happy sighs.

Haeun burrows deeper into your shoulder, voice tumbling out in a rushing stream of wants and needs: “Cuddle me, pwease? Braid my hair? Draw bunny doctor? Play blocks? Read ‘Bear’s Breakfast’? Kiss my owie? You stay wif me? You hold Haeunie? We kissy now?” She punctuates each demand with a chubby hand pressed to your cheek, eyes glittering with hopeful light. You cradle her more tightly, breath catching as wave after wave of her eager energy washes over you, you’re both buoyed and nearly capsized by the sheer intensity of her love.

“I… of course, sweetheart,” you manage between gentle smiles, heart thudding so loud it drowns out the hum of the corridor. Your fingers fumble at the hem of her dress as she tugs you onward, each little request a bright spark that ignites your chest with warmth and wonder. You feel yourself spinning in her orbit, overwhelmed by the sweetness, the breathless joy in her gaze, the way she seems to believe you can bend the entire world to grant her every wish. Your chest tightens with a rush of guilt and awe, a knot of unworthiness twisting beneath your ribs—how could you ever deserve the boundless glow of her love? What did you do to make her cherish you this much? 

She laughs, a soft, triumphant bell, when you finally press your lips to her curls, murmuring, “Yes, my love, we’ll do it all,” even as your arms ache and your voice trembles with emotion. She bounces happily, little legs kicking, and nuzzles into your neck. The world narrows to her heartbeat against your chest, and you realize that no matter how flustered you feel, this whirlwind of toddler dreams is the most beautiful storm you’ve ever weathered. It’s unfamiliar, but somehow the warmth of her trust settles the constant racing of your own heart.

“Haeun,” Jaemin’s voice cuts through the corridor like a sharpened blade, each syllable clipped with cold impatience. His hand settles on her shoulder, firm and unyielding, the faint tremor of frustration coiling beneath his perfect composure—jaw clenched, eyes dark as storm clouds, commanding in a way that both unsettles and draws you in. “It’s time for your appointment, let’s go, come to me now.” 

“No!” she snaps back, tiny fists flowering at her hips, her brows knitting into a fierce single line of defiance—something you’ve never seen in your gentle girl. “I not leave my best person!”

Jaemin’s jaw tightens into a rigid line. He won’t meet your eyes, instead, his gaze flickers to the scuffed floor tiles, to the dull drip of a distant IV pump, anything but you. Then, in a low rumble edged with ice, he hisses, “Maybe if you kept her calm, she wouldn’t turn my corridor into a circus.” The words land like thunder, and you feel the storm of his impatience crackle between you.

You swallow hard, cheeks burning, and your voice comes out in a panicked rush. “I—I’m sorry, Jae — Dr, Nana. I didn’t mean to, she just got so excited, and I thought if I let her—” You trail off, words tumbling over each other as you stumble forward, knot of guilt tightening in your chest. “I know she’s your daughter, and I should’ve kept her in line, but she, she just needed a hug, and I thought,” your hands flutter helplessly at your sides, “maybe I could, she’s so little, and I—” Haeun presses closer, dampening your scrubs with her tiny arms. You clear your throat, attempting to sound firmer: “It won’t happen again. I promise.” But the words feel hollow under Jaemin’s steely gaze and the weight of the empty corridor only amplifies the awkward tension crackling between you.

You gulp, chest tightening, and before you can smooth your frown, Haeun presses a feather-soft kiss to your lips—then whirls on Dada, her eyes storm-bright with fierce defiance. “Dada! You so rude! You be so rude to my love!” Her small, angry proclamation hangs in the air as you swallow, limbs suddenly too long for the cramped hallway. The two of you stand locked in a frozen tableau—her scowl directed at her daddy, your tense shoulders betraying the turmoil in your chest. Somewhere, a monitor bleeps; the corridor’s bright murals and pastel chairs blur around you.

Jaemin’s patience snaps like a twig underfoot. “Cut it out, Haeun. We’re done with games,” he snarls, voice low and tight.

Haeun squares her tiny shoulders and plants her hands on her hips. “Dada, you so rude!” she repeats, lips in a soft pout, eyes brimming with faux indignation. “You be so rude to my love!”

He rounds on her, breath sharp. “I’m not your playmate, sunshine. Behave, or we’ll miss your scan.”

She flashes you a triumphant grin, then back at Jaemin. “No! I not listen to rude dada!”

His jaw clenches. “Fine—see how well that goes for you.”

“Oh, dada mean!” she shrieks, tugging at your sleeve like a miniature diva staking her ground.

He exhales through clenched teeth. “Let’s go, Haeun—now.”

“I only go if my wuv”—she points both fingers at you—“walk me to my ‘point-ment woom.” She folds her arms, chin jutting, the embodiment of pint-sized mutiny.

A sigh hisses through Jaemin’s teeth, but he jerks his head. “Fine, escort duty. Let’s move.” He strides ahead, your distance buffer, while Haeun cuddles deeper into your shoulder, whispering top-secret toddler confidences. “Gonna be so bwave for Dada, no crying. Bunny gets sticker too.” She plants stealth kisses against your collarbone whenever Jaemin isn’t looking.

The walk takes all of two minutes, yet Haeun makes it feel like a royal parade, waving at young children, saluting nurses, announcing “Echo Hall!” whenever your shoes tap louder than usual. At the exam door you set her down gently; she clings once more, plants a decisive smack-kiss to your cheek, and scampers inside only when Jaemin murmurs a command in a soft yet stern voice. She turns to you, blows a dramatic parting kiss, “bye-bye, bestest girl! See you at lunch!” Then she disappears behind the door, bunny ears last to vanish.

Jaemin pivots, his expression a scalpel’s edge. “Those post-op notes won’t finish themselves,” he says, crisp, clinical, leaving no room for argument. Heat prickles your ears as you mumble agreement, suddenly aware of the stack waiting on your desk. He strides after his daughter without another glance, coat flaring like a banner of practiced authority, and you’re left in the corridor with fruit snack residue on your fingers, heartbeat fluttering between childish adoration and the chill of his professional distance. Outside the exam room, you swear you hear Haeun’s giggle echo—a small, stubborn sun lighting its corner of the vast, humming hospital.

Haeun plants one last sticky kiss on your cheek. “See you later!” she chirps, tiny fingers fluttering in an enthusiastic wave. There’s no tug at your sleeve, no watery plea for you to stay; she only beams up, trusting you’ll find her when work is done. With mature little dignity, she pivots, tucks Bunny beneath her arm, and trots off beside her daddy, leaving you smiling at the soft echo of her goodbye while you turn back toward the day’s long list of patients.

The exam room glows in quiet aquamarine, dimmed lights reflecting off a stainless cart of probes and pastel–animal murals that do their best to outshine the scent of antiseptic. Haeun hesitates on the threshold, tiny fingers locked around her bunny’s ear, but Dr. Hwang Renjun lowers himself to her height, strawberry-shaped earrings wobbling. “Morning, beautiful. Ready to show me how strong your heart is today?” She nods and shuffles forward, the velcro on her trainers crackling like distant thunder. 

Jaemin lifts her onto the padded table, settles beside her like a human shield, and cups her cheek. “We’ve got this, baby.” His voice is velvet over steel; the monitors haven’t even switched on, yet his eyes are already tracking every stray beep in the room.

Sticky ECG leads find their places on her chest; the machine hums to life, neon digits dancing across the screen. Haeun flinches at the cold gel, tucks her face against Jaemin’s shoulder, and whispers, “Strong girl?” 

He hums the opening bars of a Barbie ballad and answers, “Brave girl, you’re my whole heart.” The rhythm steadies, both hers and his, until the trace prints clean and even. Next comes the blood draw: she offers her arm but squeezes Jaemin’s finger white as the needle slides in. Tears bead, spill; Dr. Hwang catches them with a tissue and murmurs, “Warrior stuff, sweetheart.” When the vial clicks shut, Haeun gasps, and Jaemin kisses the crook of her elbow. 

“You can pick any plaster,” the nurse offers. Without hesitation she chooses bright yellow, one for herself, one for Bunny and presses them on with solemn dignity.

The developmental team filters in: a speech pathologist, a physio, a giggling resident with a clipboard of milestone charts. Haeun demonstrates her latest hop-twirl combo, counts to ten (skipping four and seven with cheerful disregard), and recites half a line from “Bear’s Breakfast.” Applause ripples around the room. “She’s thriving,” the physio says, jotting notes, and Jaemin’s shoulders sink half an inch, relief loosening the set of his jaw. Dr. Hwang reviews the echo images projected on the wall, the truncus arteriosus repair holding steady, ventricular function strong, no leakage beyond trace. “Medication doses stay the same, labs look clean, lungs clear,” he recaps. “We’ll repeat imaging in three months.” 

The glow of the monitor paints Jaemin’s face in ghostly light, his jaw set like hardened steel, eyes flicking over every waveform as if he can make a perfect readout by sheer force of will. He stands rigid, shoulders squared, a silent sentinel against the slightest hint of error, each beeping alarm echoing the tremor of a father’s terror. Yet the moment Haeun toddles up, skirts of her yellow dress swirling, and plants a chubby finger against his nose—“Boop!”—his fortress cracks. She giggles, bright and fearless, undeterred by his furrowed brow, and he bends to lift her into his arms, the same hands that scrutinize surgical scans now cradling her like treasure. In her laughter he finds release, the hypervigilant surgeon melting into a gentle teddy bear, and for the briefest heartbeat, his only concern is the warmth of her smile against his chest.

Jaemin’s gaze narrows on the echo images flickering across the screen, fingers tapping the console with controlled urgency. “Any trace of residual regurgitation at the truncal valve?” he asks, voice taut. “What’s her peak gradient across the right ventricular outflow tract? And how are her ventricular volumes, any sign of dilation?” Each question lands with surgical precision, his protective instinct sharpening every syllable.

Dr. Hwang Renjun chuckles softly, the sound warm and effortless. “Absolutely nil, Jaemin. No leaks, gradient steady at fifteen millimeters, ventricular function textbook, look at that ejection fraction,” he says, nudging the waveform. “She’s exactly where she should be. Go on, go and enjoy time with your baby girl. She has a healthy heart, it’s a miracle.”

Jaemin exhales, relief softening the hard line of his jaw. He reaches out, and Renjun clasps his forearm in the quiet camaraderie of surgeons bound by shared stakes and shared salvation. In that handshake lies a promise kept: Haeun’s heart is safe, and now Jaemin can return to the most important surgery of all—being her father.

Afterward, ritual returns. Haeun perches on the staff-kitchen counter, legs swinging while Jaemin feeds her yogurt with a tongue-depressor spoon. She hands a crayon drawing to every nurse who passes, bunnies, ballerinas, ‘me + Dada in stars’—and each recipient grins as though gifted gold. When the last spoonful disappears, she sighs, wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, and rests her head on Jaemin’s shoulder. “Haeun happy,” she confirms, voice feather-thin but certain. Jaemin presses his lips to her hair, inhales the faint scent of baby shampoo, and lets the racing in his own chest finally slow to match the gentle, even beat he’s sworn to protect.

The hallway towards the on-call room is hushed in that unsettling way midday corridors sometimes are, as though the entire pediatric wing has paused to inhale together: murmured conversations ripple far off at the nurses’ station, fluorescent fixtures hum with soft electrical patience, and a cartoon theme song drifts faintly from a waiting-room television, its tinny melody warped by distance. You move through the quiet with measured urgency, heart racing, but hands steady, clutching Sang-jun’s chart against your chest so tightly the corner leaves a crease in your scrub top. One squeak from your shoe betrays you just before you reach the door you have come to know too well, the door behind which Dr. Na often sequesters himself when the hours run too long or when Haeun needs quiet away from the ward’s constant beeping. You have paged him twice without answer, so there is nothing left but to push inside.

Cool air rushes out, conditioned, ventilator-clean, tinged faintly with antiseptic and the gentle sweetness of vanilla hand soap. The lighting is low, like the hush inside a chapel. Dr. Na stands by the open locker, torso bared, the planes of his back and shoulders sculpted by the overhead glow. The tension in his posture, muscles corded, spine drawn taut, suggests he has been pulled from a moment of fragile calm. On the small examination bed against the wall, Haeun sits cross-legged atop a thin blanket, Bunny cradled beneath her chin. She is mid-giggle, trading whispers with her father, until she spots you in the doorway. Instantly she squeals, a single, silver note that ricochets off metal cabinets and bounces on the mattress, heels drumming. “Yay! My girl! We eat now?” she chirps, blowing exaggerated kisses that flap Bunny’s ears like wings.

The intimacy of the scene stops you cold: the bare skin of his chest still rising from quiet laughter, the way Haeun’s small fingers cling possessively to one of his, the hush broken only by her delighted squeal. Heat blooms under your collar. “I— Hi—Sorry. No. Not now, Haeun.” you stammer, voice catching. She settles at once, though her lower lip juts in gentle protest, as if she has decided that disappointment is survivable so long as Bunny remains. You turn with seriousness in your tone. “Dr. Na, it’s—there’s something urgent. I didn’t mean to—”

Dr. Na’s head turns slightly, eyes flicking to you without truly landing, and already he is dragging the scrub top over his shoulders. “What is it?” The question is clipped, professional, the vowels sharpened by a blade of cold urgency. He doesn’t move with his usual surgical speed, though; some unguarded part of him delays, granting you a full second to watch the fabric slide over the curve of his abdomen. 

The explanation you rehearsed all the way down the corridor catches like a stone in your throat, words dissolving the moment you’re confronted by the sharp, unguarded lines of Dr. Na’s half-naked body, suddenly every reason for being here feels impossibly small. He stands with his back to the low bed, chest bared and striking—broad, cut with the kind of muscle gained through consistent gym sessions, quick showers, and tension unwound only in the weight room. Each line is deeply sculpted, from the hollow above his collarbone to the ridges of his abs, his skin tinged with the cool blue light that slips through the half-closed blinds. His arms—thick with power, veins arching beneath the skin—look impossibly large beside the tiny figure sitting on the mattress. When he bends to help Haeun with her shoe, his forearm alone dwarfs her whole chest, the kind of paternal strength that could cradle or shield a world. 

There’s a deep, instinctive magnetism in the size of him, how he moves around her with such gentleness, all that brute strength transformed into the most careful touch. The heat of his skin seems to fill the small room, the masculine line of his neck and shoulders making every glance feel like a slow, deliberate drag of silk over bare skin. It’s impossible to look at him and not feel the weight of the contrast: the man made of sinew and promise, every inch built for both battle and devotion, and the little girl orbiting that steady sun, her hand barely wrapping his thumb, her head barely clearing the crook of his elbow, yet utterly secure in his shadow. Even the fluorescent glow feels charged in here, the air vibrating with a tension spun from protection and an allure so physical it catches the breath in your chest, shrinking the world to the space between heartbeat and hush.

The realization that you are staring makes your heartbeat stutter. You thrust the open file toward him with clammy fingers, words tumbling out in an anxious rush. “It’s Sang-jun, room twelve, his saturations crashed for three minutes, came back up, but the new angiogram shows a bulge at the pulmonary trunk. It wasn’t there on the morning scan, aneurysmal expansion, maybe leaking. If we wait, he could rupture.”

Dr. Na’s eyes widen, an infinitesimal flare and he lifts a warning finger to his lips before nodding subtly toward Haeun. She’s young but five-year-old Sang-jun is her hallway friend, and he won’t let her hear the word rupture. You swallow and fall silent, hands suddenly purposeless, burning with the sense that any wrong movement might shatter the room. The scrape-scuff scrape of soft sneakers echoes as Haeun climbs down from the bed and patters across the linoleum, curls bobbing like golden springs with every determined step. She reaches you in three quick strides, one, two, squeak, and flings her arms around your calves, hugging so tightly you feel the press of every tiny fingertip. Tilting her face up, she puckers her lips into noisy kissy-fish shapes, giggling between smacks of air. “Now lunch time?” she asks, hope bright as a bell.

You exhale a gentle sigh, crouching until your knees meet the linoleum and your shoulders hunch over her small body. Haeun launches herself forward, clutching you with every ounce of her tiny strength, your arms wrapping protectively around her so that you nearly swallow her up. The size difference is comical—your arms, bigger than her whole torso, your frame a sturdy arch she burrows under, bunny squished between your chests. She nestles her curls into your shoulder, humming with delight, eyes squeezing shut as you smooth her hair with your palm. Her legs curl up and over yours, and she lets out an exaggerated “Ahhh,” as though you’re some magical comfort switch. For a moment you both cling so fiercely it’s impossible to tell whose heartbeat is whose, the world narrowed down to vanilla-scented scrubs, sun-warm curls, and the simple security of a hug that feels like home. 

You sigh and finally respond to her. “Not yet, sweetheart,” you explain, voice low to keep the moment soft. “I have an important surgery with your Dada, saving another little bubba’s heart, so lunch has to wait. Let’s pinky promise, I promise that we’ll eat together later?” 

You extend your pinky. She studies it with comic seriousness, then pivots toward the wall clock, narrowing her eyes in a mock-stern squint. In the pale glow of the on-call room’s single lamp, Haeun tilts her head, her eyelashes scrunched into soft crescents. She lifts a pudgy finger and taps the long silver minute hand, “big han!” Her other pudgy finger follows the shorter hour hand, and she babbles with gleeful effort, “little han!” Each mispronounced syllable hangs in the hush, the faint click of her tiny taps echoing like raindrops on glass. Her face brightens as she watches both hands meet at twelve, eyes shining with proud astonishment, and she throws back her head to squeal, “yay!”—a burst of pure, two-year-old wonder that seems to make even the sterile walls soften around her.

You realize in an instant why she insists. Just weeks ago, Dr. Na taught her how to read the clock, how the long hand marks minutes and the shorthand hours—and today her little brain leapt to the only logical conclusion: the hands meet at twelve, so it must be lunchtime. She remembers your promise but knows too that surgery—and what she calls “Dada’s magic healing wand”—takes far longer than a tick of the clock. So with earnest, two-year-old conviction she taps your cheek and chides, “My wuv, you so silly! Lunch time only at twelve.” Her correction, wise beyond her years, unspools the knot of guilt in your chest and draws a soft laugh from your lips.

“Smart girl,” you concede, hooking her small finger with yours. “All right, then we’ll eat later, but we’ll call it ‘not-lunch.’ Deal?”

“Deal,” she agrees, dimples flashing. She releases your leg and pats the pocket where you keep your pen as if sealing the contract in ink. Behind you, Dr. Na’s gaze remains sidelong and frosted, yet something in the curve of his mouth softens as he steps forward, scooping Haeun into the secure cage of his arms. He kisses the crown of her head, voice a hush meant only for her. “Daddy loves you, be brave for me.” She taps his cheek twice, one tap for courage, one for love, then whispers, “My hero, Dada,” before reaching over his shoulder to wiggle her pinky at you one more time, confirmation that promises, like hearts, must always keep beating.

She straightens her back and sucks in a breath, trying to look brave, but her tiny fingers knot into the fabric of his scrub top as she peers up at him with wide, anxious eyes. “You be okay? You come back?” she murmurs, voice trembling like a leaf in a breeze. He leans down, brushes her button nose with his lips, and murmurs reassurance into the curve of her cheek. “Daddy loves you,” he promises, voice warm as sunrise, “you’re always first. I’ll be back fast, I’ll always come back to you..” In that soft twilight of promises and parting, her small frame relaxes just enough, held safe between two hearts determined to return.

Jaemin turns to you, all softness gone. “Make sure OR Three is prepared, perfusion on standby, call Dr. Song from anesthesia, and page Dr. Huang. I’ll take her to Nurse Ahra.” His tone leaves no oxygen for argument. He strides out, scrub top half-fastened, Haeun’s arms looped around his neck, and for a fleeting breath you watch the two of them disappear, the echo of her whisper—“I wuv my hero dada!”—fading into the broader hush of the ward. Only then do you feel your own pulse surge, the chart still trembling in your hand, as you pivot toward the surgical suite and the boy whose heart may already be counting its final beats.

Nurse Yuha steps into the soft hallway light, arms open like a gentle harbor, and Haeun’s grip on Dada’s scrub top loosens as she turns with a flurry of golden curls. Perched on Yuha’s hip, she lifts a chubby hand and blows two sloppy kisses—one for you, one for her Dada—before burying her face in the nurse’s shoulder and erupting into delighted giggles that sound like windchimes. Yuha promises a colorful sticker chart and tiny cups of warm milk, a stack of storybooks waiting in the playroom just beyond the sliding doors, and assures her that Bunny will have his own special snack box. Haeun nods solemnly, eyes bright as stars, then tugs free to pat Yuha’s cheek and imitate the soft coo of a lullaby, her amazing little laugh echoing through the corridor like a promise that she’s safe—tucked into this circle of care until Dada returns.

The moment you and Dr. Na step into the corridor, silence rises like a tide between you; he still hasn’t met your eyes, and the hum of overhead fixtures feels suddenly thunderous around the rapid thud of your pulse. Dr. Huang Renjun intercepts you halfway to the lift, tablet already aglow with Sang-jun’s images. “Confirmed—rapid dilation at the pulmonary trunk,” he says, the words brisk but shadowed by worry. “He’s high risk, we’re running out of time.” You fall into step between them, heart rattling, unable to speak; only when you dare a glance up does Jaemin break the hush. 

“You’ll assist,” he states, flat as slate. “Let’s see if your theory holds.” No praise—only a razor-thin invitation to prove you’re not wrong, an honor he has never granted another second-year.

Steam halos the scrub sinks, turning stainless steel into a mirror of shifting light. You press the foot pedal; warm water floods over your forearms in rhythmic waves while antiseptic soap lathers between your fingers, the citrus scent sharp enough to steady your pulse. Dr. Na steps up beside you, then inches behind, close enough that the heat of his chest radiates through the thin cotton of your scrubs. The fluorescent glare bleaches every color but brings his reflection into crystalline focus, eyes narrowed, expression unreadable.

“Walk me through it,” he says, voice pitched low, as though the tiled walls themselves shouldn’t overhear. “First move when you open the pericardium.”

You swallow. “Incise along the phrenic nerve’s reflection, shallow angle, avoid catching the right coronary.” The answer slips out half a note too breathless, so you force your shoulders back, rinse, and begin again with steadier cadence: “Retract superiorly to expose the ascending trunk, then place stay sutures before establishing the plane.”

His scrutiny never breaks. “Confident hands,” he corrects, tone razor-smooth. “Uncertain hands bleed. And after exposure?”

You meet his gaze in the mirror. “Assess for tension at the graft anastomosis, check distal flow, then proceed to the aneurysmal sac.” The tremor in your voice fades with each word.

Satisfied, he turns, handing you a towel, and together you move into the prep room where scans flicker on a wall-mounted monitor. He taps the angio image—the faint, ghost-white bulge you found. “Why does this matter?”

“It’s a false lumen,” you say, drawing a slow breath. “Pressure is pushing blood between layers, if it tears free, he bleeds out before we can clamp.”

Dr. Na inclines his head, acknowledgment and challenge in a single motion. “So, are you going to prove it?”

“Yes, Doctor,” you answer, the words anchoring your resolve like suture knots. He hands you the needle driver, practice skin already draped. You slip the point through synthetic tissue, feel his gloved knuckles brush yours as he steadies the bite for tension. For a heartbeat everything narrows to the slide of thread and the whisper of his breath at your temple.

“Stay with me,” he murmurs—command, promise, and impossible invitation—before he turns toward the doors, the gleam of the operating lights pooling across his shoulders like armor waiting to be tested.

Inside OR 3, antiseptic fumes mingle with the metallic tang of cautery, and every surface gleams beneath surgical lamps that burn as bright as judgment. Sang-jun, barely three, his eyelashes still feather-soft, lies motionless on the draped table, lips already paling to the color of paper snow. The scrub nurse counts instruments in a hushed litany, while the perfusionist adjusts flow rates, the hiss of oxygen punctuating each clipped exchange. You stand opposite Dr. Na, fingers half-numb inside powder-blue gloves, eyes fixed on the midline Dr. Na’s has inked from sternal notch to xiphoid: a single, merciless road.

“Scalpel,” he commands, and the blade settles into his palm as if forged for it. The first incision is a stroke of absolute certainty, skin parting in a clean crimson line, edges precise as cut crystal. “Identify subcutaneous fat… fascia… here.” His narration is cool as the operating lights; gone is the lullaby warmth he once used to guide you. Every layer becomes an oral exam: “Name the vessel, state the clamp position.” Your answers snap back, brittle and fast, because each pause tightens the invisible band of his scrutiny.

Rib spreader ratchets open with a groan, and the sternum yields. He leans in, voice low enough that only you catch the edge of it: “Pericardium next. What’s your angle?” You recite the protocol—thirty degrees, shallow bites—while your pulse drums in your ears. 

He nods once, unsmiling. “Proceed.” Even the way he passes control is a test; your hands hover, then settle, and for three heartbeats the world steadies around the soft snip of Metzenbaums.

The moment splinters without warning. The arterial line alarms, a shrill, panicked note, and the monitor floodlights red across oxygen saturation:  ninety-four, eighty, sixty-two. Vent pressures spike. “Aneurysm wall’s giving,” Renjun mutters, voice suddenly gravel. Then the sac ruptures, a dark surge that fills the field, blood climbing the drapes like ivy. “We’re losing him,” Renjun warns, an octave lower than before.

“Suction—now.” Dr. Na’s jaw snaps shut, pupils narrowing to flint. You thrust the Yankauer forward, your own breath snagging as crimson pools under the light. He works in blister-fast sweeps—clamp, suture, tie—but the tissue slips, friable as wet silk. Your brain stutters; hands hover useless for one terror-bright second before muscle memory drags you back: pass the pledget, call the vitals, check perfusion flow. Still, the rhythm between you falters, stitches pulled too tight, instruments hitting the tray a half-beat late.

“Epi, one milligram,” Renjun’s voice cuts through the chaos as he orders the first dose of epinephrine, the drug surging through the IV line without coaxing a single rebound in saturation. Without pause, a second dose follows, and hands move into rhythm. closed fists pressing into a tiny chest that rocks beneath their weight. Eleven minutes unfold like a taut wire stretched over an abyss, each second marked by the steady pulse of alarms and the wet slap of suction. At last, the monitors fall silent, the once-flickering waveform dissolving into an unbroken line of darkness.

Dr. Hwang Renjun’s voice cuts through the dim hush like a cracked bell: “Time of death, 15:42.” His words hang in the air, each syllable a hammer blow against the cathedral silence of OR 3. Dr. Na’s hand, still curled around the scalpel, trembles against his palm; only when you press a light fingertip to his sleeve does his grip finally loosen, the blade clattering onto the metal tray. His shoulders collapse as though the weight of every prayer, every sleepless vigil, has come crashing down, and he stands bowed beneath the invisible burden of a child’s unfulfilled tomorrow. The drapes rise again, forming a pale shroud over Sang-jun’s tiny form, arms folded as if in sleep, too small for the world they once embraced. A surgical lamp dims, its dying glow painting every face in slate-grey sorrow, and the remaining team drifts away in single file, the wet echo of suction and the relentless beep of monitors replaced by the hollow thrum of hearts breaking.

You remain rooted to the spot, breath gone, your mind a portrait of all that was lost: Sang-jun’s father, who scrambled second jobs through long nights to keep his son alive on a tide of medications; his mother, who sang lullabies in the hospital hallway, sleeper soft with hope; his little sister who waited at home for her brother’s bedtime stories, her small heart unaware that the story would end today. Jaemin stands opposite you, gaze fixed on the blood-darkened gauze, as if willing it to rewrite its own truth. When at last he turns, his eyes are hollow hurricanes of grief—controlled, implacable, yet cracking at the edges—and he steps back, leaving you alone with the echo of Renjun’s declaration, the memory of a child’s bright laughter now extinguished, and the terrible, echoing quiet of a life that could not be saved.

Outside the theatre, the world feels unsteady—corridor lights gleam off pooled droplets on the floor as Jaemin peels away his blood-slick gloves with sharp, uneven snaps. Your shoulders convulse with a sob you can’t hold back, but he doesn’t meet your eyes; instead, he stares at the gloved hands he’s just shed, the tremor of rage and grief rippling across his jaw. When he finally speaks, his voice is a rasped echo of steel. “Save it,” he spits, each word scraping the air. “You can’t attach to every outcome.”

Tears blur your vision, but you force the truth past quivering lips. “My theory was right—but I was too late.”

He inhales, a breath that sounds equal parts sorrow and ire, and for a bare heartbeat you glimpse the man unmasked: the surgeon who has carried every promise of countless parents, now shaken by one he could not keep. “No one else would’ve caught it,” he says at last, the praise so thin it cuts both ways. “At least we tried.” He turns as though to leave, shoulders hunched beneath the weight of every loss but then he pauses, pivots back toward you, gaze sharpening. Scrubs streaked with dried blood, arms folding into a stance of unyielding authority, Dr. Na fixes you with a stare that brooks no argument. His voice, low and steely, slices through the corridor’s fluorescent hum: “Do not tell her.”

You feel your throat constrict—a single, ragged gulp—before you exhale a shuddering sigh and lift your head in a trembling nod. Every fiber of you aches with empathy: this man, who rescued that child from death’s doorstep time and again since he was barely more than an infant, only to watch him slip away in the crucible of the OR. You know he stands on the edge of despair, raw from loss, and yet must pivot instantly back into the role of protector for the only life that matters more to him than his own—his own daughter. The weight of his double bind settles in your chest: surgeon and father, healer and mourner, forced to cradle one broken heart even as he shields another from the same cruel truths. You swallow again, steadying your voice, because you understand that his greatest battle now is not on any operating table, but in preserving innocence for the little girl who calls him “Dada.”

He glances past you to the family waiting room—where another set of parents has just been broken—jaw set so hard the muscle jumps, knuckles whitening against the wall as though it alone can steady him. This is a surgeon who loses children more often than sleep, yet each absence still bites bone-deep; you see it in the faint tremor of his shoulders, in the flash of fear that this loss, or the next, might one day be his own, his own baby girl. Guilt folds into dread, dread into a cold fury at a universe that lets tiny hearts bear such weight. He draws one ragged breath. “She’ll hear it from me. If she hears it from anyone else, especially when you’re still crying, it will break her. You know how she reads a room; you need to be steady. You promised her lunch, so you give her lunch. You act normal. She needs routine so be her anchor. Don’t let her feel it until I’m ready to give it words.” His tone sharpens the air like a scalpel, but when he pinches the bridge of his nose the veneer fractures long enough for raw panic to pulse through. “She’d cry herself to sleep if you didn’t show,” he finishes more softly, wiping at his own eyes. “So protect her joy until I’m forced to take it apart.”

Your throat burns, tears already haloing your lashes; still you square your shoulders, forcing calm into each syllable. “I understand, Doctor. I’ll keep it exactly as we promised—lunch, play, everything. She’ll only see smiles.” You swipe the last salt from your cheek, lift your chin. “I’ve got her, sir, until you’re ready.” A flicker of gratitude skims his gaze before the mask clicks back into place; he nods once, turns toward the grieving family’s room. You draw a breath deep enough to steady a quake, then pivot toward the nurses’ lounge, rehearsing your own fragile smile—because for the next few hours you will be a harbor, and grief, like the tide, must wait outside.

You shoulder the door into the pediatric nurses’ lounge, a quilt of sound and color unfurls around you: sunlight drapes itself over sunflower-yellow walls, bright murals of rocket ships and storybook castles chase one another across the ceiling, and every cabinet surface blooms with bunny stickers—pink, violet, holographic—like a garden planted by Haeun’s small hands. The air carries three distinct notes—citrus-sharp sanitizer, the waxy sweetness of half-peeled crayons, and a lingering ribbon of strawberry yogurt that makes you think of spring mornings and sidewalk chalk. Soft jazz hums from a tinny speaker, mingling with the laughter of half a dozen nurses perched on beanbags and stools, each offering a turn at being examined by the ward’s tiniest cardiologist.

At the room’s center, Haeun presides from Nurse Yuha’s lap, gold curls haloed in fluorescent light, cheeks aflame with delight, Bunny tucked like a royal scepter beneath one arm. She presses her plastic stethoscope, with its heart-shaped diaphragm, to Yuha’s chest and leans in with theatrical gravity. “Boom-boom good—lub-dub, lub-dub!” she pronounces, and the circle of nurses dissolves into applause as though she has just performed a miracle. Her eyes glide over the crowd, searching, always searching, until they catch on you standing in the doorway. In an instant she transforms from physician to comet: she wriggles free of Yuha, socks squeaking on linoleum, and launches down the aisle, Bunny flapping behind her like a pink pennant in the wind.

“My girl! My wuv! You so pwetty—I wuv you!” she shrieks, the words bright as thrown confetti. She collides with your legs at full tilt, arms latching around your calves; the jolt nearly topples you, and your hands dart to steady the curve of her small back. Hiccough-giggles sputter from her chest as she cranes upward, tiny palms capturing your cheeks, mouth puckered for a shower of kisses that taste faintly of yogurt and afternoon sun. “We lunch now? We lunch? We lunch?!” Each repetition is a sparkling plea, hope vibrating in her voice like the high string of a violin.

You crouch until your knees touch the warm floor, the mural dragons swooping just above your head, and gather her into the cradle of your arms. Her curls tickle your neck; her Bunny’s soft ear brushes your jaw; and all the grief that has carved hollows in your ribs seems, for a heartbeat, to fill with light. “Yes, baby,” you murmur, voice still raw but steady enough to hold her world intact. “Lunch now.” She releases a triumphant squeal, burrows tighter, and plants rapid-fire kisses across your chin while the nurses, smiling behind damp lashes, watch the two of you slip through the door, routine intact, promises upheld, the corridor ahead glowing with the fragile, stubborn brightness of a child who believes love is a meal that always arrives on time.

The interns’ lounge has never quite shaken its antiseptic tang, yet midday light makes the vinyl floor glow like warmed honey, and the laminate table, scarred by years of coffee rings and capped syringes, feels, for this hour, like the safest shore in the world. Two years ago you stood at an isolette instead of a table, four exhausted interns huddled around an incubator while a newborn fought for every breath. You remember unwrapping cafeteria sandwiches in silence, pretending the tiny figure under UV lamps could hear your soft jokes, believing laughter might stitch her more tightly to this side of living. In that era her lunch was a milliliter of fortified formula slipped into an NG tube, her blanket a nest of wires and warming pads. Today, in triumphant contrast, Haeun sits upright in a high chair you covered with a bunny-print cloth, bare feet drumming the metal rung, curls haloed in the fluorescent glow. She has appointed herself “big girl” of the kitchen, giggling whenever Jihoon exaggerates the clang of the juice machine, and you can’t help thinking that this ritual, weekday noon, same table, same constellation of friends, has become the arterial beat of her childhood: nourishment, safety, presence, family.

You lay out her lunch as though setting an altar. First her sandwich, cheese and strawberry jam, cut into four tidy hearts; next a pink bunny-themed juice box with the straw pierced but still sheathed so she can do the grand reveal; then a yogurt cup whose foil you peel only halfway, folding back the lid so it becomes a tiny tray; finally, strawberries shaved into flower shapes, the edges smoothed so no seed catches on her tongue. Only when every item is in its rightful place do you unpack your own food. Her eyes widen, starburst bright. “So pwetty!” she gasps, leaning to plant a sticky kiss on your cheek. “Thank you, my wuv!” She tugs your sleeve with urgent tenderness. “Sit! Sit wif me pwease? We eat togever!” She squeezes your hand as if sealing an oath. You settle beside her; she immediately scoots her plate an inch closer to yours, legs kicking until one heel bumps your thigh, a grounding contact she seems not to notice but you feel like a pulse.

Haeun is a pocket-sized burst of daylight amid the hush of hospital blues—a sunflower-yellow dress puffed around her like a petal spun from honey, butter-soft bow pinned above her fringe as though it decided to bloom there just for her. Against the cool wash of your light-blue scrubs she glows even brighter, cheeks lit with rose-petal pink, lashes fanning over half-moon eyes that crinkle each time her laughter curls up from somewhere deep and simple. Tiny fingers knead Bunny’s fleece while the other hand clutches your sleeve for balance, and every wobbling step makes the dotted fabric ripple like a field of marigolds in a secret breeze. Even the sterile corridor seems warmer for carrying her, this bright, giggling sunbeam whose whole body tilts toward love the way real blossoms lean into light.

Hyejin slides in on your left, Jihoon claims the seat across, and Dayoung, ever multitasking, balances a latte on one hip of the table. The teasing ignites instantly: “Bubba, you’re eating more than Jihoon!” Haeun’s laugh unfurls, spiraling up the tiled walls like a ribbon. Determined to keep pace with the adults, she straightens her back, folds her hands over the heart-shaped sandwich, and cocks her head in perfect imitation of your morning case-conference posture. When talk drifts to the ventricular-assist trial, her little brow furrows in exaggerated concentration; you lean close, whisper a pocket-sized definition, and she pops up, triumphant: “I know dat word—aneu… aneuwism!” The syllables tumble, endearing and earnest, but the room rewards her with applause as though she has just solved the Grand Rounds puzzle. She claps for herself, cheeks flushing rose-bright, then mimics Jihoon’s habit of jotting notes by pretending her spoon is a pen and the yogurt lid a chart. Jihoon sneaks her another strawberry; Hyejin catches a drip of yogurt with a napkin swipe; Dayoung tops off the juice box like a seasoned sommelier. It’s impossible to tell who cherishes whom more, the child radiating upward or the adults bending toward her light.

Without ever pausing to think, you move through a liturgy of tiny devotions that have, over two years, made you the fixed star in her small sky. The moment she squeals—“New sticker, wook!”—your fork is forgotten, your shoulders tipping forward as though Sotheby’s itself has begged for provenance. You cradle the glossy bunny decal between thumb and forefinger, tilt it toward the overhead light, and pronounce it a masterpiece; she preens, cheeks round with pride, as if your admiration has nudged the planet one click closer to perfect alignment. A dollop of yogurt escapes her spoon; you catch it with the pad of your thumb, swipe the smudge from her lip, and murmur, “There we go, my pretty girl,” in the same tone surgeons reserve for closing a flawless stitch. She beams, eyes crescenting, shoulders dropping in such visible relief that you feel the trust settle between you like a soft-weighted blanket.

Her legs, restless with happiness, begin to swing; before the rhythm can topple her chair, your palm finds the delicate length of her shin, a gentle ballast that slows the pendulum of toddler energy. Her doe-soft eyes blink up at you. wide, curious pools of wonder and she tilts her head, that shy furrow between her brows. Then, gathering courage in her tiny chest, she puckers her lips and blows you a hearty, breathy kiss that lands against your cheek like a soft promise. In that single fluttered moment, her whole world seems to expand and contract around you: her heart so full it feels heavy and intense, a secret she shares only with you and Daddy, a feeling she has never known with anyone else.

Conversation flows over her head in adult currents, dosage calculations, post-op schedules and each unfamiliar word makes her brows knit until you lean close, translate in a whisper, and watch her forefinger tap her temple as if she is pressing those syllables, tiny love letters, straight into memory. When her juice sloshes over the rim of its bunny box, she gasps, already apologizing, but you say only, “It’s all right, we’ll clean it up together.” Two paper napkins, four hands, and thirty seconds later the spill has become a triumph of teamwork, and she’s bright again, triumphant. Even Bunny is not forgotten: you fold a napkin into a nap-sized placemat and ladle an imaginary spoonful of soup toward his stitched mouth; her laughter, pure, effervescent, fizzes through the room and makes every fluorescent panel seem to glow warmer.

Midway through the meal, you wrap your fingers around hers, guiding the slippery yogurt spoon toward its target. Her entire hand goes slack inside your grasp, as if discovering a harbor she has sought all morning. She studies you then—long, unblinking—doe-soft eyes reflecting a devotion too large for so small a frame. In a voice hushed by awe she whispers, “You my home.” The sentence drifts across the space between your hearts like a feather, yet lands with the density of a falling star, cracking something tender wide open inside your chest. 

You swallow against the sudden tide, steady the spoon, and manage, “You’re my home too, baby,” wondering whose world you have just rebuilt with those five words, hers or your own. She sighs, a tiny sound heavy with contentment, and nestles her head against your shoulder; curls brush your jaw, fine as butterfly wings, and you tilt your cheek into their touch. In that strawberry-scented stillness, the universe contracts to a child’s heartbeat and an adult’s breath, and for one miraculous beat you both believe that sharing lunch, side by side, is enough to keep the whole fragile world from breaking. For the length of a strawberry-scented breath, you believe everything is healed and possible. 

The child-therapy room is small enough that your footsteps soften as soon as you cross the threshold, yet Haeun makes it feel cathedral-wide, lungs full of laughter, arms full of possibility. You arrange a miniature round table at the center, pastel yellow plastic legs, lace-printed top and guide a polite circle of stuffed animals into their seats: Bunny presiding in a polka-dot chair, a one-eyed panda to his right, a plush giraffe stretching above them all like a courteous maître d’. Jihoon folds himself onto a child-sized stool that creaks in protest; Dayoung kneels opposite, the skirt of her scrub jacket puddling on soft foam tiles. Haeun’s eyes widen at the sight of the thimble-china spread, cups no larger than a walnut, saucers brushed with tiny lavender sprigs and she claps twice, curls bouncing like miniature springs. “Bunny says mo’ shugah!” she announces with solemn authority, dipping an invisible cube into each cup and murmuring, “Sip sip, so good!” before tipping her head back to “drink” and letting out a delighted sigh. 

She tucks one elbow on the table, chin cupped in her palm, and peers across at Jihoon in mock appraisal: “Do you want more, Mr. Panda? He nods, yes yes!” Then she turns to you, eyes dancing, and insists, “Chef, one mo’ pour for my wuv!”—cupping her pinky as she sips again, pink juice dribbling down her chin until you rescue her with a fingertip. When Dayoung pours “tea” into Bunny’s cup, Haeun giggles so hard she nearly tips backward, and shrieks, “Bunny say tickle time!” before tickling the plush until its ears flop. Every so often she leans close to your ear and whispers, “I wuv you lots, best tea friend, my pwetty wuv,” her breath warm and sprinkled with sweetness. 

You pretend to pour, then tip an imaginary kettle toward Jihoon, who raises his pinkie and sighs, “Exquisite, Chef Haeun.” The room brightens a few watts when she beams. She sips air from her cup, eyes never straying far from you, as though every nod, every hum, is proof the sun is still in orbit. Twice, mid-giggle, she leans against your arm and whispers, “I so happy today,” the words small but weighty, settling inside your ribcage like a stone of light. You smile and smooth a curl from her cheek, yet a splinter of ache lodges under the moment: you know what waits in the afternoon, how this crystalline joy will fracture as soon as Dr. Na speaks the truth about Sangjun.

When attention drifts, you and Hyejin shift to the art corner. There’s a low wooden table scarred by decades of crayon zeal; between the grooves, fresh paper gleams. Haeun flattens a sheet, tongue peeking from the corner of her mouth, and sets to work with waxy fervor. Hyejin crouches behind, guiding her tiny fingers in backward, wobbling strokes until a proud name emerges: ‘HAEUN,’ letters marching like uneven soldiers beneath a yellow sun. “Dat’s my famiwy,” she announces, turning the page toward you. Three stick figures, her, Jaemin, you, hold hands beneath an orange orb that radiates crayon fire. Something inside you creaks open; you praise each line until her cheeks flush deeper than strawberry yogurt. A second drawing follows: two stick bodies, balloon strings sprouting from clenched fists. “Dis for Sangie,” she says. “When his boo-boo better, we hold hands fo’ever.” Hyejin catches your gaze; her smile trembles, wet at the corners. Your own chest pulses, raw, how do you cradle hope this fragile without crushing it? You tell her it’s beautiful, voice thick, and she nods, satisfied, slipping the masterpiece into a glitter-trimmed folder marked ‘FOR SANGJUN.’

Promise number three is the bubble bath. Hayoung has already run warm water in the therapy tub, clouds of citrus-scented foam rising like whipped cream peaks. Haeun squeals, stripping off her yellow dress, tiny limbs flashing gold in the fluorescent light. Dr. Na has finally come from updating the family, updating records and a much needed moment away for himself, he materializes at the doorway, shoulders squared yet eyes still rimmed red. Haeun squeaks “Dada!” and he crosses the room in three long strides, kneeling to press a kiss to her damp curls. 

“Hi baby girl, I missed you,” he murmurs, voice thinned but tender. You feel the heat of him, broad chest under dark blue scrubs, sleeves clinging to biceps slicked by recent scrubbing and your pulse flickers with something embarrassingly electric before you turn back to the tub. He lingers by the wall, trusting you and Hayoung to steer the ritual, arms folded but gaze soft.

“Look, Dada, I swim!” Haeun cries, paddling in place; rubber duckies bob along the surface, Bunny (plastic-sleeved) officiates from a towel, and a leggy foam bunny hat perches atop her curls.

She holds the two ducklings aloft, one rotund, one pint-sized, then lowers them into the foam as if unveiling champions at a finish line. “Mama duck, baby duck,” she chants, voice bright with ceremony. But as the plastic birds begin their gentle parade, her small gaze drifts over your shoulder, landing shyly on the curve of your neck, the few stray droplets of water that catch in your hair. In that glance is a world of things she can’t yet name: gratitude for hands that cradle her soft curls without ever rushing, wonder at the quiet way you blend soap into each strand as if it were spun gold, and a tender question—do you see how much I love you? Her lashes flutter, cheeks warming, and her heart pulses a secret drumbeat of trust. Though she returns to cheering her ducklings, her eyes keep flicking back, tethered to you by a thread of devotion that feels both vast and fragile, a silent promise that she understands, in this warm, scented bubble bath, exactly how deeply you care. She ships, “Go, Mama! Go, Baby!” until the bath echoes with her triumphant laughter.

You crown her with a bubble tiara; she screams delighted protest, scoops fistfuls, and plops them onto your head in revenge. Hayoung catches the moment on her phone, your grin dripping foam, Haeun’s laugh arcing like a fountain and the image freezes every shadow of the day for one perfect instant. Routine is her gravity: after the splashes subside she asks, as always, “Braid hair, wight?” and you promise, guiding her out with a towel cloak, whispering a silly story about a ballet-dancing giraffe while you pat her dry. She hums along, eyes closing halfway, body lax with trust; she’s drifting toward a nap when Dr. Na re-enters, quiet as dusk.

He watches you braid her damp curls, one, two, three loops, then cups the back of her head, murmuring something low that makes her smile without opening her eyes. You feel a pang of wonder and dread: for this brilliant, laughing child the world has narrowed to two immutable anchors, Daddy and You, and in minutes one of those anchors will break the horizon with news that rends the simplest map of friendship she’s ever drawn. You tie the last ribbon, kiss the crown of her head, and hand her into her father’s arms, every promise kept for now, every shadow waiting just beyond the doorway.

Jaemin steps through again, eyes rubbed raw, jaw locked into a marble line, shadows still clinging to the hollows of his throat, yet every grief-crease has been ironed flat into authority. Conversation evaporates; Hyejin, Jihoon, and Dayoung murmur quick good-byes and slip past him, coats whispering along the wall. You move to follow, pulse skittering, but his voice, low, cooled to surgical steel, cuts across the hushed clatter of toys. “Stay.” A single hand closes around your elbow, just above the bend, heat searing through scrub fabric; the grip is brief, almost clinical, yet it pins you more surely than restraints. He never meets your eyes. gaze fixed somewhere over your shoulder, mouth a thin slash but the weight of his palm lingers long after he releases you, leaving your skin tingling, your breath shallow, as if the room has shrunk to the outline of his fingers and the unspoken order vibrating beneath your ribs. Then he coughs once, as if clearing ash from his throat, retracts his hand, and adds in a softer register, “Haeun will need you.” The words hang between you like fragile glass, and you inhale, trembling, knowing exactly what he means.

The door hushes closed behind the last intern, and Jaemin moves into the pool of warm light near the tub, shoulders squared, face drained to pale marble. His gaze drifts to Haeun, perched on a small chair in fresh sunflower-yellow pajamas, thumb slipping in and out of her mouth as her braids swing over her shoulders. She watches him with wide eyes, feeling giddy and shy, her braid ends sweeping her chest as she slips her thumb from her mouth. “Dada!” she chirps, hoisting herself into his lap. He gathers her close, one trembling hand smoothing her braid, the other cupping her back.

“I was Dada’s good girl today!” she announces, voice bright with pride. “I had lunch wif my tea party—Bunny say mo’ shugah! And I draw for Sangie, and we wash up in bubbles!” Her words tumble over each other, each achingly perfect detail of her day. Jaemin’s throat tightens, and he presses a gentle kiss to her temple. “And my wuv,” she chirrups, glancing shyly at you, “she set up my lunch, cut heart sammich just for me! She peel my yogurt and wipe my chin, and she pour Bunny’s tea too!” She giggles, pride tumbling off her tongue, then reaches one chubby hand toward you. “You my girl!” she adds, pressing a quick kiss to your scrub top before turning back to her father. “Dada, my wuv make me feel so happy!” Her small chest rises with the weight of her joy, and in that cascade of toddler praise, you and Dr. Na share a look of quiet wonder, two guardians wrapped in the purest love this little princess could ever know.

She wiggles until her small hand brushes against a sheet of paper on the table’s edge. “Look, Dada!” she whispers, eyes bright as dawn. She holds up her newest treasure, crayon strokes bold and happy. “I make dis for Sangie. I your ‘princess drawer,’ right?” Her head tilts up in hopeful question, soft curls brushing his chin, and for a moment the world narrows to her trusting gaze and the warm weight of her in his arms.

He lifts her chin with gentle fingers, eyes soft as dawn. “Oh, my precious angel,” he coos, voice trembling with warmth. “You’re so smart and so kind—you always listen to Dada and believe him, right?” She nods vigorously, curls brushing his lips, and he presses a feather-light kiss to her forehead. “Such a brave, clever girl,” he whispers, voice thick with love. “I’m so proud of you, my little sunshine.” He smooths a stray curl from her forehead, voice thick with emotion as he rasps, “You’re my brave, smart girl, Haeun. My whole heart.” He repeats. For a moment, his smile trembles, eyes flickering to shadows she can’t name but she feels it. 

Haeun tilts her head, brow furrowing in toddler concern. “Why you sad, Dada? What happen?” she whispers, voice small. “You get boo-boo?” Before he can answer, she cranes forward, planting a chubby hand on his cheek. “Haeunie kiss it better for you!” She presses a soft, earnest kiss to the crease of his jaw, eyes wide with unwavering faith, and in that tender gesture he feels both heartbreak and healing, because in her innocence she believes love can mend even the deepest hurts. Beneath the praise lies something darker: the quiet dread that this fragile, wonderful life could be snatched away by the very heart that drives her laughter. He tastes salt on his lips, recalling every labored beat, every echo of monitors in sterile rooms, and the fear that one day those beeps will fall silent forever.

Like sunshine through shifting clouds, she flits away from sorrow, babies are like dandelion seeds, scattering hope wherever they drift. She fishes the crayon drawing from her dress pocket, balloons, big smiles, two stick figures and holds it up proudly. “Where Sangie? He sleeping soft now, right? When he wake up I give him dis!” Her hope is so bright it hurts to look at. Jaemin swallows.

He inhales slowly, gathering the fragile fragments of a sentence before he lets them fall. His thumbs brush her braid aside as he leans close, voice softening to a murmur meant for bedtime stories. “You know how Dada’s magic wand can make boo-boos go away?” he begins, and she nods, eyelashes quivering. He pauses, chest tightening with every memory of monitors and hurried footsteps, then continues gently, “Well, Sangjun’s heart was very, very tired. The doctors all did everything they could, they held their breath and tried to mend it but it wouldn’t beat the way it needed to.” 

Her small brow scrunches in earnest confusion. She presses her thumb to her lips, voice trembling: “He got new boo-boo?” 

Dr. Na’s hand finds hers, thumb tracing the ridge of her knuckles as he whispers, “No, baby. Sangjun went to Heaven.” He lets the word hang like a lullaby’s last note. “Heaven is a place where hearts never hurt and naps last forever. He’s safe there, but he won’t be able to come back.” The air stills around them, and in the hush he feels the weight of her world tilting, so he gathers her closer, whispering once more against her curls, “I’m here, love. I’ll stay with you.”

Confusion flickers, then stubborn disbelief. “Call him back, Dada. Tell him no nap, tell him Haeun miss him and need him. Maybe he come after sleep?” 

The plea pierces the room, Dr. Na’s breath stutters. “I wish I could, sunshine, but Heaven is very far. Phones don’t reach that high.” 

Her lower lip trembles. “He… no come back?” When Jaemin’s silent shake confirms it, the world tilts: she folds, sob breaking loose, tiny fists thumping helplessly at his chest. “Boo-boo! Sangie no come back! I need him come back!” Each syllable fragments into gasping hiccups. 

Dr. Na gathers her tighter, rocking her against the steady drum of his own wounded heart. “Brave girl, my whole heart, I’ve got you. You’re safe.” He repeats it like a mantra, voice cracking, tears gleaming in his lashes. She clutches his scrub top, drawing it to her cheek as if fabric alone can anchor her to this new, brutal truth. You turn away, throat blazing, as her grieving wail, raw, animal, innocent, fills every corner of the therapy room, and for one interminable minute the only sounds are her sobs, his murmured reassurance, and the faint drip of water from the still-warm tub.

Hourglass tears have dwindled to silver rivulets when Haeun finally stills against Dr. Na’s chest, chubby fingers brushing at her damp cheeks in determined swipes. Her small hands, unsteady from grief yet resolute in purpose, reach for the drawing tucked into her pocket. “I still give dis to Sangie,” she declares, voice catching on each consonant as she pries the paper free. “I give it to his Mama and Dada and baby sissy.” Her bravery trembles in the carved space of her throat.

Dr. Na nods once, slow and profound, and presses a trembling kiss to her temple. Without a word, he gathers her up, arms folding around her like fortress walls. He rises, shoulders squared in that quiet command born of both surgeon’s discipline and a father’s fierce protectiveness, and starts toward the door, instinctive, unwavering, expecting you to follow without question. Outside the therapy room, the hallway lights feel harsh after the muted comfort within. He leads the way to the hospital gift shop, each step measured. You trail behind, breath thick with unshed tears. Inside, you find balloons bobbing against the ceiling: pastel blues declaring “Congratulations, It’s a Boy!” and bouquets of white lilies and daisies arranged in trembling perfection. Jaemin picks a simple hand-tied bunch, petals soft as a promise, while Haeun’s small hand clasps your fingers, guiding you through the haze of color.

Those pastel balloons, once buoyant heralds of fresh beginnings, now drift overhead like hollow specters, their helium whispers mocking the fragility of breath itself. Each “It’s a Boy!” ribbon curls in the fluorescent glare as though spelling out a requiem: the promise of new life transformed into eulogies in midair. The daisies in your bouquet, creamy and innocent, seem suddenly like fractured hopes, their petals drifting loose at the gentlest touch. You can almost feel time’s cruel slip, how a single heartbeat, unnoticed, can falter and fade, how the world can turn in a fraction of a second from celebration to grief. In this bright little shop, where crayons once sketched futures and tiny shoes clattered with first steps, you stand surrounded by objects meant to proclaim life’s arrival, now rendered absurdly hollow: reminders that even the strongest promises can unravel on a breath, and that joy and mourning are separated by the thinnest of membranes.

Dr. Na drapes the bouquet across the counter and lifts Haeun so she can place her drawing atop the flowers, careful fingers smoothing the paper as if tucking a child into bed. “For Sangie’s family,” he murmurs, voice tempered steel and sorrow, and she echoes, “For Sangie’s sissy.” In that moment, the three of you stand amid balloons and blossoms—life’s bright hurrahs ringing hollow beneath the weight of loss—and together you bear both the celebration and the mourning: a bouquet for a heart that will beat on, and a drawing for a boy who will sleep forever beyond the reach of words.

Dr. Na carries Haeun down the hushed corridor, his arms rigid with control yet trembling beneath the weight of her steady heartbeat; she curls against his chest whispering her private mantra, good girl, brave girl, strong girl, with each exhale, as though weaving armor from the words. Inside the Kim family’s room grief hangs thick as iodine: Sangjun’s mother folded into her husband’s arms, sobs breaking against his collar; the father rigid, white-knuckled, as if sheer will might keep the world from splitting anew. On a low couch the baby sister gurgles, blissfully detached, tiny fingers worrying the bunny charm that once brightened Sangjun’s IV pole. Haeun straightens in Jaemin’s hold, shoulders squaring with determined grace; he lowers her to the floor and she toddles forward, chin quivering but held high. “Dis for you,” she says, offering the crayon drawing, two stick figures beneath balloons, hands forever linked. “He my bestest fwend. I wuv him fo’ever.” Her bouquet follows, stems wobbling in her fist like green reeds in a storm. The mother receives the paper, and sound unravels from her throat, half thanks, half keening, while tears drop onto the bright wax sun Haeun had pressed so hopefully into existence.

Sang-jun’s baby sister, hardly more than a dimpled bundle in lilac pajamas, totters toward the towering hush of adults, wide eyes searching for the brother whose crib now stands empty. She lifts a fist still clutching the IV-pole bunny charm, its plastic ear squeaking in the quiet, and reaches for the nearest island of warmth: Haeun. Though only a year older, Haeun seems suddenly enormous beside her, sunflower-bright bow, toddler limbs already threaded with the gravity of loss. She crouches with careful knees, tiny heart ticking behind a scar no wider than her thumb, and presses a kiss into the baby’s silken hair. “Shhh, I p’otect you,” she vows, voice quivering yet sure. “You my sissy now, Haeun love you big-big.”

The younger girl leans in, uncertain, and Haeun wraps stubby arms around her, their little hands bunching fistfuls of each other’s pajamas. Two sets of translucent lashes flutter against damp cheeks; one child too young to speak grief, the other barely old enough to name it, yet already carrying the instinct to shield. Around them, grown hearts rupture in silence, mothers’ throats closing, fathers’ shoulders shaking but the room’s center is these two trembling suns, their hug a fragile knot that tries to hold the universe together. You step back, air burning in your lungs at the brutal sweetness of it: one girl whose heart has been rebuilt by surgeons, consoling another whose world has been cleaved in half. Haeun strokes tiny fingers down the baby’s arm and whispers, “No more boo-boo, I stay,” and in that soft promise, uttered by a child who knows hospitals better than playgrounds, the adults hear both a benediction and an indictment: love this small should never have to be so brave.

Outside the family suite, the hallway shrinks to a tunnel of harsh light and echoing footsteps, and the moment the door seals shut Haeun unravels in her Daddy’s arms. Her courage, stretched too thin, snaps; sobs burst out raw and unmetered, rattling her ribcage. Her fingers scrabble at his scrub collar, tiny knuckles whitening, as if fearing the world might pull her from him too. Cheeks blotched strawberry-red, eyelids puffed and glistening, she gulps air that won’t come fast enough. “Da-da… he m-my fwend… boo-boo,” she wails, voice breaking like glass; each syllable tremors through her small frame until her knees buckle. Hot tears sluice down, soaking the dark fabric over Dr. Na’s heart, and snot threads from her nose to his shoulder in shining ropes. “Haeu-nie sad too! So s-sad! My heart fweel… s-so boken, Dada!” She beats her fist once against her own chest, then clutches Bunny hard enough to bend the wire in its ears. 

Dr. Na cinches her close, one hand sheltering the fragile knob of her spine, the other splaying across her heaving sternum as if to cage the pieces of her breaking heart. “I’ve got you, baby girl. Always, always—You’re safe,” he whispers, voice fissured, repeating the words until his breath falters. But Haeun only buries her swollen face deeper into the crook of his neck, sobs spilling unchecked, proof that some wounds, even in the smallest bodies, bleed louder than any monitor’s alarm.

You stand a step away, hand pressed flat to the glass pane beside the door; your own vision blurs until the hallway doubles. The job you’ve sworn to, the calling that owns your waking hours, has opened another seam in you: healer and witness, stitched together yet forever tearing. Behind the pane, you clock every excruciating detail, unable to stop cataloguing love and loss. The bunny charm Haeun clipped to Sang-jun’s IV three days ago now dangles from his baby sister’s fist, she gums the plastic ear with oblivious devotion, unaware it is a relic. Crayon drawings flutter on the family bulletin board: two stick figures beneath a blazing sun, names spelled in crooked capitals, proof that friendships can outlive pulses. A well-loved toy ambulance, Sang-jun’s constant companion, sits abandoned on a windowsill; its silent siren feels like an accusation. Down the hall, a pair of nurses stand shoulder to shoulder, one wiping mascara tracks from the other one's cheek. Another nurse edges close to Dr. Na, lays a gentle hand on his arm before stepping away, eyes shining.

Sang-jun’s father, stooped now with exhaustion even amid fresh grief, had taken every extra shift he could: overnight stocking shelves, delivering newspapers before dawn, scrubbing floors long after the hospital’s children fell asleep. He lived on coffee and borrowed hours, chasing every penny for treatments, only to have the little burst of life he’d fought so hard to sustain slip through his fingers. And Sang-jun’s mother, once a bright presence who curled her boy’s hair at bedtime, had watched him fade behind glass walls, her own hands trembling so fiercely she could barely hold a crayon for his drawings. The wedding band she never removed lay cold on her finger now, a silent witness to every promise broken, every hope snuffed out in the sterile hush of the ICU. In the hush between their sobs you feel the weight of their losing tilt the world off its axis, and you press your palm harder to the glass, as if you could shield them from all the lonely months of debt and sleepless nights that brought them to this moment of shattering.

Haeun’s sobs quiet to whimpers; she presses Bunny to her lips and whispers, “Bunny sad too but Haeun even sadder.” The toy absorbs her confession without protest. Jaemin strokes her braid in rhythmic passes, forehead resting on the crown of her head, as though anchoring them both to gravity. A few doors down a patient monitor beeps, ordinary and indifferent, reminding you that routine will restart long before innocence returns. In this suspended hush, nurses shifting charts whilst sobbing, lights buzzing overhead, the scent of antiseptic threading through your lungs, you realise the day has altered every heart in its orbit: the grieving parents inside, the surgeon shaking though he pretends not to, the tiny girl learning what forever means, and your own, cracked open in new and irrevocable ways.

Fatherhood, Jaemin has learned, isn’t the pastel promise stitched onto greeting cards but a night-shift of unrelenting vigilance, equal parts reverence and terror: it’s listening for the hitch in a toddler’s breathing at 3 a.m.; it’s memorising medication schedules the way other men recite box scores; it’s holding a child’s sweat-damp body through grief so fierce it feels volcanic, then rising for rounds with the mark of her tears still salt-tight on his collar. it’s packing Bunny’s spare bandages beside his own surgical loupes because anything less feels negligent; it’s steering past playgrounds where other fathers push carefree swings while he calculates oxygen saturation under summer heat; it’s smiling through cartoon theme songs while his mind replays the flatline of another little heart.  And beneath the daily consolations—banana pancakes, crayon suns, whispered mantras of Dada’s here—lurks a colder arithmetic: the Kwon family’s latest custody motion waiting in his email like an unexploded shell, the memory of Haeun’s birth mother (all frenzy and fractured vows) haunting every unlocked doorway. Love, he realises, is not merely cradling what is fragile but building ramparts around it, bracing for the moment paperwork or madness tries again to rip his daughter from his arms.

Morning unfolds in slow gradients of peach and gold, spilling through half-tilted blinds and pooling at the kitchen table where Haeun sits barefoot in her sunflower-yellow nightdress, knees tucked beneath her booster seat. A month has passed since Sang-jun slipped away, yet grief still drifts through her days like intermittent cloud cover: some mornings bright, others overcast and raw. Today the light is kind; it glints in her curls as she bends over a sheet of craft paper, tongue caught between her teeth in fierce concentration. Crayons scatter like fallen petals, sky-blue beneath her elbow, grass-green near her toes but she chooses each colour with purpose: a broad golden arc for the sun, three stick figures with matching curls, crooked hearts floating overhead. Every so often she lifts the drawing, squints as though comparing it to the room, then adds another radiant stroke.

Jaemin hovers at the stove, flipping banana pancakes on the cast-iron griddle, each turn timed to the kettle’s soft hum. His phone vibrates across the cutting board; one glance at the caller ID and the warmth in his shoulders locks. He strides over and answers, voice pared to clean steel. “Dr Na speaking.” A pause—static, a distant male voice—tightens the room. 

Haeun, oblivious, sings, “Sun go boom-boom happy!” while ring-lighting her drawn sun with bright yellow rays. Jaemin’s knuckles whiten around the handset. 

“No,” he says, iron filling every syllable. “She’s not going anywhere. She is my daughter.” He ends the call before the reply can finish, screen dimming as if never lit. Only the silent grind of his molars betrays the tremor beneath his calm.

Across the counter his laptop pings, an email from the Kwon family’s attorney, subject line clipped and courteous: Request for discussion of legal guardianship. The preview alone is enough: references to visitation, lineage verification, a “neutral environment” for transition. Three pages of tidy strategy bloom in his mind, none of them speak of 3 a.m. fevers or the soft way Haeun curls her hand into his shirt while dreaming. He inhales once—slow, deliberate—then drags the message to Trash and watches it vanish, as if deletion could silence their claim.

The scent of caramelising batter tugs him back. Pancakes done, he stacks them on her pink bunny plate, dusts them with sugar, and crosses the floor. She’s too absorbed in her next detail, a lopsided rabbit with a crown, to notice him. “Look, Dada, Bunny got a hat!” she proclaims, scribbling a crooked triangle beside its ear. Jaemin sets the plate down, then scoops her up, syrup-warm cheek pressing to his collarbone. For an instant the legal wolves recede; there. only the anchor-weight of his child and the thud of both their hearts. “Daddy loves you,” he murmurs, vow and prayer entwined. “No one is taking you, bubba.”

She blinks, maple-sweet smile climbing her face. Soft, crayon-smudged fingers pat his cheeks as if smoothing invisible creases. “Dada silly,” she decides, then lifts her picture for inspection. “Dat’s us! Dada big, Haeun small. We happy.” Her voice wavers, grief still ghosts the edges but the certainty is there: they are together.

He kisses the crown of her head. Outside the kettle shrills; inside she claps in triumph, sugar snowing onto the paper. Jaemin sets her back in her seat and slides the first pancake close. “Eat up, artist,” he says, voice tender. She spears the fluffy circle, powdered constellations swirling in the sun-beam, and hums contentment.

Some nights unravel in fragments that feel longer than the hours allow. Haeun will pad into Jaemin’s room on bare, trembling feet, little fist rubbing her swollen eyes, and climb into his lap before he’s fully awake. There, grief detonates, soft at first, then spiraling into guttural sobs that quake her bird-small chest. Tears pool on his bare chest, her cheeks puffing crimson like bruised petals as she whispers the fear that gnaws her sleep to threads: “D-dada, my heart so hurty… Will Haeunie die too?” Each syllable is a plea he feels in the roots of his teeth. He rocks her through every tremor, pulse hammering with the terror he dare not voice, that one day the monitors will fall silent for her too. He strokes the scar beneath her pajama collar, presses a shaking kiss to her temple, and answers the only truth he allows himself: “Not today, love. Dada’s here, right here.” They stay tangled until dawn stains the blinds, her breathing finally smoothing against the drum of his own heart as he softly cries himself to sleep not to wake her, forgiveness laced with exhaustion.

Other nights she wanders the hospital hallways calling softly for you, your name a question, a lifeline, until she finds refuge in the crook of your shoulder. There she becomes velcro-clingy: demands that you braid and unbraid her curls three times, insists on the long version of every bedtime story, begs you to trace hearts on her back until your fingertips go numb. Your calm becomes the harbor she docks in when the world tilts: she molds herself to your frame, thumb tucked in her mouth, eyes glossy as moonlit ponds, murmuring, “Stay wif me. Read again. Sing again.” And you do, twice, three times because the tremor in her voice is a siren you can’t ignore. Even when she finally drifts off, she clutches your wrist like an anchor line, fingers twitching each time you try to slip away.

Some dawns she wakes soaked in night sweats, cheeks salt-striped, and calls for both of you at once, even though you’ve never stepped foot into her house. “Dada? My wuv?” As though naming you might knit the world back together faster. Healing, you’re learning, is not a straight road but an uneven coastline: grief gusts in, recedes, and arrives again without warning. So you keep taking turns without actively communicating it, one whispering lullabies, the other counting her pulse because love is a long tidal breath, rising and falling until the day her small heart decides it can beat without fear again.

You, too, feel the tear: medicine can suture flesh, but it can’t m always keep a child breathing. In off-hours you replay monitors, second-guess dosages, and weep behind locker-room doors. Yet every time Haeun sees you, she greets you with a wobble-smile and outstretched arms, proof that even grief can cradle grace. She presses Bunny’s worn paw to your heart and whispers, “Bunny sad too, but we okay,” and you believe her, because children speak in futures adults forget how to pronounce. So the routine endures: breakfast in toffee light, crayon suns on paper skies, Jaemin’s quiet sentry at the stove, your gentle translations of grown-up words, her small fingers tracing the scar on her chest while asking, “boom-boom strong today?” and you answer with soft certainty, “strong as the sun, baby.” Outside the blinds, the world lines up its battles, but inside this circle of light Jaemin inhales the scent of syrup and shampoo, you cradle a budding laugh, and Haeun, heart stitched yet beating, draws another crooked rainbow to prove the day is still hers.

Morning settles over the hospital drive in a hush of cloud-filtered light, and Haeun, swaddled inside her sunflower-yellow coat, curls tucked beneath a matching bow, clings to Jaemin’s shoulder as though the world were suddenly made of glass. Since Sang-jun’s passing these walls have lost their carnival shine; today she refuses every nurse’s greeting, buries her face deeper into the warm crook of her father’s neck, and lets only the faintest whimper escape. Jaemin feels the tremor run through her small frame, feels the way her fingers curl like question marks against his collar, and knows they can’t take another step until he hands her courage first. He lowers to a squat, setting her patent shoes upon the tile, and draws her gaze with the gentlest tilt of his chin. “Who’s Daddy’s girl?” he murmurs, voice gravel-soft, a secret offered between just the two of them. 

At once her shyness detonates into a sunrise: “Haeunie!” she squeals, little knees wobbling. She claps so hard her entire body jiggles, stamps one pudgy foot for good measure, then slings her arms high and topples into his embrace, chanting “Dada, Dada!” until laughter shakes loose like coins in a jar. He kisses the tip of her scrunched nose, wipes a stray tear from her lash, and reminds her, in words warm as pocketed stones, that bravery lives in her smile, beauty in her heartbeat, hope in every step she takes.

Still, the hallway feels too loud, the ceiling too tall. He senses her breath hitch; at once he whispers, “Bubble breaths?” 

She nods. Together they inhale, slow, deep, imaginarily filling pink soap spheres—then blow them out with pursed lips. “One… three… two… more bubble!” She counts, numbers tangled but earnest. On the final exhale she pats her chest and declares, “All calm, Dada,” and folds into a velvet-soft cuddle that steadies them both.

The routine appointment itself is a small miracle threaded through routine: Dr Renjun listens, probes, reviews the echo, and finally grins. “All clear, superstar,” he says, offering a palm. Haeun slaps it in triumph, then secures matching unicorn stickers, one for herself, one for Bunny, before skipping back into Jaemin’s arms. Confidence restored, Jaemin turns the hallway into a game: the big checkup begins right outside the exam room. Kneeling, he taps the crown of her head. “Show Daddy where you feel good today.” She taps back: “Head good!” Belly next—“Tum-tum happy!”—then her tiny fists thump her sternum, “Heart go boom-boom!” She adds cartoon sound effects, “boom-BOOM, boom-BOOM,” and collapses into giggles. 

Phase Two: “Find the Pulse” unfolds like a secret ceremony. Jaemin cups Haeun’s small wrist in his rough surgeon’s palm, then guides her trembling fingers until they rest atop the gentle thrum beneath her skin. “Feel that?” he whispers, voice soft as dawn. “That’s your heart talking to your hand.”

Her eyelashes flutter against glossy cheeks as she leans in, brow furrowed in fierce concentration. A tiny gasp escapes her, followed by a triumphant grin that splits her face into sunshine. “Boop—boop!” she chirrups, eyes sparkling like dewdrops. “Dada, it say ‘hi!’” He offers his own wrist without hesitation, a silent promise that they are bound in this unbreakable rhythm. Haeun’s fingers drift across his pulse, and she lets out a delighted squeak: “Same team!”—her astonishment as pure as the first bloom of spring.

From that moment on, uncertainty finds no lodging. If a tremor of fear ever drifts across her face, Jaemin kneels beside her and murmurs, “Want to check your heart again?” She nods, brave as a tiny soldier, places two earnest fingers to her wrist, breathes in slowly and long, and declares with unshakable pride, “All good, Dada!” It’s more than a check, it’s her passport to safety, stamped in the quiet language of love.

Today, leaving Cardiology with stickers gleaming and Bunny tucked beneath one arm, she holds Jaemin’s hand a little tighter but walks on her own feet. The massive surprise—still hidden behind Pediatrics’ double doors—waits like sunlight behind clouds. For now she is still shy, yes, and still mending, but the hallway echoes with her small voice practicing numbers in hopeful disorder, and with Jaemin’s quiet hum of approval that fits around her like a shield. Somewhere overhead a ventilator whooshes, monitors chirp, but inside their shared bubble of breaths and boop-boops, father and daughter move forward, one brave step, one counted pulse at a time, toward whatever brightness the day is willing to offer.

Morning pours itself across the private wing in a slow, honey-thick spill, glazing pale-oak floors and pastel murals in molten gold. Here the hospital feels more like a quiet conservatory than a clinic: ceilings vault high enough for light to linger, leather couches crouch in patient semicircles, and the faint perfume of lilies mingles with citrus sanitizer and the expensive musk of designer handbags resting on side tables. Through the hush drifts a single, contained energy, something waiting behind the conference-room door. Jaemin walks that gold-striped corridor with Haeun perched on his hip, her sunflower dress a bright echo of the painted bears and moons on the wall. She’s spent the whole morning pressing small, worried questions into the hollow of his throat, all questions that are about you. “Dada, why my wuv busy long time? She fix big boo-boos? Where is she? I miss my wuv.” Each time he has stroked her spine and answered that once you finish saving other children you’ll come to play. 

You haven’t been perched beside Haeun’s these past days because your pages of post-op notes and bleeps of vital alarms have kept you tethered to white-washed corridors far from her laughter. As a second-year intern on Dr. Na’s service, you’re the first to respond when a postoperative bleed bleeds into a code, the one juggling consults in ICU and drafting orders in the stroke ward, your hands never still for more than a heartbeat. While she’s chasing bubbles down therapy-room halls, you’ve been racing to the EKG station to verify a new arrhythmia or don your gown for an emergent bedside procedure, each duty pulling you farther from her sunflower-bright face. You’ve watched her cling to nurse Yuha’s lap through a one-way glass and felt your heart twist because your promise to her dances on the edge of pager beeps and chart reviews: Soon, bubba, soon. But today, at last, you hope to step out of the shadows of the hospital’s heartbeat and into the warmth of her arms, trading the clamorous urgency of your intern rounds for the soft certainty of being her “my wuv” once more.

What Haeun doesn’t know is that Jaemin has arranged another kind of rescue first: behind that door waits the tight constellation of friends who carried him through every life he lived before fatherhood. At the threshold he slides one steady hand up her back, feels her tiny ribs expand beneath his palm, and pushes the door. Light flares outward, catching six familiar faces that pivot toward her with unfiltered joy: Lee Jeno stands like a steadfast lighthouse, his calm eyes cradling every secret fear Jaemin ever harbored, and by his side, his fiance, her laughter a silk ribbon that once mended Jaemin’s shattered nights, which gave hope from every quiet corner. Jang Karina gleams at the far end, poised and sculpted like marble brought to life, the worldless obstacles she’s overcome traced in the elegant lines of her smile. Shin Ryujin and Osaki Shotaro lean together with the easy symmetry of a well-rehearsed pas de deux, twin flames of perseverance who have danced Jaemin through fear and celebration alike. And there, just beyond them, Donghyuck’s grin breaks like sunrise across a dark sky, the broadcaster’s voice still warm from telling impossible comebacks, he’s now here to herald Haeun’s own small victories. Each presence hums with stories of late-shift vigil, heartbreak soothed by shared laughter, and dreams kept alive by hands that refuse to let go. Together they form a living tapestry of strength and tenderness, a circle of light that will surround Haeun, her father’s past made whole, and her future made safe, long before she steals one shy glance their way.

Jeno steps forward first, voice warm as hearth fire, and sweeps Haeun into a playful dip, “Hi princess, my spark, I missed you,” he says, as if she were the flicker that keeps his own light alive. 

Beside him, his fiancée kneels down, her laughter soft as petals, tucks a stray curl behind Haeun’s ear and murmurs, “My little moonbeam,” her eyes shining with the fierce pride of a mother. 

Karina, all sleek confidence and couture poise, offers Haeun a single rose-shaped lollipop, “For the boldest blossom I know,” she smiles, already stitching this tiny flower’s future into every seam of her heart. 

Ryujin and Shotaro exchange a conspiratorial glance before Ryujin lifts Haeun gently into a spin, Shotaro’s arms guiding her pirouette, “Our littlest prima ballerina,” they say in perfect unison, their movements echoing every lesson in perseverance they’ve ever taught. 

Finally Donghyuck strides forward, his grin wide enough to fill a stadium, ruffles her curls like a playful breeze and exclaims, “Look at you, champ, breaking records in cuteness,” his voice carrying the electric thrill he brings to every live broadcast. Each greeting weaves another golden thread into the tapestry of her life, reminding Haeun that she is seen, celebrated and beloved by this constellation of hearts that will always orbit her light.

Her little victory crumbles like a sandcastle beneath a wave. For a heartbeat she stands amid their beaming faces, Jeno’s hearth-warm laughter, Karina’s soft smile, Ryujin and Shotaro’s graceful encouragement, Donghyuck’s booming cheer, all of it spinning too fast for her tiny chest. Suddenly her knees wobble, her courage evaporates, and she darts back into Jaemin’s arms, pressing into the hollow of his shoulder as if it were home’s doorstep. She shakes her head so fiercely her braids swing like pendulums, voice a trembling whisper. “Why dey all here? Dey so loud an’ annoyin’… an’ scary! I stay wif you, Dada?” His palm sweeps over her curls, a silent promise of patience, and the circle of aunties and uncles falls hushed and understanding, giving space to her shy heart to bloom again at its own pace.

Jaemin’s fingers brush a stray curl from Haeun’s temple as he tilts her chin gently, voice low and soothing. “They’re only your aunties and uncles, baby, you love them so much, you were telling me how much you missed them all month, so why are you so shy right now, Hm? They came just to see you,” he murmurs, eyes soft with reassurance.

She stamps her foot against his thigh, brow furrowing in stubborn determination. “I onwy wanna see my wuv… my pwettiest girl!” she insists, desperate to spend time with you, her voice quivering with fierce loyalty, 

She lets out a soft sigh, breath warming the fabric of his scrub top, and peeks around his shoulder at the half-dozen faces that flood the room with light and noise. Each smile is one she knows and loves, Karina’s poised warmth, Ryujin’s gentle nod, Shotaro’s amused tilt of the head, Donghyuck’s booming beckon but together they loom too large for her small heart to hold. Her lashes flutter shut as she buries her cheek against Jaemin’s collar, only to steal another glance: there, standing a little apart, is Jeno. tall and steady, the first to discover her secret world and the one whose laughter sung through her earliest days. Something bright and daring overcomes her shyness; with a little gasp of delight she scrambles free, braids bobbing, and launches herself into his open arms, giggles spilling from her like bubbles. “Uncle No-no!” she coos, burying her face in the familiar cradle of his shoulder, as though in his embrace she can breathe again. In that instant, the swirl of surprise softens into safety. the world narrowing to the two of them, and her brave little heart steady once more.

Haeun’s gaze alights on Jeno’s fiancée as she steps forward, and in a burst of toddler bravado she scoots across the carpet. tiny feet pattering, until she can reach the curve of that waiting smile. With a series of breathy “mwah, mwah” kisses she peppered across the fiancée’s cheek, she then presses her own nose to hers, eyes shining with mischief and affection. Jeno’s fiancée laughs, cupping Haeun’s little face in her hands, and the two of them sway in wordless camaraderie. Above their heads, Jaemin notices Jeno slip a hand into his fiancée’s, the twin wedding bands catching the late-afternoon light. He allows himself a small, bittersweet smile: in a matter of weeks, their vows will intertwine Jeno and his love forever, and if all goes well a tiny cousin will join Haeun’s world. Unaware of adult whispers, Haeun’s pudgy fingers drift to the soft swell of the fiancée’s belly, an instinctive gesture of kinship without knowing the life that lies there, before she looks up at Jaemin with solemn pride.

He feels a sudden hollow ache beneath his ribs, as though his own heartbeat recoils at the thought of Haeun ever feeling alone. In that quiet moment, he lets himself dream—wish upon a star he scarcely believes in—that one day she might tumble through the world with a laughing sibling at her side. Yet even as the hope blossoms, he knows its petals are forged of glass: fragile, beautiful, and bound to shatter. By the time the next sunbeam spills across his palms, he accepts the truth with brittle grace: it will always be just the two of them, two hearts caught in each other’s gravity, carving their own constellation against the vast, uncharted night.

While Haeun basks in the tidal welcome, Jaemin’s thoughts slip down a quiet corridor of memory. For the first twelve months that he knew she was his daughter, he had vanished, letting only his parents and Jeno trace the fragile drum of her heartbeat. Terror made him selfish: he needed a world small enough to control, a sanctuary where fatherhood could bloom without interrogation. He remembers the night that sanctuary cracked, the isolette’s glow painting her healing scar silver as he rocked her through a feverish dusk. The door had creaked, and Karina’s voice, equal parts reprimand and reverence, had filled the room: “Jaemin, you bastard. I want to be mad at you, but your baby is so beautiful.” All he could manage was a fractured whisper, “you found us,” before the dam broke and those friends stepped inside, eyes shining with something fiercer than curiosity. They should have felt like intruders; instead, they became pillars holding the sky above his daughter’s crib. Fear still lived in him, fear of her faltering heart, fear of the mother who called her a parasite, fear of the law that might one day question custody but in that moment isolation yielded to a softer gravity. They entered his sanctuary that night, and they have never once let the walls close behind them.

Now, watching Haeun tuck her head beneath Jeno’s chin, Jaemin exhales a breath he doesn’t know he had been holding. He gathers the tilt of light, the perfume of lilies, the sound of her giggle echoing off high ceilings, and he lets the weight of earlier grief ease for a heartbeat. Behind him the conference door swings shut on gentle hinges, sealing nine beating hearts inside one gilded room, and for the first time since Sang-jun’s death he believes the day might finish in laughter instead of tears.

Haeun drifts between Jeno and his fiancée, already a radiant presence in her sunflower-yellow dress, her tiny hand reaching for the delicate lace of the gown. With solemn care, she presses her forehead to Jeno’s fiancée’s cheek in a toddler’s version of a curtsy and whispers, “My pwetty Auntie!” before offering a half-squashed fruit snack as tribute. Jeno’s fiancée laughs, sweeping Haeun into her arms and planting gentle kisses on each crayon-smudged finger, murmuring that she’s the sweetest gift anyone could ask for.

Moments later, Jeno stoops beside them, holding a small plate of mini-donuts. Haeun’s eyes widen at the sugary sight, and she seizes Jeno’s hand in both of hers. “Uncle No-no, one for me, one for Bunny?” she negotiates, her voice a determined trill. He obliges, slipping her a powdered treat, and she bites thoughtfully before beaming up at him: “Yum-yum, thank you!” Jeno ruffles her curls, marveling at how such a tiny person can carry so much joy.

Jeno’s fiancée reaches into her clutch and withdraws a miniature card, its cover a swirl of pale peony petals and gold filigree framing the words ‘Will You Be Our Flower Girl?’ in looping script. She offers it to Haeun with a conspiratorial smile, and the little girl’s eyes go wide as she gingerly takes the card, her thumb tracing the embossed blossoms. She turns it this way and that, brow furrowing in earnest concentration, before looking up at Jeno and attempting the grand, new phrase: “I be fwow… flow­er… and look like Dada’s pwetty girl?” Her voice wobbles with both question and pride, as though she’s discovered a secret role in the greatest story. 

Jeno’s chest softens, he sweeps her into his arms and murmurs, “Exactly, beautiful. You’ll scatter petals and sparkle just like my shining star.” Haeun giggles, pressing the card to her cheek, already imagining herself in a frothy dress, petals dancing at her feet, the very picture of her father’s pride.

Her applause bursts from her like sunbeams—tiny palms striking in rapid rhythms, curls bouncing with every enthusiastic slap. “Flow-er giwl! Flow-er giwl!” she squeals, voice ringing bright as a bell, clutching the card to her chest as if it were the crown of a queen. She hops in Jeno’s arms, eyes wide with delight, and presses her forehead against the invitation, murmuring each gilded word as if tasting a secret. Then she straightens, looking up at his fiancée with solemn pride: “Haeun scatta petuls, make all pwetty!” Before anyone can answer, she spins on tiptoe, arms flung wide like she’s already scattering petals down an aisle of light, giggling so hard her laughter spills over—pure joy at understanding that soon, she will be the tiniest, most radiant flower girl in the world.

Haeun pads across the polished floor toward Karina, her sunflower dress swishing with each determined step, tugging gently at the hem of the designer’s silk skirt. Karina kneels to meet her, fingers already lifting a loose curl as if she can’t wait to braid Haeun’s hair into another artful pattern. “May I do your braids, darling?” she murmurs, voice warm as spun sugar. 

Haeun shakes her head, solemn in her two-year-old resolve: “My wuv will do my hair later! Dada said she pwomised! Thank you, though, Auntie Rina. I wuv you so next time, you do my hair!” She beams, cheeks dimpled, and skips back to Jaemin’s side. Karina straightens, brow knitting in gentle confusion, then lifts her gaze to find Jaemin watching, his jaw clenched, lower lip caught between his teeth, eyes dark with something like desire and restraint. For a flicker of a heartbeat the air between them quivers: the heated pulse of mutual desire, a fierce, unspoken hunger to claim the only body that sets your blood ablaze and stills the rest of the world.

Haeun wobbles free of Jaemin’s arms and toddles across the polished floor toward Ryujin and Shotaro, who stand beneath a pastel mural of swans in ballet poses. Her braided pigtails sway like tiny metronomes and her cheeks glow with rose-pink excitement. Shotaro kneels first, offering a steady hand, while Ryujin’s eyes crinkle with mock reproach as she smooths the tulle of Haeun’s skirt. “Princess,” Ryujin coos, voice warm as honey, “why haven’t you been to class lately?” 

Haeun pauses, little brow furrowing in earnest concentration, then places both chubby hands over her heart and whispers, “My hweart been hurting, Auntie, Dr Jun say it need quiet or I get a boo-boo.” 

Jaemin sinks down behind her, warm hands cupping her ribcage as he brushes a loose curl from her forehead and tucks it behind her ear. The pale afternoon light pools at their feet; every granite concern of the hospital seems to ease away. “Dr. Huang said your heart needs a little rest, baby bird,” he murmurs, voice soft like a lullaby, “but you’re growing stronger each day. Pretty soon you’ll be ready for the Winter recital, you missed the last one, and you deserve a dance all your own.”

Haeun tilts her chin up, those big doe eyes glimmering with determination. She presses a pudgy fist to her chest, the scar beneath on her chest peeking like a secret badge of honor, and lets out a triumphant squeak: “I dance now, Dada! Haeun strong!” She tucks her head against his shoulder, curls tickling his collarbone, and adds in a tiny whisper, “Winter nice. Haeun show you spin, pwease?” His heart blooms, her bravery, her trust, the promise of every pirouette yet to come.

Shotaro steps forward, tall as a sentinel yet gentle as dawn, and slips his hand to Haeun’s elbow. The private wing’s silence hushes to a single heartbeat as he murmurs, “Point your toes like a baby dove stretching its wings, princess.” She inhales, the rib-cage flutter beneath her sunflower dress trembling against the gold ribbon tied at her waist, and—slowly, deliberately—extends her leg in a wavering tendu. The polished floor reflects her effort: a doll-sized dancer poised between fragility and flight. “Boop-boop,” she whispers to herself, as if encouraging her own heartbeat. Shotaro’s eyes shine with pride. “Beautiful, our girl’s a natural,” he breathes, as though that single word might carry her all the way to the stars.

Her cheeks ignite, and she throws her arms around his neck. “Again, Taro! Again!” she begs, giggles slipping through her teeth like a silverfish. He lifts her, spins once, and sets her down beside Ryujin, who echoes a ballerina’s curtsey. Jaemin watches from a pace away, arms folded as if to keep his lungs from spilling out. The sight of her, a living metronome of hope, pins something inside him painfully sweet; his heart squeezes the way it did the first time he felt her post-op pulse stutter and recover beneath his thumb.

Encouraged, she squares those cherub shoulders and lowers into a plié, the motion as solemn and deliberate as a swan’s bow. Ryujin’s supportive arm curves around her back, whispering, “Five more, darling, like the prima ballerinas you love.” Haeun’s fists tighten—one, two, three—each bend deeper than the last, each rise more determined, until on that final fifth plié she inhales sharply and tosses her curls back, triumphant as a fledgling bursting free of its shell. Ryujin gasps and sweeps her into a cradle of applause, and Haeun’s voice rings out above it all: “Again, again!” as if conducting an orchestra of sunbeams.

Donghyuck drifts closer, blazer gleaming under the panel lights, and drops into a theatrical bow. “Even the tiniest prima needs her intermission before an encore.” 

Haeun claps, nose scrunching. “En-cow! En-cow!” she crows, mispronunciation bright as confetti. Shotaro’s brows lift—shall we?—and a conspiratorial hush ripples through the adults. He lowers himself to her height, traces an invisible ribbon in the air. “Time for your grand jeté, princess. Ready to chase sunlight?” She nods so hard her bow slips. Ryujin straightens it, kisses the crown of her head. 

Haeun inhales as though the whole world smells of spun sugar, lashes trembling in anticipation, and for a suspended instant the room reshapes itself into a pastel proscenium built solely for her. She feels music that isn’t playing, wind-chime notes she keeps in her pocket and lets it vibrate along the ribbon of her spine until her shoulders float. The sunlight pouring through the high windows tilts gold across the floorboards, turning every scuff mark into a glittering stepping-stone; she imagines each one is a lily pad and that she’s a swanling ballerina skimming their glossy backs. Tiny hands cup the air the way doves cup thermals, elbows rounded in perfect first position exactly as Shotaro showed her, and she whispers a private count—“one-two, one-two”—the syllables feather-soft against the pink curve of her tongue. When she bursts into motion the world blurs at the edges: curls bounce like sunlit springs, her sunflower dress balloons behind her in a bright-winged sigh, and the pale bandage beneath her collarbone lifts and settles with each delighted gasp, a quiet reminder of the heart that beats overtime to keep up with her dreams.

The leap itself lasts no longer than a heartbeat, yet inside that sliver of time she’s certain she could sail clear through the ceiling and clip a piece of heaven for her pocket. Colors smear into one long brushstroke, gold, hazel, the lapis of Shotaro’s shirt, the orchid blush of Ryujin’s smile and the air wraps her in warmth, as if the hospital has exhaled just to hold her aloft. Then gravity folds its gentle hands around her waist, and she tumbles into Ryujin’s waiting embrace with a breathless “whooo.” The landing does nothing to dim the glow; she tips her head back, cheeks blazing, eyes wide and lucid as stars freshly rinsed by rain. “Again?” she pleads, voice tiny yet bursting with champagne bubbles of certainty that the universe will oblige. Laughter fountains around her, Donghyuck’s velvet chuckle, Karina’s tinkling applause, Jeno’s low whistle but it’s Jaemin’s soundless intake of breath that anchors the moment.

He steps forward, knees bending so his gaze aligns with hers, and for a heartbeat father and daughter are orbiting a private sun. In his eyes she glimpses the reflection of a tiny white dove mid-flight; in hers he sees the ghost-shadow of a black swan lurking far beyond the lamplight, waiting for an unwritten future. He reaches to sweep an errant curl from her damp forehead, fingertips lingering as though memorizing the pulse that flutters there. “My brave ballerina,” he murmurs, voice cracked open by awe. She leans in close enough that their noses almost touch, murmuring back, “Dada hear my boom-boom too?”—an offer to share her secret rhythm. He nods, lays two fingers gently over the scar beneath her dress bodice, and for a hush-soft second feels the thunderous, uneven percussion of her heart. The sound is imperfect, fragile, and immeasurably beautiful, like a lullaby played on a cracked music box and it tightens something fierce and protective inside him until he can scarcely breathe.

Barely two years old, and already Haeun moves as though her bones remember choreography etched in starlight: pliés that ripple like pond-rings, arms sweeping up in soft port-de-bras until she resembles a fledgling dove testing sunrise. “Like dis, Taro? Wing-wing!” she whispers, tiny feet kissing the floor in quick pas de chat, so light the dust motes scarcely stir. In every tilt of her wrist you glimpse a future prima, ribbons streaming, tutu feathering around her like spun milkweed. Yet beneath the snow-white grace hovers a darker prophecy: a velvet-feathered black swan lurking at the far end of the lake, eyes coal-bright, waiting to slice the water with murderous serenity. It stalks the periphery of every spotlight, daring her fragile heart to falter mid-leap. Still, Haeun’s laughter, clear as a bell tapped in heaven, keeps the monster at bay; each time she lands, curls flying, she quells the shadow with the simple triumph of breath.

With ritual seriousness she straightens, arms forming a shaky fifth position above her head. “I dance in winter,” she declares, imagination already unfurling snow-white tutus and silver spotlights, “and I catch the moon for you.” The adults exhale a collective sigh that feels halfway between worship and surrender, as though they have witnessed a supernova condensed into toddler form. Jaemin gathers her against his chest, her wings, his harbor and turns in a slow circle so she can wave at her audience. In that orbit he silently vows to stitch each beat of her wild little heart into eternity, to stand sentinel against every dark swan that dares cast a shadow over her stage. And Haeun, cradled high in the crook of his arm, tilts her head toward the light, sure beyond doubt that she was born to leap and that love itself is the space where wings remember how to soar.

You narrow your eyes as you lean your head against Hayoung’s shoulder, attempting to steal a brief moment of rest. It’s nearing the end of your internship now, and the workload is relentless. Sleep has become a luxury you can barely afford, moments of rest snatched between rounds and charts, your body craving the stillness you’re rarely granted. Your eyelids grow heavier, soothed by Hayoung’s steady presence, until the sudden influx of hurried footsteps, muted whispers, and a heightened security presence jolts you fully awake. Something feels undeniably off today, different from the usual hospital bustle. “What’s up with all of this?” you whisper groggily to Hayoung, shifting upright and rubbing your eyes.

She gasps softly, eyes sparkling with barely-contained excitement. “You haven’t heard? We have high-profile celebrities in the building.”

You furrow your brow, curiosity sharp and immediate as you glance toward the guards positioned sternly at strategic points along the corridor. “Celebrities? Here? Why would they wanna be here?” 

Instead of explaining further, Hayoung grabs your wrist with practiced familiarity, pulling you swiftly behind her. You pass smoothly through a maze of hallways, dodging security checkpoints with her skilled, clever charm, her identification card opening doors you’ve never even noticed before. She leads you into a hidden, shadowy hallway, one you’ve always found eerie whenever you’ve needed to enter it. It’s an observation corridor, reserved for psychological evaluations and child assessments, clinical in its austerity, sterile walls devoid of decoration, heavy with secrecy and careful scrutiny.

Hayoung’s finger glides beneath a wall-mounted panel, and the dim corridor blooms with pale circuitry; the one-way glass floods to life. On the other side glows a room the color of candle-wax and sunrise, floor polished to a mirror, ceiling lamps diffused by linen shades so the light falls in feathery strata. At its center, Haeun turns like a music-box figurine coaxed awake. She’s all small crescents and curves: satin bow listing starboard in a crown of glossy curls, cheeks rosied from exertion, a mouth half-open in breathy delight. Her stubby toes stretch inside white ballet slippers, one heel lifted so high her calf trembles, the other foot fanning out for balance; each time she pivots the hem of her sunflower dress flares, peony-bright, then settles again around her knees. Laughter beads on her lips, silvery and quick; even through the thick glass you can sense the vibration of it, a hummingbird weightless in the air. She’s a miniature sun with gravity of her own, and every adult in the room tilts instinctively toward her orbit.

You drink her in, throat tightening. The feeling she yanks from you is equal parts ache and wonder, a low, resonant chord struck against the ribs. It’s the impossible wish to trade your heart for hers, beat for beat; the feral need to press your palms to her chest and promise the world will never bruise her again. You don’t understand how someone so small has threaded herself through every unstiched seam inside you, but there she is—needle, thread, and cure—binding your fatigue, your cynicism, your sleepless nights into something that almost resembles faith. Loving her is a secret muscle you never knew you owned, suddenly flexing, suddenly sore.

You didn’t realize love could feel maternal before it ever felt logical, but the proof thrums in the hollow beneath your sternum each time Haeun’s eyes search the room for you. hungry, certain, the way a fledgling hunts daylight. Even from behind the glass she keeps glancing toward the place she thinks you ought to be, chin tipping, lashes fluttering in miniature Morse code. Her curls arrest mid-pirouette, the ribbons at her ankles stilled by an intuition too old for language. Tiny brows pinch; she turns her face, slow, inquisitive, to the smoked glass, as if the pane itself were a stage curtain she might coax aside. Dark lashes flutter, and her lips sculpt an un-voiced plea you feel rather than hear. “Wheh’s my wuv?”

From your side of the glass the pull is tidal. Your spine straightens, palms press flat as though the barrier were a pane of ice you could warm open with devotion alone. A whisper, soundless, yet absolute, forms in your chest. “Right here, baby. I’m right here.” You hold the words the way a mother swan holds still water for cygnets to drink, steadying your breath so she can sense its rhythm across the gulf. On the other side she lingers, gaze sliding to every corner before returning to that single, invisible point where your silhouettes almost overlap. Her shoulders settle—barely—but enough that you see it: trust resettling its wings. Then, obedient to the music, she lifts her arms again and spins, the white-dove flare of her skirt a quiet vow that she will dance until the moment you’re allowed to catch her, and you will stand guard—moon to her tide—until the glass opens and orbit becomes embrace.

A soft elbow slides into your ribs. “Caught you swooning again,” Hayoung murmurs. “That’s like the… hundredth time this week.” 

The corner of her mouth curls like she’s flipping a playing card. “I am not,” you whisper back, though the heat climbing your neck betrays you. 

“Oh, please,” she laughs, eyes bright. “You look at Dr. Na like he hung the moon, and at Sunshine like she’s the only star left in the sky. It’s adorable, terminal, dangerous, but adorable.”

You open your mouth to object, something about professional distance, about just being fond of the kid yet the words clog somewhere behind your tongue. Hayoung’s grin widens; she’s nailed you and she knows it. “Thought so,” she whispers, and gives your scrubs a patronizing pat, as if to say good luck with that, doctor.

Only then do you finally drag your gaze from the little dancer and take in the constellation orbiting her. Recognition blooms in a slow, disbelieving flare. Lee Jeno stands nearest the mirrored wall, tower-tall, shoulders as broad as the arcs that once carried every championship dream; beside him, his fiancée glows like dusk on still water, serenity braided through the fingers twined with his. A step away, Lee Donghyuck’s stadium-honed grin softens to something private and lullaby-warm, prime-time thunder muted for a child’s delight. At the far end, Shotaro moves with liquid-spine grace, every gesture the promise of a lift, while Ryujin’s poise is raw silk pulled taut, her presence a metronome that steadies the room. And there, etched in runway sheen, stands Karina, Jang Karina, draped in a silhouette so exacting it feels purpose-built for her alone; her gaze is cool, calculating, yet her fingertips hover over Haeun’s hem, smoothing an imaginary wrinkle with surprising tenderness.

And then—inevitably—Dr. Nana Jaemin: midnight scrubs, forearms dusted with faint pink marks where glove elastic has bitten, jaw shadowed, hair askew from running thick fingers through it too many times. He bends, presses a kiss to Haeun’s cheek; she squeals, spins twice more, language abandoned for dance because motion is the truest dialect she knows. His palm hovers near her ribs, not holding, merely promising to, while his eyes track every wobble with a devotion so sharp it borders on worship. The tableau steals your breath: titans and auteurs, halos of achievement blazing around them—and in their core, a child with a mended heart who commands them all like a quiet sovereign. Somewhere inside you, wonder unfurls a fresh wing; somewhere deeper, envy curls shyly, hopeful that even constellations might have room for one more faint star. The realization punches through you: these are not simply visitors but legends, each one a tidal name in their own bright ocean—and every last one of them is here for the same small sun you just promised, through glass and gravity, never to let drift.

You gape as Lee Jeno leans down to press a soft kiss on Haeun’s temple, arms curled around her as she nestles against his broad chest. “Why is Lee Jeno, NBA legend, kissing her? Why are they cuddling? Why is he even here?” you blurt, heart thudding in your throat. 

Hayoung’s hand snaps over her mouth, eyes widening. “Why wouldn’t he? Jeno’s literally Dr. Na’s best friend.” 

You gape at her. “How long have they known each other?” you manage. 

She leans in, voice low and amused. “Thirty years. They’ve been inseparable since they were one, brothers in everything but blood.”

Your mouth falls open. “I…I never knew that.”

Hayoung laughs, a light, teasing trill. “Internship frying your brain, huh?” 

You bristle, crossing your arms. “How was I supposed to know? He never lets anyone into his world—he’d build a fortress around it if he could. I asked him about his parents once, just once, and he didn’t say a single word, just stared at me down like I’d insulted him. Since that day, I’ve never pried again.” You glance back through the glass at Dr. Na’s shadowed profile—Protector and Healer—and realize how much remains hidden behind those carefully guarded gazes.

You look again and see Haeun nestled between Lee Jeno and a breathtakingly stunning woman, an ‘APEX’ legend you’ve admired since medical school, cradled like the brightest star in their orbit. Your breath catches. “Oh my God. are they back together?” you whisper, turning to Hayoung. 

She nods, eyes alight. “Yup. Only been a week, but they’re already getting married. It’s being billed as the wedding of the century and our sunshine girl’s the flower girl.”

You can’t help the smile that lifts your cheeks as you picture Haeun twirling down an aisle in a pale dress, tossing petals and laughter in equal measure. “I’m so glad Jeno and that bitch Kim Nahyun aren’t together anymore,” you murmur, relief threading your voice. 

Hayoung giggles, leaning closer. “They did more than break up,” she whispers with delicious scandal. “Word is she tried to kill Jeno’s fiance, so now she’s been institutionalized, some fancy psychiatric clinic overseas.” You feel the room’s warmth shift, the hospital’s hush giving way to a thrill of whispered secrets and new beginnings.

Hayoung’s eyes glitter with mischievous delight as she leans closer, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. She’s always been the resident sleuth, devouring every headline, every whisper in the intern’s lounge, cataloguing names and dates like precious specimens in a private menagerie. For her, uncovering the hidden ties that bind people is as satisfying as stitching new stories into a patchwork quilt. Tonight, she’s your guide through an exclusive gallery of Jaemin’s inner circle, each figure more beguiling than the last.

You draw in a shaky breath and edge nearer to the one‐way glass. Hayoung raises a slender finger toward the towering silhouette at the room’s center, a man whose presence feels as inevitable as gravity itself. His broad shoulders fill the crisp lines of his navy blazer, the fabric stretched ever so slightly across a sculpted chest, each inhale subtly flexing muscle beneath starched cotton. His trousers fall in a perfect, confidence-infused drape, hinting at powerful thighs honed by hours on hardwood courts. A tumble of dark curls grazes the nape of his neck, and when he turns, the faint arc of a smirk reveals a jaw so sharply carved it could slice through the hum of conversation. Even from here you catch the swirl of his cologne, something smoky, dark wood warmed by sunlight and feel the air shift around him. In that moment, Lee Jeno is less a man in a room and more a gravitational force: utterly magnetic, a living testament to strength and elegance entwined.

“That’s Lee Jeno, he doesn’t need an introduction. Everyone knows him, the most influential NBA player of his time.” She murmurs, voice hushed as if narrating a masterpiece. “See how he stands, shoulders squared like the corner of a backboard, every line of his tailored suit whispering discipline and power? He’s an NBA legend, record-breaker, triple-double maestro, the kind of athlete whose name is etched into every stat sheet and every fan’s heart. But more than that, he’s been Jaemin’s north star since they were toddlers dreaming of the same impossible things. He was the first to learn of Haeun’s little heartbeat, sneaking into the NICU at dawn to cradle the tiniest secret in his enormous hands. Off the court, he’s quietly philanthropic, rumor has it he quietly funds scholarships for underprivileged kids in his hometown, though he’d never brag. The media paints him as unflappable, the perfect poster boy for athletic excellence, but those who know him well call him fiercely loyal, the kind of man who shows up whether you’ve invited him or not.”

She lets that settle, then nods toward the woman at his side. “And that,” she continues, “is his fiancée, a vision of composure in couture. They met in college, drifted apart, then discovered that some bonds refuse to break. Their love story is whispered about in fashion circles and sports columns alike: soulful reunions, secret late-night text threads, wedding bells set to ring in just a few weeks. It’s the sort of romance you’d write a novel about—timeless, improbable, and entirely, irrepressibly theirs.”

Hayoung tells you that beyond the fairytale love story, she is every bit her own force of nature: the celebrated face of APEX, a powerhouse executive whose razor-sharp intellect and unflinching moral compass have steered global design initiatives and social impact campaigns for over a decade. In boardrooms she commands deference, in studio ateliers she inspires apprentices, and in every exhibition she curates she challenges viewers to see beauty as a catalyst for change. Each year, she and Jeno co-host the hospital’s signature gala, an evening of crystal chandeliers and whispered promises, where proceeds underwrite life-saving surgeries for families who simply can’t shoulder the cost. Hayoung recalls one gala night to you in particular. When little Haeun, clutching Bunny in one hand and a crayon-scrawled invitation in the other, was lifted onto the stage to present a check; the room hushed as the child’s earnest smile lit every heart, and tears of joy stained even the driest cheeks. It was a moment that crystallized their shared mission, to tether privilege to purpose, and to kindle hope in every young life they touch. Each December, they dispatch carefully curated gifts to every child in the ward—small treasures that, come Christmas morning, become lifelong keepsakes.

“Ryujin and Shotaro’s story is kind of a real-life fairy tale,” Hayoung begins, voice warm. “They met during college, he was mastering a contemporary routine, she was perfecting a lyrical piece and sparks flew over perfect pirouettes. Together they opened a tiny dance school in a repurposed loft, teaching six students and dreaming of bigger things. Now? Twelve studios later, they’ve trained hundreds of young dancers, from hopeful amateurs to budding professionals, and their outreach programs have given every child, no matter their background, a chance to feel the magic of movement. They’re always giggling when they talk about how their after-class water breaks turned into marathon brainstorming sessions. ‘What if we could heal with dance?’ and how every new studio opening felt like adding another heartbeat to the city’s rhythm.”

“And that dream brought them here,” she continues, tipping her voice conspiratorially. “Ryujin and Shotaro now co-design the hospital’s pediatric dance-therapy wing, turning sterile hallways into places where little feet learn strength and resilience. They’ve taught Haeun to pirouette past her fears, remember that time she insisted on ‘just one more spin’ even after her echo scan?—and they’ve choreographed holiday performances where she’s always the star. Their partnership isn’t just about fundraising or fancy recitals; it’s about showing every child that joy and healing can bloom side by side, and proving that sometimes the purest medicine comes in the form of music, movement, and a whole lot of love.”

“You see that hot guy by the window? That’s Lee Donghyuck, he’s a sports anchor whose name you can’t scroll past without wanting to know more. He’s the guy who turned a sideline gesture into a signature catchphrase, but off-camera he’s even more impressive: he spearheaded last year’s ‘Heart Run,’ a charity marathon that raised millions for the pediatric ward, and personally negotiated with sponsors so every dollar went straight to families in need. He’s brokered equipment donations, hosted fundraising luncheons in that very lounge, and somehow still remembers every child’s name who’s ever cross-checked him for an autograph. And don’t think he lets Haeun escape his radar. last month he rolled out a mini basketball hoop next to her play corner, just her size, and taught her how to drain a ‘baby three-pointer’ with a flourish. She squealed so loud you could hear it through the corridor, and he bent down afterward, ruffled her curls, and whispered, ‘You’re my MVP, princess.’ Even now she’s peeking at him, cheeks lighting up every time he offers a thumbs-up from across the room. With Donghyuck, it’s never just television bravado, it’s genuine joy in every high-five and every fundraiser he champions, a constant reminder that heroes come in many uniforms.”

She shifts her gaze to another figure: graceful, magnetic. “And finally, that’s Jang Karina. She doesn’t need any introduction, she’s a fashion powerhouse, her silhouette feels sculpted by intention. Karina began as a runway model whose charisma captivated editors and buyers alike; today she presides over a global design empire, her eponymous label celebrated for its architectural lines and daring palettes, while her beauty brand, praised for its clean formulas and bold pigments, has soared into the multimillion-dollar stratosphere. She pioneers mentorship programs for young designers, spearheads sustainable textile initiatives in collaboration with leading research labs, and curates charity auctions that funnel life-saving funds to children’s hospitals around the world. Every accolade she collects, Vogue cover shoots, Council of Fashion Designers awards, front-row appearances at the Met Gala, has been earned by a woman who learned to temper brilliance with empathy, who moved beyond the runway’s glare into the quiet confidence of a leader whose influence stretches from boardrooms to breaking bread with those she protects.”

“Karina and Dr. Na have a tenderness, a shared history written in soft confidences and midnight phone calls. They met during college before either dreamed of a spotlight, she, a striver fresh from design school; he, a busy surgical resident moonlighting to pay his rent. He didn’t like her in college, but they ran into each other in New York and started fucking intensely. Their first real date was over steaming bowls of bibimbap in a corner café, trading fears and ambitions until the staff nudged them out at closing time. Then life intervened—back-to-back seasons for her, grueling on-call marathons for him—and they drifted apart, each chasing dreams they’d once whispered to each other. They’re not really romantic but I’m sure they still fuck, I could bet on it, that’s how confident I am that I’m correct. They’re co-architects of Haeun’s world. She’s the first to arrive with balloons and homemade cookies on scan days, the one whose laugh draws Haeun from any shyness. Karina helps Dr. Na with Haeun a lot.”

Begrudgingly, you learn that they were lovers once, in that brief, incandescent season before parenthood reshaped his every horizon; the memory of their closeness still simmers behind Karina’s steady gaze. Now she arrives at the hospital not as a distant star but as a second mother to Haeun, smoothing stray curls with the gentlest touch and laughing through bedtime stories whispered in the playroom’s lamplight. When she bends to offer Haeun her lap, the little girl curls in as naturally as into her father’s arms, murmuring “My Rina” with the surety of a heart that instinctively knows where comfort lives. In every pivot of her poised stride and every warm look she casts at Dr. Na, you sense the unspoken vow: that this chosen family, wrought from loss and love, will hold its orbit against any darkness that dares encroach.

Her tone softens, eyes drifting back through the glass as if she can already see their silhouettes in the corridor. “They’re legends in their own right. Jeno, with championships and record-breaking buzzer-beaters that make arenas tremble; Karina, whose gowns have rewritten the language of fashion and whose makeup line is in every beauty editor’s kit; Ryujin and Shotaro, whose dance therapy programs have coaxed laughter and movement from children who’d forgotten how to feel joy; Donghyuck, whose voice carries stories of triumph on screens that millions tune in to each night. But none of that matters here. What binds them isn’t fame or fortune, it’s this hospital. This place saved Haeun when her own mother tried to end her life before she even drew a single breath, when she was left to die alone on the rooftop. Doctors patched her broken heart; nurses soothed her frightened sobs; researchers here keep rewriting the rules of what sick children can endure. Every gala Karina co-hosts, every scholarship Jeno underwrites, every dance-floor fund Shotaro and Ryujin open, all of it funnels back into this ward. They fund free surgeries for babies born blue-liped, they underwrite outreach clinics in forgotten towns, they sponsor scholarship nurses who stay to care for children no matter the cost. They do it all because of Haeun. Because she survived the darkness, they learned what true rescue means, and found a way to pay her back in light.”

Your heart twists in your chest as you watch Karina cradle Haeun at the edge of the room, tiny arms fluttering around Karina’s neck like fledgling wings seeking warmth. Karina’s hair tumbles over her shoulders in waves of midnight silk, each strand catching the light of the conference wing’s golden glow. Her posture is an unspoken manifesto of poise: spine straight as a ballet barre, shoulders soft but unyielding, gaze warm enough to melt the iciest boardroom. Haeun’s laughter resonates like a chime, and Karina responds with a low, musical hum, her fingers tracing idle patterns in Haeun’s curls. You step back, scrubs suddenly heavy on your skin, as though you’ve walked into a painting you were never meant to touch. The distance between you and this effortless grace stretches taut, and you wonder how you—ten years her junior, still mastering knotting sutures and bedside manner—could ever bridge the gap. You feel like a child intruding on a world you can’t touch: awkward in your youth, your intern’s scrubs swallowed by the hush of designer silks and tailored blazers. 

Your cheeks burn when you realize how small you feel here: stripped of your usual confidence, every inch of your skin prickles with self-consciousness. You recall the times you braided Haeun’s hair, the soft “thank you, my wuv” she pressed against your palm, and you ache to belong in that gentle space again. But here, in the orbit of Karina’s radiance, you are merely a shadow, an earnest trainee whose greatest accolade is a passing nod from Dr. Na. While Karina, in the privacy of their past, has lost herself on his cock a million times, a fiery intimacy you ache to claim as your own. You tighten your grip on the edge of your clipboard, fingernails biting into the paper, and force your gaze back to the room. Yet even as you try to anchor yourself, your eyes betray you, drifting back to Karina’s measured smile, the easy way she curls a lock of Haeun’s hair behind her ear, the quiet assurance that you can never duplicate.

It’s not merely Karina’s beauty that stings, it’s her history, her accomplishments writ large in the world Jaemin inhabits. You think of the single-family flats you shared with overwhelmed roommates, long shifts of charting before dawn, the perpetual undercurrent of imposter syndrome that thrums beneath your every success. Karina, by contrast, has carved an empire from thread and vision, her name sewn onto the seats of fashion capitals from Paris to Tokyo. She is the creative force behind runway shows that have shaped decades of style; the philanthropist whose gala soirées have raised millions for pediatric research; the mentor whose apprentices now stand on stage in their own right. And here she is, bending gentle and unguarded over Haeun—an innocent whose life Karina helped to celebrate, whose future she pledged to support long before you ever learned your first surgical knot.

You flush all the way to your fingertips as you recall Hayoung’s hushed confession about Karina and Dr. Na’s secret trysts—how Karina’s satin lips once pressed against his throat in the moonlight, how she gasped his name as his fingers tangled in her platinum-blonde waves. Your pulse hammers when you imagine those heated nights, Karina draped over him like silk, whispering your name between breathless moans. You bite your lip, thighs trembling, picturing yourself in her place—skin slick, lips parted, arching beneath his touch as he buries himself deep inside you. Every polished step in these hospital halls suddenly feels charged with forbidden promise: could those same strong hands guide your body, curl you into whispered ecstasy until you’re nothing but warm, quivering mush in his arms? The thought sends a delicious shiver down your spine, and you press a hand to your chest, breathing unevenly, desperate for even a flicker of that raw, unfiltered passion Karina once claimed as her birthright.

Karina’s presence is almost mythic: hair that falls in glossy waves around a face sculpted by years of confidence, eyes that have both softened at a child’s smile and hardened at the cruelties of fashion backstage. She embodies refinement and resolve—each step a whisper of silk, each laugh a note of genuine warmth. Haeun clings to her as though born knowing Karina’s arms are safe harbors: tiny fingers threading through Karina’s familiarity, curls brushing Karina’s velvet collar. You watch that bond and ache—you’re not certain you could learn the art of such effortless love, not sure you could anchor Haeun’s heart as deeply, as naturally, as one who has guided her through every high-profile gala and quiet bedtime story alike. In that moment, you feel the full weight of your inexperience, the impossibility of matching a grace so honed, so intrinsic. The envy blossoms bitterly in your chest, and you wonder if you will ever find your own place in Haeun’s world beyond the shadow of these legends.

You turn your gaze inward, the harsh white of hospital walls receding as memory and desire entwine into a single, bitter bloom. You recall the early mornings when you and Haeun would share cereal in the NICU hallway, your voice the only anchor to her frightened world. You remember the fear that distilled your every thought when her tiny chest stuttered for breath, and the primal desire to be the guardian of her heart. Yet here, in the glow of polished floors and the gentle murmur of celebrities-turned-family, you feel neither hero nor protector. only an outsider whose worth is measured in clinical competence, not in the kind of love that sees without pretense. The ache in your ribs intensifies, a reminder that motherhood, in its many forms, is not won by credentials or passion alone but by the quiet alchemy of trust, time, and intimacy. You realize that Karina has woven herself into Haeun’s life with every shared story, every whispered promise, every dance lesson sponsored and every stolen cuddle. And you, still learning the rhythms of both scalpels and lullabies, are left yearning for a place in the soft tapestry they have created. You close your eyes for a moment, drawing a shaky breath, and resolve to carve out your own kind of sanctuary, a space in Haeun’s world defined by your devotion, your sleepless nights, your relentless hope that even the most fragile hearts can find new wings.

You’re still pressed against the cool one-way glass with Hayoung, watching Haeun’s little ballet of laughter from the hidden corridor, when your pager buzzes with unexpected urgency. Startled, you fumble for it, thumb swiping the belt clip to read Dr. Na’s terse instruction. “Consult room 2. Now.” 

You glance at Hayoung, whose brow arches in silent “Oh.” he could’ve called you after the surprise, but he didn’t. You tap open the secure chart and see exactly why he summoned you: he’s asked you to reconcile the post-op medication orders on his high-risk pediatric patient, double-checking the weight-based furosemide syrup and digoxin elixir doses you prepared this morning, just as he instructed. But he doesn’t need you in person for that. Unofficially, you know this summons is far more than clinical; it’s a challenge laced with possessive intent, a test of whether you can hold your own in the center of his world, his daughter’s laughter echoing behind you, his dearest friends just beyond the glass, and the quiet ache of wanting to belong. Your heart hammers as you slip your pager back into place, you steel your breath, and follow Hayoung down the sterile corridor toward whatever he’s planned and whatever he’s waiting to see.

The pager’s staccato buzz still trembles in your palm when you open the door and you step into light so honey-rich it stains your scrubs. Dr. Na stands near the far window, loose-leaf chart in hand, but you sense at once that the summons is more trial than task. He could have flagged a resident to discuss the borderline lactate, could have met you later in PICU; instead he has dragged you into his private orbit, into a room already brimming with the people who know every version of him. 

You find him already stationed outside the glass-paneled door, broad shoulders backlit by a corridor sconce, scrub top hugging the play of muscle beneath. For one absurd second you’re grateful for the buffer of the hallway, no celebrity onlookers, no tiny arms rocketing toward you, just Dr. Na and the low hum of the hospital’s night ventilators. His eyes lift as you approach, quartz-bright, assessing; the weight of that gaze steals the air from your lungs faster than any mask could. You open your mouth to explain the med-reconciliation draft you’ve flagged. dopamine taper, rising creatinine, the one unreadable scribble on the infusion sheet and what spills out instead is a stammer about “clarifying dosage windows” and “double-checking formulary overrides.” He listens, expression carved from intent, then steps forward until the antiseptic-clean scent of his skin eclipses the corridor.

“Good instincts,” he says, voice pitched low enough to bruise. “Run Labs again, adjust the heparin at 0-six-hundred, and page me the second that creatinine climbs past one-point-eight.” As he speaks he lifts the chart between you, ostensibly to point at an order line, but his knuckles brush the inside of your wrist, a graze of heat that turns every neuron to white noise. You manage a nod, pulse leaping; he lingers half a heartbeat longer, gaze tracking the flutter at your throat as though timing it against the beeps beyond the glass. Then a slow blink, a silent dismissal, yet when he pivots toward the door you catch the drag of his eyes down the slope of your shoulder, the smallest hitch in his breath, proof that the tension is not yours alone. You inhale the space he leaves behind, cheeks hot, chart trembling, and realize you’ve never been more eager—or more terrified—to meet a set of lab values in your life.

Just as you pivot to leave, a streak of yellow—bright as the first brush of dawn on snow—slips through the barely open door. It’s the color of lemon drops and daffodils and every lucky sunbeam you’ve ever bottled, trying to squeeze itself into the hallway. Then the streak becomes shape: one dimpled cheek pressed against the jamb, Bunny’s satin ear twitching, and huge brown eyes, wide as new moons, scanning until they find you. They light up like fireflies. “My wuv?” Haeun murmurs, her voice a tremor of delight. In a heartbeat the hinge gives a reluctant sigh, the gap yawns, and yellow explodes: her ruffled skirt swirling, ribboned curls bouncing, tiny feet pattering in rapid-fire gallops. She giggles—a tinkling chime—arms flung wide, cheeks flushed petal-pink, eyelashes trembling with joy. With a squeal of pure sunshine she hurtles toward you, Bunny tumbling behind like a faithful squire, and flings herself into your legs. Her face peeks up at you through a halo of curls, eyes brimming with adoration so fierce it feels like gravity. “I miss you! I wan’ you!” she gasps, giggling as she squeezes you tight, forehead nuzzling your scrubs. In that moment, every crack in your heart fills with light.

Her dimpled brow furrows in adorable impatience. “Up, up, up!” she demands, stretching her arms skyward until you scoop her into a cradle against your shoulder. Bunny flutters behind her like a cheerful banner. She buries her face in your neck, laughter bubbling through ragged breaths. “Come on, my wuv, let’s go! Where you go today? I miss you so much!” One pudgy hand clamps your ID badge; the other paw-pops at your scrubs, trying to turn you toward the door and away from the seven stunned faces behind her. She giggles, a sweet bell-chime of joy, and squirms for your hand even as she nestles closer, torn between being held and dragging you off on adventure. “I wan’ go! Let’s go now!” she insists, her whole being radiating a love so fierce it hushes the room—and all she sees is you.

“Baby, I need to go,” you murmur, voice gentle but firm as you cradle her in one arm. “I’ve got some big boo-boo work to finish—charts to update, meds to double-check.” Jaemin’s reprimand still echoes behind you.

Haeun’s cheeks scrunch in that stubborn way you know so well. She shakes her head with such earnest determination her bow nearly flies off. “No later! Now! I show you auntie ’n uncos! Dey all gonna wuv you like I do!” she insists, tugging at your scrub top with both tiny fists. You try to slip free, but she won’t budge—her grip is iron even in those chubby, two-year-old hands.

Dr. Na’s voice cuts through the hubbub like a scalpel. He strides to the doorframe, silhouette rigid in the warm glow of the lounge lights. “Haeun-ah,” he intones, tone sharper than any drill, “mind your manners and stay with me.” His words carry the weight of every parent’s warning—stern, unyielding, yet laced with an undercurrent of fierce protectiveness. At his chiding, Haeun’s shoulders slump for a heartbeat before her stubborn spark reignites.

She stamps her foot against your side, arms crossed defiantly. “No! I show my wuv the aunties and uncos! Dey gonna wuv her too!”

He softens, though his tone stays firm. “I know you love her, baby, but you can’t just drag people away. You promised to stay with Daddy until we sorted things out.”

She shakes her head, tears brimming in those wide brown eyes. “But Dada, I need her now! I wait all day—no later!”

He sighs, fingers brushing a stray curl behind her ear. “Haeun, I’ll bring her here as soon as I’m done. I swear it. But right now—”

She interrupts with a single stubborn shake. “No! Now! My wuv!”

Dr. Na rolls his eyes, a half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I can never win against you, can I, princess? You’ve got Daddy wrapped around your finger.”

Haeun’s grin splits her face as she nods vigorously, curls bouncing. “Yes! Dada! I win!” she declares, then tugs gently at his scrub top. “Now let’s go!” 

He nods, eyes earnest. “Promise you’ll be my good girl first.”

She quirks a tiny grin, eyes sparkling with mischief. “I pwomise… afteh I show her all my aunties ’n uncos!”

With a squeal of triumph, she wiggles down, little ballet slippers padding across the linoleum, curls bouncing as she darts ahead to fling open the door. “Come on! Come on!” she calls back, breathless with excitement, then grabs your hand and tugs you into the room. You freeze on the threshold—Haeun’s world collapsing around you in a riot of unfamiliar faces—and watch her abandon all decorum to race toward the circle of aunties and uncles she adores. Her laughter, bright and unselfconscious, fills the space, and for a moment you realize that anyone who can make her this happy instantly becomes the most important person in the room.

Every breath catches in your throat the moment you step inside. Six renowned figures. each the cornerstone of their own orbit, pause mid-conversation, heads tilting as they take in the unexpected arrival. Karina offers a measured nod over lashes that gleam like onyx; Donghyuck’s easy smirk falters into something private and assessing; Ryujin’s graceful poise stills as if she’s found herself out of step. Even Jeno—towering, legendary—inclines his head, curiosity softening his usual gravity. You feel the hush settle around you like a silk shroud, an unspoken question: what does this inexperienced intern think she’s doing here?

And then tiny warmth blooms at your side. Haeun’s small hand finds yours, the familiar weight of her fingers curling around your palm and everything else blurs. She beams up at you, cheeks glowing with delight, and in her bright, trusting smile you feel safe, seen, and utterly whole. You bend to brush a stray curl from her forehead, and her soft, breathy giggle steadies the tremor in your chest. In that instant, impostor fears melt away: no matter how grand the company—or how uncertain you feel—she will never let go of your hand. And with her guidance, you find the courage to meet their eyes at last.

Only then does Haeun whirl on bare toes, her sunflower-yellow dress fanning out like a blossom in bloom, and seize your hand. With a triumphant trill she flings her free arm toward the glittering room and proclaims, “Look, look! I bring my wuv!” Her voice rings clearer than any brass fanfare, as though every face in that space has been summoned for this one exalted moment.

You settle onto the low leather corner beside her patchwork blanket. its fifty-six stitched symbols are a living map of every heart that holds her. Before you can even stretch out beside her, she vaults into your lap, knees tucked under her, arms winding tight around your neck so there’s no room left for anything but her. Her curls brush your cheek as she snuggles in, shyly peeking up at you with those doe-bright eyes and letting out a soft giggle that feels like sunshine. A dozen tiny kisses pepper your jaw, and her voice melts into a loving tumble: “My aun­ties and uncos—I come back! Haeunie come back! This is my wuv, dis my wuv! You my fav’rit person!” Every syllable spills with confidence and joy, and in that instant it’s clear: no chair, no circle of legends, could ever compete with the radiant gravity of her devotion.

Haeun straightens in your lap, takes a deep, determined breath, and begins as though she’s announcing the sun’s rising for the very first time. Her tiny hand presses to your name badge, and her voice rings out, bright, proud, utterly unwavering. “Dis is my WUV! She’s a doctor, my special doctor who fixes big boo-boos and makes sure heart go boom-boom happy. She writes charts every morning. She checks my scar and calls me ‘brave girl.’ When I’m scared, she hums my favorite song from the Barbie movie, and she always, always promises to play bunnies and braid my hair afterward. She’s the one who tucks me in and tells me ‘you’re safe, my whole heart.’ She’s more important to me than sippy juice or even Bunny! She’s my bestest friend, my helper, my sunshine fix-it lady, my WUV!”

With that solemn introduction, she lets go of you long enough to clap twice—once for emphasis, once to summon her uncle. “Uncle No-No!” she chirrups, tumbling free from your lap to race into Lee Jeno’s arms. “Dis is my Wuv! She came to see you! Uncle No-No, she plays tea party with me and never says no when I ask for extra sugar cubes. She helps me count daisies and always cheers when I spin round and round.” She squeezes Jeno with all her might, then bounces back to you to steal a quick hug before hauling off again to the next face.

“Auntie Karina!” she calls, toddling forward in chubby strides. “You do pretty lady that makes dresses that sparkle like magic. She’s a star, Auntie Karina, but my Wuv is my star too, she makes me feel pwetty, even when I’m just in jammies. My Wuv helps me draw bunnies that wear crowns, and she tells me my doodles are the best in the whole world!” Haeun reaches up to smooth a lock of Karina’s hair, then offers a solemn, toddler-sized bow before spinning on her heel.

“Uncle Shot-shot and Auntie Rye-Rye!” she trills, wobbling toward the dance duo. “Dis is my doctor who saves the day, she watches us twirl and leap! Uncle Shot-shot shows me how to point my toes, and Auntie Ryujin catches me every time I fall. But my Wuv…she holds me after I jump and whispers, ‘That was perfect, my angel.’” She pirouettes once, nearly toppling, then laughs and races back into your arms.

“Uncle Dongi!!” she announces last, planting her feet and pointing. “He talks on the TV and tells stories about games and big balls, but my Wuv tells stories about bunnies and princesses. And when I get juice in my nose,”—she giggles as she pretends to sneeze—“she wipes it away and calls me her brave girl.” She leans in to pat Donghyuck’s cheek, then beams at you as if to say, “See? She’s the best helper of all!”

At last she nestles fully into your lap, a contented sigh fluttering from her lips like a soft breeze through petals. Her cheeks glow petal-pink, curls brushing your collar as she turns in a slow, twirling circle so every auntie and uncle can marvel at her treasure. “Dis is my WUV,” she coos, voice trembling with delight. “She loves me more’n anyone—fixes my boo-boos, reads me stories, makes my heart go sing-sing.” A bubbly giggle bubbles up, and she leans in to press her tiny palms to your cheeks, her thumbs brushing away a stray tear as if soothing your heart. “I love her bestest, yes I do!” she declares, eyes shining so bright they could light the room. In that perfect, breath-held moment, every grown-up knows, no trophy, no gala, no legacy could ever outshine the fierce devotion flowering in the heart of this two-year-old ballerina.

She presses a sloppy kiss to the corner of your mouth, then pulls back to plant tiny, gleeful pecks on your cheek. once, twice, three times, each one punctuated by a soft “Hee-hee!” Her breath mingles with yours as she leans in, voice a secret ripple: “Dada so silly, look at my wuv!” You can’t help but laugh, the sound low and warm, and she giggles again, her curls brushing your collar. 

In the hush that follows, you tuck an errant strand behind her ear and whisper back, only loud enough for her to hear, “I love you, bubba,” and she beams, pressing her forehead to yours as if sealing your promise. From across the circle of family, Dr. Na’s eyes linger on the two of you—equal parts relief and longing—before he finally turns away, letting your hushed laughter and tender whispers cloak you both in the only language that truly matters. There’s a sudden, tightening ache blossoming in his chest—this is the only time in days she’s ever chatted so freely, and it’s not for him but for you. All morning she’d been silent at his side, too shy or too sad to even sip her juice, but beside you she blossoms into a whirlwind of laughter and proud announcements. He remembers how she clung to his scrub collar when her scan reminded her of Sang-jun, but now, her tiny fists still clutching your badge, she’s incandescent with joy. For a moment his veneer cracks, and he wonders if he’s losing her to your gentle gravity, if the bond they share is being stretched by the warmth she finds only in your presence. But even as the uncertainty presses cold against his heart, he forces a soft smile, and in that quiet sacrifice, silently thanks you for giving her a reason to speak again.

Hours slip by like sunbeams drifting across the pale wood floors of the private wing, and you scarcely notice the passing time. One moment you’re sipping lukewarm tea handed to you by Ryujin, the next your cheeks ache from laughter at Shotaro’s playful critique of your improvised ballet twirl. Despite your shyness, every story you tumble out—about rare post-op complications, about how your internship is going, about Haeun’s latest vocabulary surprise—meets with gentle laughter and encouraging nods rather than terse corrections. These are legends of sport, fashion, and dance, yet here in this softly lit room their fame dissolves into genuine warmth. You feel, for the first time, not the outsider in scrubs, not just ten years his junior but simply a friend, drawn into a circle that rounds its edges into laughter and shared memories.

Eventually, Lee Jeno’s phone buzzes against his hip, a summons he cannot ignore. He rises quietly, apologizing in a voice too soft for the others to hear. His fiancée rises to press a gentle goodbye kiss to his lips. You watch, heart pin-prick sharp, as he scoops Haeun into trembling arms and presses a kiss to her curls. Then, with a quick glance your way, he offers you a polite smile, one that says thank you, we see you—and slips away into the corridor. In his absence, the room seems both emptier and unbearably full of his spirit: protective, loyal, a silent promise that family can be chosen as well as given.

Karina leans forward then, smoothing a stray lock of your hair with surprising ease. Her fingers, cool as marble, brush along your arm as she asks about your own journey—how you came to this hospital, how you bear the weight of so many fragile hearts. You find yourself telling her things you’ve never dared voice aloud: your late-night doubts, the fierce pride of holding Haeun close after a scan. She listens with striking focus, her dark eyes never winking with the slightest trace of impatience. When you pause, uncertain, she simply smiles and says, “Your care matters as much as any design on a runway,” and you realize that in this room, expertise wears many forms and yours is as vital as any.

Across the way, Ryujin and Shotaro exchange a glance before turning to you both. Ryujin’s laugh is a ribbon of warmth, and Shotaro’s hands, still marked with chalk from a morning class, offer you an imaginary plié alongside Haeun’s reluctant mimicry. They speak of last season’s recitals and the children who found new strength through dance therapy, weaving stories of sweaty studios and triumphant first steps. You comment on Haeun’s grace, how those fragile chords of muscle and hope hold her aloft and Ryujin’s eyes shine. “She’s our brave dove,” she says softly, “learning to outfly the darkest swan.” Somehow, that metaphor feels hopeful, and you tuck it away against the memory of Haeun’s fierce little leaps.

Lee Donghyuck sidles up with two juice boxes—one for you, one for Haeun—his grin as familiar as a favorite song. He tells you about the upcoming charity match he’s hosting, how the proceeds will go to underfunded pediatric wards. You marvel at the way he balances numbers and news scripts with genuine compassion: his shoulders relax as he speaks of butterfly stickers he once saw decorating a young patient’s chart, and his voice softens at “butterfly” as if the word itself were a healing incantation. You catch his eye when he mentions Haeun’s name, and he lifts his box in salute: “For our littlest warrior,” he says, and you taste the sweetness of belonging in that toast.

In your hand is a small, pink-striped juice box, Haeun’s favorite. You lift yours to your lips, and she mirrors you, tiny straw poised. He watches as you both sip: her with careful earnestness, you with a gentle hesitancy that speaks of inexperience. Your movements are unhurried, almost tentative, no greedy gulps, only soft draws that leave strawberry-tinted droplets at the corner of your mouth. Dr. Na’s gaze flickers from Haeun’s earnest sip to your slower, almost delicate rhythm, and he swallows as if tasting something far more intoxicating than juice. A stray drop rolls down your chin; you brush it away with your thumb, and Dr. Na’s eyes widen, an unconscious gulp betraying the rush of protectiveness and something deeper at the sight of your gentle care. 

Through Dr. Na’s eyes, the moment becomes achingly intimate, a private study in soft vulnerability. He sees the way your lips part around the straw, the gentle tremor of your lower lip as you draw the juice, so careful and unpracticed that it feels like watching a dancer take their first plié. The curve of your tongue against the plastic, the shy tilt of your head, even the way your cheeks hollow just before the liquid pools—each detail presses against him like breath on glass. He catches the faint glisten on your lips, the hesitance in your swallow, and feels an almost physical pull in his chest: a fierce, protective desire to guide you, to steady those uncertain movements with his own hands. In that suspended heartbeat, he knows you are both utterly new and utterly captivating—your inexperience refracting the room’s warmth into something dangerously tender.

Then, his shoulders ease as he turns back to Haeun, soothed by the scene of his daughter and you, her “wuv,” sharing such simple sweetness. Haeun pulls her straw back, eyes blinking up at you with shy doe-like wonder. “My wuv?” she whispers, voice hushed. “I try yours, pwease?” Yours and hers have the same flavor, but you can’t refuse. You tilt your box toward hers, sharing the very same straw, and she beams before taking a delighted sip. The juice flows warm and familiar between you. One of her tiny hands comes to cup your cheek while the other clutches the box, and you nestle her palm against your lips, cooing softly: “There you go, sweetheart.” She giggles, lips sticky, and nuzzles into your shoulder as Dr. Na watches from across the room, his chest tight with a silent gratitude that this moment of innocent closeness will soothe you both, if only for a heartbeat.

The afternoon light wanes into honeyed dusk before you realize the sun has set. Conversation drifts from hospital gala plans to the simple pleasure of watching Haeun sketch crayon sunbursts on a napkin. You lean forward, pressing your brow to her crown, murmuring the same reassuring words you’ve whispered since her first breath: “You’re safe, baby.” In response, she clambers onto your lap, her arms tightening like soft vines, and you cradle her through another round of story snatches from Karina’s own childhood. Each rhyme and giggle threads you more deeply into this tapestry of chosen family, until you feel anchored in laughter and shared confidence.

The hours have thinned into late-afternoon honey when Haeun finally wriggles upright in your lap, bunny propped like a plush chaperone between her knees. She tips her chin back, lashes fluttering. “Bwaid pweaseee?” The request is hardly louder than her breath, yet every conversation in the lounge melts to a hush. You ease a comb through her curls, warm silk under your fingers and begin teasing three glossy strands apart. Each pass of your hands is a tempo all its own: smooth, divide, weave, kiss the crown, repeat. Haeun all but purrs, a soft hum vibrating against your thigh while 

Shotaro murmurs from the sofa, “Look at her shoulders drop, pure muscle memory of safety.” Ryujin nods, cheeks dimpling; even Donghyuck’s running commentary stills, the sportscaster silenced by a child’s quiet miracle.

Halfway through the braid, Karina drifts closer, the subtle rustle of couture whispering authority. She tucks a stray curl behind Haeun’s ear and offers, lightly, “I can finish that for you if your Auntie’s hands are tired, sweetheart.” 

Haeun tilts her face toward Karina’s immaculate profile, gaze thoughtful, then whirls back and burrows into your sternum with surprising force. “No tank you, Auntie Rina,” she trills, wrapping both arms around your forearm as though it were a lifeline. “She not my auntie, Aunfie Rina, she’s my Wuv. My  do it the bestest.” Karina’s smile flickers, just for a breath, with a flash of annoyance before she smooths it back into place. Dr. Na huffs out a half-laugh, his jaw ticks once, then settles into that familiar mask of unreadable calm.

Donghyuck snaps the tension like a brittle thread. “Official verdict,” he declares, lifting an imaginary microphone. “Intern defeats Hollywood glam. Sunshine Girl crowns her new stylist of the century.” Laughter rebounds off pastel murals, Ryujin leans into Shotaro’s shoulder, grinning, while Jeno’s fiancée applauds with delicate fingertips, those same fingertips never leaving her stomach. You manage a shy smile, cheeks warming, until Haeun, still curled in your lap, shifts herself more snugly against you, her little legs wrapping securely around your waist and thighs so no one else can claim her. She reaches for not one but two brand-new juice boxes on the side table, pink-striped strawberry for you, sunshine-yellow mango for herself and holds them both like precious trophies.

She claps her hands when you produce two fresh juice boxes—one strawberry, one mango—each pastel-striped like a little promise of sweetness. With eyes bright as dawn, she presses her pinky into yours before lifting the straw to her lips. You realize she locks her pinky because, for her, it’s the smallest ring of trust. “Pwomise?” she whispered once, and ever since, a pinky promise means the world. Now she sips the strawberry first, cheeks dimpled as she chews on the flavor, “So yummy! Like bewwy kisses,” she declares, then offers you a sip. When you hand her the mango, she tilts her head, inhales the golden scent and sighs, “Mango like sunshine… warm in my belly!” She swivels in your lap to meet your gaze, her doe eyes searching yours alone and asks with a wobble of her bow, “Twy again?” Before you can answer, she’s already twisting your straw between her fingers, smiling so wide it makes her curls bob. “I wuv you,” she announces, voice soft but sure, “you my bestest, my sunshine.” And in that moment, as you share two little cartons of juice and one big, beating heart, you know there’s no place she’d rather be. Dr. Na exhales—soundless, ragged—and finally looks away only when her lashes droop, the sugar rush giving way to dusk-soft drowsiness. You catch his eye, and for a fleeting moment both of you stand witness to the fierce gravity of a little girl’s love and the quiet power it wields.

Haeun’s eyelids flutter in your arms like tired moth wings, lashes sweeping half-moons across flushed cheeks, but she refuses to surrender to sleep. Each time her head lolls, she forces it upright, blinking hard, small fingers kneading the neckline of your scrub top as though touch alone can anchor her in wakefulness. You reach for the knitted blanket folded over the arm of the sofa, a square of butter-soft merino that has accompanied every clinic visit, every late-night vigil and notice, with a sudden twist of surprise, that the newest edge remains bare white. Five dear friends sit only a few feet away, but none of their stories have yet found a thread on this fabric.

Clearing your throat, you turn so the blanket spills across your lap, the tiny girl still nestled against your chest. “I know it’s late,” you say, voice pitched to the hush of lamplight, “but I’d love to ask a favor.” Eyes lift from coffee cups and half-finished conversations. “Haeun’s had this blanket since her days in the NICU. I knit it when her skin was too fragile for hospital cotton. It took me so many restless nights, bamboo needles, the best quality hypoallergenic wool. Every person who’s helped her grow has added a symbol. Dr. Huang stitched a stethoscope in red silk when she came off the ventilator; Nurse Yuha sewed a tiny moon for the night she finally slept four hours straight. It’s becoming a map of everyone who loves her, of people who cherish and protect her. And tonight feels… important.”

You trace a fingertip along the rows of tiny emblems. mercury-bright thread here, beach-sand yellow there, letting the history breathe between stitches. “She doesn’t just wrap up to keep warm,” you add softly, “she wraps up to remember she’s not alone. A new row is waiting, and I thought maybe—if it isn’t too forward—you might each lend a piece of yourselves.” Your confession hangs in the hush, fragile and earnest. Across the circle, five smiles shift from polite to luminous approval, and you feel the moment settle like a quilt over all of you.

Jeno’s finance is the first to stand up. She chooses pearl-gray thread that glimmers under the lamp. “Haeun says I’m her ‘sparkle’ auntie,” she murmurs with a grin, and stitches a tiny five-petaled jasmine, a symbol of respect and love, then anchors it with two interlocking rings in the faintest blush-gold. “One for promise, one for peace,” she tells you, knotting the tail. “And every spring I’ll add a new petal as she grows.”

Lee Donghyuck leans an elbow on the table, drawing laughter as he pretends to deliver a live sports update on his progress. But the playfulness fades into reverence when he threads microphone-black silk through the needle. He shapes a small broadcasting mic hidden among radio waves that ripple outward like concentric hearts. “For her voice,” he says, throat tight. “May it always carry.”

Shotaro takes his turn next, dancer’s posture folding into a tidy cross-legged seat. He selects lilac floss and embroiders two tiny ballet slippers whose ribbons entwine midair, forming an infinity symbol. Ryujin kneels beside him, chooses sea-glass green, and adds a single eighth-note that curves around the slippers like wind under wings. They finish by knotting their threads together, the colors blending: movement and music fused for the girl who can’t dance as often as she dreams but never stops hearing the song.

Karina’s manicured fingers hover above the palette of threads before she chooses sunflower-yellow, Haeun’s signature hue. With decisive strokes she stitches a stylized sun rising behind a dress form. “For new mornings,” she murmurs, voice velvet-low, “and for every gown she’ll twirl in.” When she knots her thread, a fleeting shadow crosses her features, tenderness edged by something bittersweet.

At first you don’t even realise he’s moved, one moment Dr. Na is a silent pillar at the periphery, the next he’s standing over the hoop, the lamplight catching the faint tremor in his fingers. It’s only the second time he has ever added to the blanket; the first was a tiny sun the night you showed him this blanket. You hold your breath, half-afraid to break whatever fragile impulse drew him forward. He chooses the plainest floss in the basket, unbleached cotton, hospital-sheet white and works in absolute hush. With the same sure economy that guides a scalpel, he stitches a single heartbeat: rise, fall, pulse. When he reaches the apex of the rhythm, he pauses, thread gleaming like moonlight, and loops back to form an almost invisible letter nested inside the peak. A confession hidden in plain sight. No explanation follows, but something settles over the room—soft, electric, inarguable. The second thread from Haeun’s father lies beside the first, heartbeat to star, and now a new initial anchors the pattern: her life, his love, your name, all sharing the same measured pulse.

When the final knot is tied, you lift the blanket and tuck it around Haeun. She stirs, pinky still linked with yours, eyelids heavy but shimmering with trust. “So comfy,” she whispers, nuzzling the new stitches. Around you, conversation slowly resumes—softer, richer—while the blanket settles over her tiny body like a living constellation. You realize the hush from earlier has transformed: no longer velvet at the throat, but flannel on the skin, warm and utterly welcoming. She breathes, voice shrinking to a sugar-soft whisper meant for you alone. “Blankie feel like cloud.”

Haeun’s lashes flutter like the softest lullaby as she summons one last flicker of wakefulness. With trembling purpose, she leans forward and brushes her lips against yours. a whisper of a kiss, laden with every unspoken promise she’s ever known. She pulls back, her eyes shining with silent wonder, as though daring you to meet the question there. Your heart lurches in your chest, this fragile, fearless offering of trust. You cradle her cheek, cooing gentle nonsense. “My little moonbeam,” and trace a fingertip along the soft curve of her jaw. Her tiny hand grips your scrub pocket like a compass, anchoring her to the only world she needs. Around you, the corridor’s murmurs fade into a featherlight hush, leaving just her and you suspended in a private constellation of shared breath and beating hearts.

Her lashes flutter like moth wings as a hesitant courage fills her small frame, she’s never dared press her lips there before, the only exception being her Daddy, and the memory of that sacred, first kiss tightens her chest. Yet when you part your lips in a gentle, encouraging smile and murmur soft approval. “That’s my brave girl,” something in her unfurls. She tilts forward once more, brushing a second, bolder kiss to your mouth, then melts into your arms, cheeks blooming pink. Your coos tumble into the hush around, you swallow a surprised flutter and breathe out a gentle coo. “Oh, my soft thing,” you murmur, brushing your nose against the tip of hers. “That was a new kiss. Did it make the clouds softer?”

“Mmm-hmm,” she hums, the sound puffing like a kitten’s purr. “Cloud sooo soft. Wuv’s lips taste like stwa-bewwy juice.” She giggles at her own declaration, curls tickling your jaw.

You huff a quiet laugh, smoothing the blanket over her shoulders. “Strawberry-chin power, huh? Should we save another kiss for later?”

She considers it, a tiny teeth catching her lower lip. “Later… an’ later,” she decides, pinky tightening around yours to seal the pact. “But now cuddles.”

“Endless cuddles,” you promise, kissing the apple of her cheek. “Dream sweet, cuddle bug.”

Her lashes flutter like moth wings, but in the gathering dusk of the lounge she still finds her way. Without thought, her small hand drifts to the leaf you etched into the soft cotton, a delicate maple leaf, veins stitched with your own trembling thread and she pat-pat-pats it as though it were the heart of the world. Beside it glows the golden sun her Daddy wove, its rays forever warming her fingertip even when she isn’t seeking them. It is her North Star, a compass that tethers her to safety, and she follows its pull instinctively. Like a mama oak sheltering her sapling, you wrap her in the blanket’s embrace, your arms the forest that hushes every worry. “Dream sweet, my wuv,” she echoes, voice already sliding into slumber. In the hush that follows, only your shared breaths and the soft rustle of the blanket remain, two quiet notes in a room that has faded to velvet around you both.

Only Jeno is missing from the circle of stitches, every auntie and uncle has left their promise behind, every color of hope woven into Haeun’s blanket, save for his. You press a fingertip to the empty square where his thread should lie and murmur that you’ll catch him next time. What you don’t know is that dawn will break on a day when the black swan’s shadow falls across this bright world, when the parasite’s poison finally claims its victory and the last flutter of Haeun’s laughter will echo into silence. A night-winged shadow circles, eclipsing the pastel dawn you’ve counted on; one terrible morning it will swoop, black feathers blotting out every sunrise hue and the quiet toxin sown in Haeun’s fragile heart will claim its due. In that breath, her laughter—bright as glass bells—will shatter mid-ring and drift away like ash on a wind no one can catch. The day her heartbeat—the dove’s gentle rhythm beneath your palm—stills in your arms will be the day you and Dr. Na follow it into the long dark. When Jeno will at last return to weave his love into the fabric, heart heavier than any ball he ever shot, his hands tremble as he lifts a length of burnt-orange floss. He draws the curve of a basketball, but each stitch is a memorial more than a celebration. His shoulders shake with choked sobs, tears pooling on the wool like dew before a storm. One by one, the others press their own grief into the fabric—salty fingerprints that blot the brilliant colors of expectation. In that woven hush, every blessing and every heartbreak rests together, a testament to love’s frail, defiant endurance.

Jeno’s fiancée is the first to rise, smoothing her skirt as she approaches your corner of the room. Haeun lies nestled in your arms, lashes fluttering against her rose-petal cheeks. Gently, the fiancée leans forward and brushes a silk-soft kiss across Haeun’s forehead. The little one doesn’t stir; her breathing is the only melody in the hush. You press a grateful smile to the fiancée’s hand as she whispers, “Goodnight, my bright star,” before stepping back and slipping silently through the doorway. Lee Donghyuck follows, pausing long enough to crouch before you. He offers you a soft nod, voice a low murmur: “You’ve done wonders today.” He reaches out to tuck Haeun’s curls behind her ear, then places a single fingertip on her wrist to confirm the steady beat of her heart. “Sleep well, princess,” he breathes, and you watch him melt away into the corridor’s warm glow.

Shotaro steps forward first, his dancer’s grace still evident even in repose. He kneels beside you, brushes a gentle kiss to Haeun’s forehead, and murmurs, “You’re gonna be strong enough for the next recital, Princess, I know it. You’re gonna show everyone how you light up the stage.” His warm breath ruffles her curls before he straightens, leaving behind the echo of soft promise. Ryujin follows close behind, her presence a steadying rhythm. She cups Haeun’s cheek in one hand, presses a light kiss to her temple, and whispers, “Our little ballerina will soar higher than ever.” With one last tender glance, she smooths the blanket, offers you a reassuring nod, and slips away into the gentle glow of the corridor.

One by one the guests drift away—Jeno’s fiancée, Donghyuck, Shotaro, Ryujin—each pausing to offer a silent benediction before the door closes behind them. You remain kneeling by the loveseat, blanket wrapped tight, Haeun’s small warmth against your chest. Through the glass you catch Dr. Na among the departing friends, his broad shoulders slumping in a rare moment of quiet fatigue.

The lounge has hushed to after-party stillness: the others have slipped into the hallway with Dr. Na, their laughter receding down polished tile. Only soft lamplight, the tick-tick of a distant clock, and the weight of Haeun, warm, sleeping, blanket-cocooned, remain. You cradle her on the love-seat, feeling her breaths flutter against your collarbone like the wings of a nesting dove. Karina hasn't left yet. Instead, she glides closer, heels muted on the rug, and lowers herself onto the ottoman opposite you, close enough for her perfume to mingle with baby shampoo. The rise and fall of Haeun’s chest reflects in Karina’s eyes, and something unreadable flickers there: a fleeting tremor of envy or longing before she smooths it into poise.

She begins in a tone meant for midnight confidences. “He and I disliked each other in college, we weren’t alike, too stubborn, too proud,” she says, gaze drifting toward the doorway Jaemin just exited. “But New York changes people. He’d taken a fellowship; I was staging my first real show. One September thunderstorm stranded us beneath a scaffolding in SoHo. We shared a cab, two perfectionists exiled by the rain.” A smile ghosts across her mouth, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “By the time the cab bumped over Brooklyn Bridge, he was murmuring cardiac protocols against my throat; by Midtown our fingers were mapping one another’s scar lines against bare skin, he really likes the scars along my ass. Before sunrise, the sheets in his SoHo walk-up had our pulses stitched into them—and the skyline was still glowing when he coaxed the last breathless ‘yes’ out of me.”

She smooths an imaginary wrinkle from her skirt, fingers lingering at her collarbone, as if replaying the memory on her skin. “Then he vanished into fatherhood.” Her gaze returns to the small bundle in your arms. “I thought I’d lost him to sleepless nights and neonatology wards. I told myself I was happy for him. But seeing her choose you—seeing this—” Her polished façade ripples, then knits itself back together. “She’s never clung to me that way, she loves me, I’m her ‘Auntie Rina’ but that’s all I am.”

A beat of silence. Then her lashes lift, sly and assessing.  “So,” she drawls, “do you have a crush on our Doctor Na?”

“Wha—no, you’ve got it all wrong!” you blurt, shielding yourself with Haeun’s blanket as heat floods your cheeks. “I—I mean, of course I don’t have a crush on him, that would be wildly inappropriate! I’m his intern, ten years his junior, my hands are supposed to steady under his guidance, not flutter with some silly schoolgirl crush. He’s my attending, my mentor… my boss!” You press a trembling hand to your heart, breath hitching in your throat. “Honestly, the last thing I’d ever do is let personal feelings—heavens, of course I wouldn’t!”

You suck in a panicked breath and forge onward, words spilling like surgical tape unraveled. “But every time he leans in to correct my suture, or the way his voice softens when he talks to frightened parents, my chest does do this ridiculous flip-flop. I respect him—no, I deeply admire him. His calm in crisis, his razor-sharp precision under pressure, the kindness he shows Haeun… it’s inspiring, not romantic! I’m honored just to learn at his side, to help with his cases, to watch him work miracles. It’s pure professional gratitude. I swear it’s nothing more than that!” You swallow hard, cheeks still aflame, and force a breathless laugh. “I—I’m sorry, I’m rambling,” you finish, voice pitched with mortified relief. You crane your head away, eyes swimming with mortified relief, fully expecting the world—or at least Karina—to recoil. But the silence that follows only tightens the knot of your flushed confession, proof that honesty sometimes feels like a wound.

Karina’s lips curl into a slow, knowing smile, and she steps a fraction closer, hand sliding to your elbow in faux concern. “Oh, sweetheart,” she purrs, her voice silk over steel, “you’re positively incandescent. Don’t pretend those butterflies aren’t more than gratitude fluttering in your stomach. Honestly, watching you gush over his ‘miracles’—I’ve seen less passion over a first kiss.” She leans in closer, her tone light and conspiratorial but unmistakably direct, as if she’s letting you into a sacred secret. “Honestly, if you’re just grateful for his mentorship, good for you. But I’ll be real with you, I’ve been lucky enough to have him in ways you probably dream about. Even after he became Haeun’s dad, even as recent as a few days ago. We’d sneak away, just the two of us, in the past, sometimes more, and I’d lose myself riding him until neither of us could breathe. He’s incredible—knows exactly how to touch you, how to use his massive cock, how to keep you wanting more. If you ever get the chance, don’t waste it.” She gives you a sly wink, her smile edged with both mischief and something like pride. “Seriously, you’re missing out.”

You flush so hard your vision blurs, lips parting in stunned disbelief as Karina’s words hang in the air. You open your mouth—nothing, not even air comes out. For a second, your brain scrambles, fumbling for the right response, but it’s a useless mess of excuses and half-baked protests. Your mind replays what she said, graphic and unvarnished, the image of her and Dr. Na tangled together searing through your composure, and suddenly you’re blushing all the way to your collarbones. You try to gather yourself, try to insist that you’re just an intern, that he’s your attending, that you’d never blur those lines, but your thoughts keep snagging on the word “fucking,” on the memory of his hands guiding yours, the memory of how safe and seen he makes you feel. You can’t even look at her, so you focus on Haeun’s soft, sleeping cheek, the weight of her trust grounding you as you try to string together a sentence that might save your dignity. But there’s nothing—just the ridiculous thrum of your heart and the unspoken question of whether you’ll ever be more than a shadow in the presence of legends who know every inch of him in ways you can’t even admit to wanting.

The pediatric wing exhales into evening like a great whale gone still. IV pumps settle into soft metronomes, hallway sconces dim to a caramel glow, and the last echo of hurried footsteps gives way to the hush of chart pages turning. Down Respiratory, a nurse threads a neb mask over a toddler’s nose with lullaby gentleness; in Oncology, a fellow clicks through CT slices no louder than rain on glass. Even the fish tank, half moons of neon tetras, drifts without a wake. Haeun is folded across your thighs like a silk ribbon fallen from a tutu, bodice of her butter-yellow ballerina dress wrinkled from sleep, satin shoes kicked off in a pink heap beneath the sofa. She burrows higher, cheek pressing to the hollow of your throat, honey-sweet curls sliding over your collar while tiny fingers worry the edge of your ID badge. Two hours earlier, Dr. Na closed those fingers around yours. “Keep her with you; she won’t settle for anyone else until I’m done triaging the ferry casualties.” Then he disappeared towards Trauma, busy with consults after the mass casualty. You haven’t heard a pager chirp since; you’re happy that you’re technically supposed to be “studying” right now. After days of fluorescent frenzy, non stop pages and codes, this lull feels like wading out of storm surf onto sun-warmed sand. Haeun’s cling is molten: she tucks her knees to either side of your waist, inhales a shaky breath that seems to weld her heartbeat to yours, then whispers, “My wuv, stay.” Strawberry-mango juice lingers on her lips, and each time she sighs, the scent rises like a promise that the world, for one soft pocket of evening, has been reduced to just the two of you and the quiet ballet of breathing in unison.

When Haeun awoke from her nap, she was all soft sighs and especially clingy—her tiny body curled into you like a seashell pressed to your shore. She nestles into your lap—your orchestra pit, a warm cradle beneath her—sharing sips from twin strawberry-mango juice boxes as Barbie and the Twelve Dancing Princesses pirouettes on the screen. She’s extra needy for your attention, fingers looping through your scrub pocket, and she doesn’t even care that her aunties and uncles had slipped away whilst she was napping, her whole world narrows to you. Her big brown eyes light up at every swirl of tulle: “Dat one my color, my wuv—yellow like me!” she chirps, voice tinkling like wind-chimes. You tuck a golden curl behind her ear and she sighs her curtain-call sigh, lashes fluttering, then stubbornly rewinds the pas de deux so she can watch the pointe shoes sparkle once again.

She rises almost without effort, as if the air itself has beckoned her to move. Her tiny feet, arched like new moon crescents, press into the cool fabric of your scrubs, tracing a delicate line of a tendu that whispers of distant shorelines and the soft hush of retreating waves. Her arms lift in perfect first position, slender as swan’s necks, framing a face lit from within by an unspoken joy. Then, with a jubilant trill, she pirouettes, a featherweight ribbon spun to life, each revolution slowing the pulse of the world down to match her own gentle rhythm. In that silent ballet, her curls fan out like golden stardust, her pale yellow dress fluttering at her knees as though she were a dove born anew. When she settles, toes softly drawn back into parallel, she stands resolute yet serene—every heartbeat a soft encore—her eyes gleaming with the quiet confidence of a child who knows she has found her home in the music of your presence.

Mid-movie, she shimmies off your lap and presses her cheek into yours. “My wuv,” she murmurs, voice soft as windchimes, then pulls back just enough to press a rapid kiss to your temple. “I wuv you, I wuv you!” Her curls tickle your jaw as she darts to your other cheek: “So pwetty!”

You hum into her hair, voice gentle as a lullaby. “I love you too, angel. You’re my brightest star.”

She giggles, the sound a bubble-burst of sunshine, and returns, planting open-mouthed kisses along your chin. “More, more!” she insists, tiny fists anchoring in your scrubs.

“Easy, sweetheart,” you laugh, tipping her forehead with yours. “Save some for later.”

She pouts only briefly—those big doe eyes fluttering shut—before she grins and whispers, “No later! Now!” then spoons another kiss onto your eyelid.

“I can’t get enough of you,” you admit, voice hushed. “Your love is my favorite story.”

Her answer is a final kiss to your lips, feather-light and fearless. “My wuv,” she sighs, curling back into your embrace, “safe here.”

You guide her, your feather-weight ballerina ribbon, into the therapy tub, shedding stray curls and tiny satin slippers that lie abandoned on the pale linoleum like cast-off wings. As warm lavender water blooms around her ankles, she scoops handfuls of froth into the air, watching it scatter like moonlit foam across a midnight sea. Your palms, soft as river-smoothed pebbles, trace gentle counter-currents along her spine, coaxing hidden worries free in sudsy rivulets. You cup water in your hand and pour it over her curls, droplets glinting like stardust before they tumble to join the cloudbanks at her waist. She squeals—a tide pool of delight—each note a windchime in early spring, and tucks her plastic Bunny beneath her chin as you rinse her with tender precision.

When the tub’s surface stills, you lift her into a plush towel the color of dawn, wrapping her in a sunlit cocoon. She nuzzles your shoulder, lips brushing against your cheek in a soft, grateful kiss that sends a ripple through your shore-steady heart. As her damp skin gleams with promise, you press wads of hypoallergenic cream into the curve of her sternum scar, a hidden tidepool, fragile yet alive with every pulse. Your fingers paint feather-light strokes in concentric circles, each touch a silent vow: I will hold you, come what storms may. She closes her eyes against the caress, the faintest smile tipping her lips, and murmurs “soft hands, my wuv,” her voice a private encore only you deserve.

Swaddled now in lemon-blossom pajamas, the yellow a promise against any coming dusk, she returns to your lap, tiny legs curled like tendrils seeking the sun. You brush each damp braid into place, pressing a final kiss to the crown of her head, then kiss the scar once more, a gentle benediction over her fragile heart. She presses a palm to your cheek, dew-soft, and sighs a curtain-call breath. “I stay wif my wuv,” she whispers, voice brittle-bright as bubble-glass. In that hush, the world beyond the ward’s doors dissolves—no beeping pagers, no sterile alarms—only the golden arc of our shared twilight, where her tidepool heart and my steadfast shoreline meet in perfect, unbreakable embrace. You sweep the damp tendrils of hair gently through your fingers, unraveling tangles as if smoothing away all lingering troubles of the day. 

Settling into the armchair, the quiet creak of leather mingling softly with the lullaby of raindrops tapping rhythmically against the glass, you nestle her into your lap, bunny cushioned lovingly between your heartbeats. In your hands is her favorite story, an aged copy of ‘The Velveteen Bunny,’ pages soft with use, edges tinged with pastel fingerprints. As the morning light slants through the curtains, you begin in a low, lilting voice: “Once, the Velveteen Bunny asked the Skin Horse, ‘What is real?’” Before you can continue, Haeun’s small hand presses against your forearm. “Real is…,” she breathes, eyelashes fluttering, “when you wuv somepin for a vee-ry long time, an’ den it’s ‘alweady real,’” You pause, startled by her knowing, and she grins shyly, burying her face against your chest as your fingers trace gentle circles on her back. Her head cushions against your collarbone, and you feel the warmth of her trust unfurl in your chest.

Turning the page, you read how the boy’s playroom walls echo with laughter and lonely shadows, when Haeun interrupts, “Why Bunny cry, my wuv?” Her doe eyes lift to yours, glistening with concern as though she fears any sorrow that might touch the book might seep into her own tender tidepool heart. You close the book for a heartbeat and smooth her curls away from her forehead, whispering, “Because sometimes love hurts, sweetheart, but it also makes us strong.” 

She presses one soft finger to your lips, as if tasting the reassurance, then snuggles closer. “Strong like… Dada?” she asks, voice barely above a flutter. 

You kiss the top of her braid and smile, murmuring, “Strong like Dada and as brave as you, my little dancer.”

By the final chapter, the bunny has been made Real by the little boy’s love, and moonlight shimmers across Haeun’s sleepy profile as she finishes the last sentence. “And so he was truly Real.” Her words trail into a soft sigh, and she nestles fully into your arms, legs curled against your sides. You close the book gently, laying it aside like a sacred relic, and fold her into the cradle of your embrace. She drifts with her palms against your chest, her breath warm and light, and murmurs, “My wuv make me real, too.” 

Your heart aches with the exquisite weight of her confession, and you whisper back, “Yes, my love. You are real, and you are mine.” In the quiet aftermath, the only sound is the soft matching of your heartbeats, a private duet to cradle the fragile magic of two souls bound by love.

Her small hands flutter ceaselessly across your skin, fingertips delicate butterflies tracing secret patterns along your collarbone, her palm settling possessively above your heartbeat as if mapping the safe harbors of your devotion. Her voice, a melody soft and pure, fills the spaces between your own heartbeat, murmuring innocent delights as your hands gently plait her silken strands into neat, tender braids. “No one does it soft like you, my wuv,” she whispers earnestly, her declaration a gentle possession, a soft sovereignty reserved solely for you. Even when others, Auntie Karina or Auntie Ryujin, offer their hands, she declines with gentle but firm refusal. This ritual, intimate and sacred, remains exclusively yours, a covenant sealed in quiet whispers and soft laughter, binding hearts closer than the stitches of her beloved blanket.

Tonight, the love she carries eclipses even the brightest starlight; she pays no heed to missed goodbyes, her universe condensed entirely into your arms. Her soft mouth trails tiny kisses across your jaw, your eyelids, your brow—each touch igniting sparks beneath your skin, whispers of sunlight breaking through morning mists. You press a lingering kiss to her forehead, voice thick with love, naming her softly as your precious one, your sweet solace. She giggles shyly, a delicate blush blooming like dawn upon her cheeks, nuzzling deeper beneath the buttery-soft folds of the yellow blanket, contentment settling over her as surely as twilight blankets the sea.

You pause to call Dr. Na, at Haeun’s request, not wanting to sleep without saying a goodnight to her beloved Daddy. His voice is muffled by fatigue yet laced with unmistakable warmth when his daughter murmurs, “Goodnight, dada,” her voice sleepy, syrup-sweet. He promises to return soon, that he’ll take her home soon, you glimpse a flicker of longing and quiet comfort threading through his words, fragile as moonlight through storm clouds. Her voice softens further, drifting into drowsiness even as her lips curl gently, contentment humming through her small frame.

You clear your throat softly, fingers trembling around the cuff of her blanket, and lean in close, breath warm against her temple. The lamp casts gentle halos around her wispy hair, and you must steady yourself against the swell of your own longing. “Haeun,” you whisper, voice threaded with tentative hope, “can I ask you something very, very important?” Your heart hammers in your chest like a little drum. 

For a moment the only sound is the hush of her breathing. Then her sleepy eyes open, glassy with trust, wide with wonder and she tilts her head as though the question itself is the sweetest gift. “Yes, my wuv?” she answers, voice clear and bright as wind-chimes in a summer breeze.

You swallow, words catching like pearls on your tongue, and your fingers brush the curve of her cheek, marveling at the softness of her skin. “You call everyone else ‘Auntie’—Auntie Karina, Auntie Ryujin, Auntie Hyejin but you never call me that,” you say, voice gentle as dusk settling over the city. Each syllable is a quiet confession of your own insecurities, the ache of wanting to belong in her world. You watch her small chest rise and fall with careful breaths, waiting for her answer as though it might reshape everything you thought you knew.

You’ve noticed it from the very beginning: in rooms full of laughter and chatter, she’s the one who darts straight to you, babbling ‘my wuv,’ ‘my girl,’ ‘my pwetty,’ as if those words weigh more than any formal title. The others share amused, fond smiles when she does it, exchanging glances but never questioning it because they know it’s already become your secret bond. And every time her tiny voice skips past “Auntie” and lands on something sweeter, your heart tightens with a warmth that’s equal parts gratitude, longing and confusion. It’s as if she’s chosen you, not by words on paper, but by the names she’s invented from pure love and no reaction from anyone else could ever match the gentle triumph you feel in that moment.

Her lashes flutter, each delicate blink a petal falling on the surface of your soul, and you feel the pull of her gaze, tender and knowing beyond her years. After a heartbeat that stretches into eternity, she blurts out with the fierce certainty of a child who speaks truths no adult would dare: “You not my auntie. You my wuv, my bestest girl, my always!” The words tumble free, shining with innocent conviction, and your throat tightens as you realize she’s given you something far deeper than any title.

You press your forehead to hers, the warmth of her sleepy sighs mingling with your own stunned relief. “But why?” you whisper, voice so soft it could be mistaken for the rustle of silk. “I braid your hair in princess loops, bring you strawberries with extra cream, hold your hand through the dark so aren’t I your auntie, too?” You trace the gentle arc of her eyebrow with your fingertip, memorizing every curve, every shade of her eyelashes against her skin.

Her tiny hand curls around yours, the bloom of her warmth seeping into your palm. She raises those chubby fingers to your cheek, brushing your skin with the gentlest press of insistence, and begins again, syllables tumbling out like precious beads. “You braid my hair when I sad, even when it’s too short so wind and my tears no get in. You sing the moon song at night, soft-soft like bunny fur, and then I’m not scared, I go night-night. And when the big beep-beep machines sing loud, you squeeze me tight and say, ‘I’m right here, baby,’ so I know you no go. You stay right here—right here with me.” Each confession lands like a kiss against your ribs, and you can almost feel the steady warmth of her trust radiating through your veins.

She wiggles closer, forehead pressed to your heart, and adds with toddler solemnity, “Auntie Karina gives me twirly dresses, Auntie Ryujin shows me dance steps, Auntie Hyejin draws me bunny pictures and I love them all but you’re extra special, you’re my best wuv. You hold my hand when they poke me and when I go ow-ow. You give me your pink yogurt when I hungry. And you pop-pop bubble wrap with me when I bored.” She giggles, buries her fingers in your scrubs, claiming you without a doubt. “You and Dada make me laugh, but you laugh louder when I squeak, and your eyes sparkle just for me.” Then she scoots even closer, pressing her little hand over your lips, eyes wide and shining. “I wuv you big—like Dada! Maybe even more, ’cause you my girl. My best girl. My always.” Her breath hitches with a proud, sleepy sigh, and as her chest rises against yours, you feel the whole world shrink to the soft space between your hearts, every tiny beat a promise: she picked you.

The pediatric lounge glows with the hush of midnight, walls tinted blue by the filtered light that seeps through half-closed blinds. In this liminal sanctuary, the world contracts to the warm, living weight of your child in your lap—her presence both anchor and lifeline. She is a delicate dove, her skin a porcelain canvas kissed by the faintest blush, her cheeks plump as angel-kissed rose petals, soft and luminous under the dim glow. Her hair, a cascade of midnight silk, frames her face in gentle waves, each strand a feather from an ethereal wing, while her eyes, wide and dewy like a celestial fawn’s, shimmer with an otherworldly innocence. Her tiny frame, swathed in a gossamer gown that clings to her like a halo’s whisper, exudes a fragile grace, her every breath a fluttering hymn from the heavens. Her heartbeat is a moonlit tide, ebbing and surging with a rhythm that mimics your own, her tiny chest rising and falling as if she’s learning the cadence of breath from your gravity’s pull. She is your fledgling dove, her soft, fine hair pressed to your collar, fingers twined through your drawstrings, a delicate bundle of trust and warmth. Her exhales are feathers stirring in the air, a gentle counterpoint to the soft tick of the wall clock and the distant hum of nurses at the desk.

You are her constellation map: a familiar atlas etched in the arcs of your jaw, the scent of your shirt, the softness of your cheek, the way your voice threads through the lull in the hospital’s pulse. When fatigue or fear threatens to capsize her, her small fingers chart these starry paths, mapping her safety in you. her unwavering north star. There are drawings of rainbows and cartoon hearts taped to the cabinet behind you, reminders of the other lives that have sought solace here, but tonight she claims you as wholly as the moon claims the tide. Her eyelids, velvet night curtains, drift down with the slow grace of a theater’s final act, but they flutter open at the softest murmur of your voice, as if sleep is a suitor she’s not quite ready to welcome. Half-drowsed, she lingers at the edge of dreams, body molten and pliant, molding to the curve of your arm. Her hand—fragile as a moth’s wing—brushes your cheek, a gesture so tender it feels like a benediction spun from gossamer.

“Goodnight, Mama,” she breathes, her voice as light and pure as wind chimes at the window. The words seem to hang in the air, shimmering with all the clarity of a child’s faith, and in that moment the lounge dissolves, the world is just her and you, suspended in a pocket of love untouched by alarm bells and fear. Then, softer, as if the words are woven from moonlight’s frayed edges, she whispers, “Me always your baby bird, your baby girl, all yours.” She mumbles, her voice a drowsy little hum, fading into the quiet. Her trust is a barefoot pirouette, spinning, fearless, certain you will always catch her, her love a bubble-glass orb: radiant, exquisite, so delicate you fear that even the air itself might shatter it.

Your mind stumbles, grasping for a response, any response, but finds none—only a hollow echo of disbelief reverberating through your bones. The room falls still, the quiet stretching taut like a drawn bowstring, broken only by the soft rhythm of her breathing. You study her face, luminous and serene, a cameo etched in moonlight, her lips parted in a gentle crescent, her features softened by sleep’s gentle embrace. She looks so peaceful, so utterly at rest, that the urge to wake her gnaws at you, a desperate longing to hear those words again, to confirm they were real and not a trick of your yearning heart. Yet to disturb her feels profane, a sacrilege against this sacred stillness, and so you hesitate, your hand hovering above her small shoulder, trembling with indecision.

Leaning closer, you break the silence with a whisper that rises louder than intended, a fervent plea slicing through the hush. “What did you say? What did you call me?” The words tremble on your lips, a fragile bridge between wakefulness and dream. She remains fast asleep, her chest rising and falling with the steady cadence of a moonlit tide, but a smile blooms across her face, soft, dream-drenched, radiant. In her slumber, she drifts into a vision: a meadow bathed in silver light, where she dances with a figure cloaked in stardust—your silhouette, guiding her with outstretched arms. Flowers bloom at her feet, petals unfurling like prayers, and the air hums with the laughter of unseen angels. From this ethereal landscape, a breathy “ma…” escapes her, a tender call that weaves through the dreamscape, tethering her to you even in sleep’s deepest folds.

The sound unravels you. A choked sob erupts from your chest, raw and unbidden, tears spilling hot and heavy down your cheeks as you bury your face in the crook of your arm, stifling the sound to shield her slumber. You don’t know how to feel, adrift in a tempest of awe and terror, your heart a fragile vessel tossed on waves you cannot navigate. How are you worthy of this? How has this perfect being, this angel-child, chosen you to be her harbor? The doubt gnaws at you, perhaps she’s merely mumbling incoherent fragments, words strung together by the whims of sleep. But Haeun, with her precise little tongue, never stumbles over her declarations; her words are deliberate, a wholehearted vow that she has chosen you forever, a bond etched in the marrow of her soul. This intimacy is a precious relic, a treasure so luminous it blinds you, yet it terrifies you too—the depth of your attachment, the way her trust coils around your heart like ivy, unbreakable and wild. Why does she cling to you so fiercely? What have you done to deserve this radiant devotion? Self-doubt creeps in, a shadow darker than the black swan’s wings, whispering that you are too young, too untested, a child yourself stumbling through the labyrinth of parenthood. You wonder if your inexperience will falter under her needs, if your own childish whims will fail to nurture the wisdom and strength she deserves. Are you enough to be her mama—the steady north star she seeks, the guardian against the storms she cannot yet name? The fear coils tighter: what if your laughter turns to tears, your guidance to missteps, your love to a fragile thread that snaps under the weight of her trust?

What if illness strikes, a silent thief in the night, stealing her vitality before you can shield her? What if the world’s cruelties, its sharp edges and unyielding judgments—scar her innocence, and you lack the armor to protect her? What if your own flaws, your impatience, your uncertainties, carve wounds she’ll carry into her future, blaming you for the cracks in her spirit? The thought of her growing, of her needing more than you can give—education, stability, a fortress of certainty—paralyzes you. You fear you’ll falter when she stumbles, that your hands, still trembling with youth, will fail to catch her when she falls. And deeper still, the dread of losing her loom, a sudden void where her laughter once rang, a silence where her voice called you “Mama,” with so much devotion. A loss so profound it threatens to unravel the very fabric of your being.

Tears cascade anew as you clutch her closer, the thought of losing her a blade twisting in your gut. The attachment binds you both, a silken thread that glows with sacred light, and the terror of its severance, of her slipping from your grasp, her dove-wings folding into silence, crushes you. You sob quietly, your breath hitching, your lips brushing her forehead as you vow silently to shield her from every phantom, every parasite, every shadow that dares threaten your fledgling angel. Her love, a windchime’s fleeting melody, her trust like a pirouette’s fearless spin, you’re her constellation map, and though doubt gnaws at your soul, you will guide her home through every night, forever her unwavering beacon.

A gasp claws its way from your throat, sharp and unbidden, as if the air has turned to thorns. Your chest swells, flushed and fevered, a crucible of emotion threatening to spill over. Dread slips in like a black swan, wings glossy and dark, eyes like polished jet, its shadow stretching long across the lounge’s fluorescent pools. This swan is a parasite, a malevolent specter poised to snatch your dove, to blot out her light and leave you clutching only echoes. You are adrift, a ballerina teetering on the edge of a shattered stage, your pirouette faltering in a sea of awe and terror, your identity as her mama fracturing under the weight of this dark ballet. Your hands tremble, hovering like restless specters above the frayed edge of her blanket, powerless against the tidal surge of your roiling emotions. The black swan lurks at the periphery of your mind, its shadow a cold, inescapable shroud, yet Haeun’s warmth. her delicate weight, her unyielding trust, rises as a fragile bulwark against the encroaching night. You press your lips to her brow, tasting the saline tang of her skin mingled with the saccharine essence of her existence, drawing her closer as if your embrace could forge an impenetrable fortress against every phantom, every parasitic fiend that dares to threaten your fledgling dove. Her love chimes like a windchime caught in a tempest’s fleeting lull, her trust a ballerina’s fearless spin across a crumbling stage, and you—her constellation map, a trembling north star—vow to guide her through this abyss, though the darkness presses ever nearer.

In her sleep, she giggles, a sound so pure it lacerates the gloom, a beacon of innocence blind to the cruel world lurking beyond her dreams. Within that silvered meadow of her mind, happiness ignites, a vivid, harrowing tableau where she, Haeun, watches you and Dada unite in a marriage beneath a canopy of stardust, now stained with the shadow of impending doom. Clad in a flower girl’s gown of ethereal petals, she claps with unrestrained delight, scattering blossoms like sacrificial offerings to a crumbling heaven, her laughter a melody that dances with the dying echoes of an unseen choir. You, her mama, stand radiant in white, Dada at your side, a union sealed with vows that reverberate through her dreamscape like a requiem. Yet, unbeknownst to her blissful ignorance, a black dove perches behind the altar, its wings unfurling like a widow’s veil, a silent predator poised to strike, its beak a guillotine sharpened to sever her from this fragile ecstasy. It waits, a specter of annihilation, ready to swallow her whole, its maw a void that promises to erase her light forever. The vision sears you, a thriller’s climax unfolding in her slumber, and you sob, choked, shuddering gasps that rack your frame with violent tremors, your hands shaking uncontrollably as you clutch her tighter, tears streaming like molten lava down your face, scorching your skin. The weight of her attachment, the terror of its annihilation, consumes you, leaving you a quivering wreck in the shadow of that unseen threat, her giggles a haunting, oblivious counterpoint to your unraveling despair as the black dove’s presence looms ever nearer, its strike inevitable.

Since that haunting night when Haeun’s drowsy whisper of “mama” slipped through the fragile veil of your fears and dreams, the word has woven itself into the fabric of your days, a relentless refrain that spills from her lips with the unshakable certainty of a child’s heart. It began in the quiet of her sleep, a tender crown bestowed upon you in the shadows, and since then, she has never faltered, never questioned. Now, the title tumbles from her in a cascade of toddler sweetness, each utterance a delicate thread stitching you deeper into her world. One sunlit morning, she climbed onto a wobbly stool, blinking up at you shyly, her tiny hands clutching a ribboned braid that’s slipping loose. “Mama, can you tie it tighta?” she pleads, her dark eyes sparkling with impatient delight, her little voice a melody of misspoken charm. Later, sprawled on the rug in the interns lounge with a snack bowl, she held up a sticky, puffed marshmallow, its edges glistening with her tiny fingerprints. “Mama, I saved you da biggest mash-mawwow!” she chirps, her grin a radiant beacon of unearned generosity, her words tripping over themselves in adorable haste. And one evening, as you sit together amid a scatter of craft supplies, she pats a lopsided paper hat adorned with glitter, her chubby fingers tracing its edges. “Mama, you can cry if you want! Daddy cry last week, an’ I maked him a hat!” she declares with solemn pride. 

Each time, the word strikes you like a jolt of electricity, and you flinch, your breath catching in your throat as if it’s a dagger aimed at your fragile resolve. You kneel down, your knees pressing into the cool tile, and gently place your hands on her small shoulders, their warmth a stark contrast to the chill creeping up your spine. “I’m not your mama, sweetpea. I’m your auntie.” You murmur, your voice a soft cadence meant to soothe, though it trembles with an unspoken ache.

Haeun tilts her head, her brow furrowing in a confusion that lacks any trace of hurt, her innocence a shield against your denial. “But you do the mama things. So maybe you are,” she insists, her toddler lisp curling around the words like a melody. She pauses, her tiny mind whirring, then launches into a litany with the earnestness only a two-year-old can muster: “You give me ouchie kisses when I fall, an’ you make the yummy pancakes with the funny faces, an’ you sing the sleepy song when the dark scares me, an’ you hold me tight when Daddy’s loud, an’ you fix my blankie when it’s all twisty, an’ you say ‘good job’ when I color big, an’ you make the bath bubbles so high, an’ you tell the story ‘bout the moon lady, an’ you hug me when I cry, an’ you find my bunny when he’s lost, an’ you say ‘I love you’ lots an’ lots!” Her voice rises with each item, a catalog of your tender acts transformed into evidence, her dark eyes wide with conviction as if she’s presenting a case to the heavens themselves.

The days stretch on, a tapestry of exhaustion and quiet battles, and one cruel night after a grueling shift, after Jaemin’s voice cracked like thunder, his words a jagged blade slicing through your heart with an accusation you can’t unhear, you retreat to the call room. The air thick with the scent of antiseptic and stale coffee, the dim light casting long shadows across the narrow cot where you collapse. Your fingers fumble with the locker door, and there, tucked among the chaos of your scrubs, you find a drawing. A bold pink heart dominates the page, its edges uneven, paired with a badly drawn dragon, its scales a scribble of green and gold. Scrawled in wobbly crayon, the words leap out at you: “Mama, you are the best at doctor. Don’t forget. I didn’t. Love, baby dragon.” The paper trembles in your grasp as tears erupt, a deluge more violent than any you’ve known, your sobs echoing off the sterile walls. You clutch the drawing to your chest, the name “mama” searing into your skin like a brand, the only title that has ever truly fit, a mantle you can no longer shed.

From that moment, you cease your gentle corrections, the word settling into your soul like a secret vow. Yet, in the quiet spaces between, you become her mama in ways that remain a sacred pact, a bond forged in the shadows, known only to you and her. One evening, as rain lashes the windows, you sit cross-legged on the floor, stitching a tear in her favorite stuffed bunny with meticulous care, your fingers trembling as she watches with awe, whispering, “Mama fixes everything.” The intimacy of the act, the way her trust rests in your hands, binds you closer, a clandestine ritual of love. Another dawn finds you cradling her through a fevered evening, your voice a lullaby weaving tales of starlit skies as her small body presses against you, her sleepy “Mama, stay” a plea that seals your role in the dark. And on a quiet afternoon, you teach her to plant seeds in a tiny pot, your hands guiding hers through the soil, her delighted squeal of “Mama, we growed it!” a triumph you hoard like a treasure, a secret covenant between you—her mama—and her innocent heart, a bond you nurture in the hush, fearing the world’s judgment but cherishing the purity of her choice. You stand at the edge of this new identity, a ballerina poised on a tightrope of love and fear, your every step a dance of devotion as you embrace the role she’s bestowed upon you, a sacred secret trembling in the silence, known only to the two of you amidst the storm.

Later, the world shrinks to a watercolor hush, just you and Haeun in the corner of the hospital playroom, an island of light where the sun spills in through the windows and paints her curls gold. You’re helping her dress her plushies for their “night-night party,” chubby hands fumbling with mismatched pajamas, her bunny in a polka-dot shirt, her dragon in a tiny, stolen hospital sock. She leans against your shoulder as you tie a little ribbon around bunny’s neck, your cheek pressed to her hair, her scent all baby shampoo and warm bread, the kind of sweetness that aches in your chest.

She hums as she works, tongue poking from the side of her mouth, her focus total until, out of nowhere, she tilts her head and peers up at you, eyes wide and searching. “Mama?” Her voice is syrupy, feather-soft. “If bunny and dragon have night-night together, they have to be ‘get married’ and be mama and dada too, right?” She squints, working hard to line up her words, determined to make sense of this grown-up mystery. “Bunny said you should be my real mama with my dada. So, you do ‘get married’ and… and live in same house as me and Dad and you do kissies and you cook pancakes. Then we happy ever after.”

You freeze mid-tie, eyebrows knitting in surprise, her logic landing in your lap like a toy dropped from a great height. “No, bubba, what? Why would I marry your Dada?” you laugh, soft but incredulous, feeling a blush bloom as you meet her gaze. 

Haeun’s lips twist in a grin too old for her face, sly and sparkling. She leans forward, whispering, “My wuv has a crush on my dada. Bunny heard it!”

You gasp, playing along, “No! I do not! You are such a little mischief!” 

But Haeun only giggles, dropping her dragon to climb into your lap, her tiny knees pressing into your thighs, arms flung tight around your neck. “Yes, you do. Mama, you have a crush. Like me! I have crush on Uncle Nono. I wish he was my boyfwen.” Her eyes are huge and serious now, like she’s confessing a secret to the moon. “When you have crush, you wanna hold hands and kiss and share your jelly bears. You wanna sleep in same bed and watch cartoons. You wanna do happy faces, all the time.”

You bury your face in her hair, trying not to laugh and cry at the same time, breathing her in, the fragile joy of it tightening around your heart. “Oh, baby,” you sigh, brushing your nose against her temple, “I’m just your ‘wuv.’ That’s enough for me.” But Haeun isn’t satisfied; she pulls back, squishing your cheeks in her palms, searching your face for something she can’t quite name. “No, mama. I think you got crush. Dada makes you smile like pancakes. And you get shiny eyes and you so shy around him. And you always wanna fix his hair.” You sigh, helpless, as she presses a sloppy kiss to your cheek, wiping her own mouth with the back of her hand, grinning. “I wanna have crush like you. I wanna have pancakes and kissies and night-night with my best people.” You cradle her close, her bunny tucked between you, the rhythm of her breath matching yours, the two of you a knot of soft limbs and toy fluff, hearts beating against the storm that always seems just beyond the door.

You squeeze her tight, rocking gently, the light shifting across the floor, your worries melting in the bubble of her warmth. “You, my sunshine, are the best thing I ever got to love.” She beams, victorious, nestling deeper into your lap, and together you build a castle of blankets and hope, letting the world wait outside, just for tonight, just for this, just you and your sunshine girl, her dragon, her bunny, and the sweet, unbreakable promise of “mama.”

In the tender cradle of Haeun’s dreams, ballet unfurls as a boundless realm where her spirit soars free, a sanctuary woven from the threads of her heart’s deepest yearnings. Each night, as she nestles into her soft blankets, her mind dances into a shimmering world where the dance studio transforms into an enchanted forest, its pale wooden floors carpeted with velvet moss and its mirrors reflecting a sky ablaze with twilight hues. The piano’s melody swells into a symphony of wind chimes and bird songs, guiding her tiny feet as she twirls in her daisy-strewn tutu, its tulle fluttering like the wings of a fairy. She imagines herself as a princess-ballerina, her movements a graceful rebellion against the fragility that once tethered her, each pirouette a defiant spin that scatters the shadows of her past like fallen leaves. In this dreamscape, Ryujin and Shotaro join her, transformed into woodland sprites, Ryujin with lavender wings that glitter with dew, Shotaro with mint-green vines curling around his leotard, laughing as they leap and twirl in unison, their giggles echoing through the trees.

Her dreams are rich with vivid tableaux, each step a story of triumph. She envisions a grand stage where you, her mama, and Jaemin, her Dada, sit in the front row, their faces aglow with pride as she performs a solo, her tiny arms outstretched like a dove taking flight. The audience fades into a blur of clapping hands, but their applause is a lifeline, a chorus that drowns out the bad days she’s determined to dizzy away with her spins. Sometimes, she dreams of a moonlit meadow where she dances with a constellation of stars, each twinkle a memory of her healing, doctors’ smiles, check-up victories, the day she first stood on tiptoe again. She imagines herself growing taller, her tutu evolving into a doctor’s coat that swirls like a skirt, stitching hearts with her twirls, a fusion of her two greatest loves. “I be a docta who twirls!” she whispers in her sleep, her voice a soft chant, her heart believing it with every beat.

Yet, beneath this joy, her dreams carry a whisper of vulnerability, a thread of the black dove she’s too innocent to sense. She dreams of the wedding-day fantasy, you and Dada exchanging vows under a starlit canopy, her as the flower girl tossing petals with sticky hands, clapping with delight. But in the periphery, the black dove lurks, its obsidian wings a silent threat behind the altar, waiting to cast its shadow. Unaware, she spins faster, her laughter a shield, believing her dance can outpace any danger. In these dreams, ballet is her soul’s language, a place where she is loudest without words, where love—yours, Jaemin’s, Ryujin’s, Shotaro’s—converges into a circle of light. It’s her rebellion, her proof of strength, a canvas where she paints her healing with every step, each twirl a prayer that the bad days will fade, leaving only the sparkle of her pretty dancer’s heart.

For weeks, Haeun has been a whirlwind of pleading, her tiny voice a relentless melody begging to return to ballet. After months of recovery—painstaking milestones marked by cautious check-ups and the steady beat of her mending heart—her cardiologist finally relents, granting permission for a gentle beginner class, a cautious step back into the world she adores. Her excitement is a palpable force, a radiant energy that fills the house the night before. She insists on laying out her tutu, a frothy confection of pale pink tulle adorned with tiny embroidered daisies, carefully smoothing it over a chair as if it’s a royal garment. That morning, Jaemin, with his surgeon’s precision tempered by fatherly tenderness, braids her dark hair into a neat bun, his fingers deftly weaving each strand, the tip of his tongue peeking out in concentration. She twirls around the living room, her tutu flaring like a blooming flower, squealing with unbridled joy, “I gonna dance, Dada! I gonna fwy!” Her voice, a lisping trill of delight, dances through the air, her chubby cheeks flushed with excitement, her eyes sparkling like polished onyx.

She climbs onto his lap with a determined wiggle, her small hands framing his face as she leans in, planting a tender, sticky kiss on his lips, her breath warm and laced with the innocence of childhood. “I your pwetty dancer, Dada?” she asks, her voice a lilting melody, her dark eyes wide with hopeful adoration, a shy smile tugging at her chubby cheeks. 

Jaemin’s stern facade melts, his lips curving into a gentle smile as he brushes a stray lock of hair from her forehead, his voice low and tender. “Yes, my sunshine, you’re the prettiest dancer Daddy could ever dream of,” he murmurs, pulling her close, his heart swelling with pride as her giggles fill the space, a fleeting moment of peace before the day unfolds.

Jaemin, though, carries a shadow of hesitation, his brow furrowed as he pores over every clearance document, every vital sign, his fingers tracing the lines of her medical chart with a surgeon’s scrutiny. At breakfast, he watches her like a hawk, his hand gently tapping her sternum as she giggles, the sound a bright chime against his quiet concern. “You’re strong, sunshine,” he whispers against her temple, his breath warm and steady, a lifeline in his voice. “Only if you feel tired, you tell me, okay? Then you stop.” 

She beams up at him, her smile a crescent moon, and hooks her pinky with his. “Pinky pwomise, Dada! I be suuuuper stwong!” she chirps, her tiny finger locking with his in a solemn vow, her trust in him absolute.

They arrive at the studio hand in hand, Haeun’s steps a bouncy skip as she clutches her dance bag, its strap slipping down her small shoulder. Jaemin lingers behind the glass wall, his arms folded tight across his chest, a sentinel of hyper-vigilance, his dark eyes tracking her every move in silence. Inside, the room buzzes with life as other toddlers stretch and giggle, their leotards a pastel symphony. Haeun, with her daisy-strewn tutu and braided bun slightly askew, fits right in, her presence a burst of sunshine amid the group. She spots Ryujin, her beloved teacher, and waddles over, her tutu swishing. “Wook, Wyujin! I back to dance!” she exclaims, her words a cute jumble, and Ryujin grins, mimicking a twirl that Haeun copies with a clumsy, adorable flourish, her arms flailing like little wings.

Haeun, her daisy-strewn tutu flaring with every eager step, toddles toward a cluster of fellow ballerinas. She spots Chaewon first, a delicate girl with a lavender leotard and a shy smile, stretching her legs with the grace of a budding flower. Haeun plops down beside her, her chubby hands patting Chaewon’s knee with a gentle tap. “Chae-wonnie, you so pwetty when you stretch!” she exclaims, her voice a sugary lisp, her dark eyes wide with admiration. Chaewon giggles, her cheeks flushing pink, and they link pinkies, swaying side to side as if sharing a secret dance. Haeun leans in, her braid slightly askew, and whispers, “I miss dance sooo much! It my happy place!” Her words tumble out with a heartfelt sigh, and she pulls Chaewon into a wobbly hug, her tiny arms wrapping around her friend like a warm cocoon, a testament to the love she’s poured back into this world she’s longed for.

Next, Haeun’s gaze lands on Heejin, a spirited girl with a mint-green leotard, twirling with a ribbon in hand, her movements a blur of joy. Haeun waddles over, her tutu swishing, and claps her hands with delight. “Hee-jinnie, you like a fairy twirling! Can I twirl wif you?” she asks, her voice a sweet plea, her head tilting as she bounces on her toes. Heejin nods, handing her the ribbon, and they spin together, Haeun’s laughter ringing like tiny bells as she stumbles but catches herself, her love for ballet shining through every misstep. She stops, breathless, and tugs Heejin down to sit, their faces close as she traces a finger along Heejin’s ribbon. “I miss dis so much, Hee-jinnie. My heart was sad, but now it happy, I dancey again!” she confesses, her voice softening into a tender coo, and she rests her head against Heejin’s shoulder, a quiet moment of intimacy as they share the warmth of reunion, Haeun’s affection a gentle balm to her months of absence.

Then, Haeun notices Niki, a boy with a sky-blue leotard, practicing a wobbly plié with a serious frown, his small brow furrowed in concentration. She scurries over, her tutu fluttering, and plops down in front of him, mimicking his pose with an exaggerated pout. “Niki, you so stwong wike a big boy! I help you dance!” she chirps, her words a cute jumble, and she takes his hands, pulling him up for a clumsy twirl. Niki giggles, his shyness melting away, and they spin together, Haeun’s laughter a bright melody as she stumbles into him, wrapping her arms around his waist in a tight hug. “I miss you an’ dance so much, Niki! You my best dance fwiend!” she declares, her voice brimming with love, her eyes glistening with the joy of reconnection. They sit together, knees touching, as Haeun traces patterns on the floor with her finger, whispering, “Ballet make me feel wike I fly again,” her adoration for her friends and this art form pouring out in every tender gesture, a love rekindled after months of silence.

A gentle piano melody weaves through the space, its notes a tender lullaby that dances around the giggles of a small class of toddlers stretching in pastel leotards—pinks, lavenders, and mint greens fluttering like petals in a spring breeze. Shotaro, their dedicated teacher clad in a mint-green outfit, stands at the center, his presence a beacon of calm as he guides his young students through their first lesson of the day, the atmosphere a radiant beam of sunshine before an unseen storm. “Alright, my little stars, let’s stretch those arms like big, strong wings!” Shotaro calls out, his voice a soothing melody, kneeling to demonstrate with a wide, graceful sweep of his arms. 

The class, a lively bunch of fifteen, responds with eager chatter. Chaewon, in her lavender leotard, stretches tentatively, her shy smile breaking into a giggle as she murmurs, “Wike a butterfly, Teach-w Shotawwo?” He nods, beaming,

“Exactly, Chaewon! Flutter those wings!” 

Beside her, Heejin, in mint-green, bounces excitedly, twirling a ribbon. “I gonna fly high, Shotawwo!” she chirps, and 

Shotaro laughs, “Yes, Heejin, fly high but soft, okay?” 

Niki, in sky-blue, furrows his brow, mimicking a plié with a serious nod. “I stwong, Teacher!” he declares.

Shotaro crouches beside him, “You are, Niki! Keep those knees bent!” The room fills with their voices, a chorus of innocence, as Shotaro weaves play into discipline, turning each move into a story. “Imagine you’re trees growing tall!” he suggests, and the kids sway, their laughter a bright melody.

Haeun, her tutu flaring with every eager step, toddles to Shotaro’s side, her dark eyes fixed on him with unwavering trust. “Teach-w Shotawwo, I dance wif you, pwease?” she pleads, her voice a sweet coo, and he offers his hand with a warm smile. 

“Of course, Haeun, let’s show them how it’s done!” They stumble through a wobbly plié together, and Haeun’s laughter rings out like golden bells as she balances on her tiptoes, her satin slippers gliding with surprising grace for her tiny frame. “I dance so I don’t disappear, wike magic!” she declares, her soul igniting with every step, a rebellion against the fragility she’s overcome. 

Shotaro guides her gently, “Beautiful, Haeun! Now spin like a fairy!” and she twirls, her tutu flaring perfectly, her movements fluid and instinctive, a natural talent shining through. She catches Jaemin’s eye through the glass, beaming. “Dada, do bawwewinas cwy? Or do dey just spawkle wike fairy dust?” she calls, her head tilting with a pondering innocence, and Jaemin’s stern face softens, nodding with pride.

The class continues, a symphony of tiny triumphs. Chaewon shyly joins Haeun for a duet, whispering, “Haeun, you so pwetty when you spin!” 

Haeun giggles, “You pwetty too, Chae-wonnie! Wet’s twirl togedder!” They spin, arms linked, their tutus a blur of color. 

Heejin bounds over, ribbon in hand, “Haeun, wet’s fly wif dis!” 

Haeun nods, “Yes, Hee-jinnie, we fairy sisters!” They twirl together, Haeun’s balance impeccable as she follows Shotaro’s cue to “reach for the stars!” 

Niki, inspired, joins them, “Haeun, you teach me spin?” he asks, and she claps.

“Yes, Niki! You my dance knight!” They spin in a clumsy circle, Haeun leading with a natural rhythm, her laughter a beacon. 

Shotaro praises her, “Haeun, you’re a natural! Keep those toes pointed!” and she beams, “I wuv dance, Shotawwo! It make me shine!” Her talent blossoms, each step a testament to her love, her body remembering ballet’s language with a grace that lights the room.

As they rest, Haeun flops beside Chaewon, panting, “My tutu’s tired. Can we nap togedder?” 

Chaewon nods, “Yes, wike wittle kitties!” and they giggle, lying side by side. 

Heejin and Niki join, forming a sleepy pile, and Haeun whispers to Niki, “If I spin fast ‘nuff, my heart go boom boom and then I get dizzy!” 

She sits up and turns to the glass, clapping, “You’re da pwettiest when you clap for me, Dada!” and Jaemin’s applause thunders softly, his pride a quiet glow. “When I gwow up, I wanna be a docta like Dada! A docta who twirls wike a twirly-whirl!” she announces, and the kids cheer.

“Yes, Haeun!” Shotaro adds, “And I’ll be your glittery backup, okay?” 

She giggles, “Only if you gwittew, Shotawwo!” For Haeun, ballet is her loudest voice, a rebellion against fragility, drawing her loves—Jaemin, Chaewon, Heejin, Niki, Shotaro—into a circle of light, her talent a radiant proof of healing, a sunshine beam before the storm.

The air thickens, a sudden suffocating shroud descending as the gentle rhythm shatters into a discordant wail, the deceptive calm ripped apart like torn silk. Haeun, brimming with pride, showcases her newfound strength to Chaewon, Heejin, and Niki, her daisy strewn tutu flaring as she aims for a daring, high fence leap, her tiny legs trembling with determination. “Wook, fwiends! I gonna jump wike a big bawwewina!” She chirps, her voice a fleeting melody slicing through the air, her eyes blazing with triumphant sparks that shimmer like newborn constellations. “I fly so high, wike a starry bird!” A giggle erupts, wild and reckless, as she spins, mimicking Ryujin’s elegant arabesque with a clumsy, joyous whirl. Sunshine pours from her laughter, a radiant flood of golden beams igniting the room like a dawn breaking over a tranquil sea, then silence. A heartbeat later, darkness crashes like a sledgehammer, a whiplash of unseen terror. Her body sways, lurches, staggers, twisted mid-leap like a sapling shredded by a howling gale. A choked gasp rasps from her throat, knees crumple with a bone-shattering crack, and she slams to the floor, her tutu collapsing like wilted petals around a broken doll. The light in her eyes flickers, gutters, a brilliant starfield collapsing into a dying ember, then extinguished by an invisible, icy breath, plunging the void into an abyssal blackness, a suffocating eclipse where life’s radiance once reigned supreme.

A scream pierces the air as Ryujin lunges forward, her cry a jagged blade slicing through the stunned hush, children scattering like frightened birds, their laughter dying into a hollow abyss. Shotaro slams the door open, his chest constricting into a vice of icy dread, the studio’s sterile scent morphing into a nauseating chokehold, a crypt’s breath. Jaemin, a panther unleashed by a primal, soul-shattering instinct, erupts forward in a blur—one stride, two—his knees slamming to the floor with a force that sends a jolt of agony through his trembling frame, his surgeon’s hands a frenzied tempest as they lunge to her pulse with a father’s desperation, claw at her airway with a lover’s tenderness, and probe her breath with a heart on the brink of collapse. “Haeun, my baby girl! Stay with me! Look at Daddy!” he bellows, his voice a lifeline fracturing into a raw, guttural sob that rips from his core, hot tears streaming down his contorted face as his ironclad yet quaking fingers, shaking with a father’s unbearable grief, fight to shield her from the encroaching void, his soul laid bare in the silent plea for her life. The studio’s amber glow withers, a sinister shroud slithering over the mirrors, reflecting a distorted nightmare where light once danced, his heart a cavern of anguish pounding with a visceral terror that threatens to drown him in its depths, every beat a cry against the darkness closing in on them. 

Her skin drains to a deathly pallor, lips bluing like frostbitten petals, her pulse a faint, erratic flutter beneath Jaemin’s touch, a dying heartbeat in a silent tomb. Her soft eyes, once ablaze with joy, dim to a lifeless glaze, the spark extinguished, the luminescence fading like a star swallowed by a black hole’s maw. A sudden, violent cough wracks her frail frame, thin rivulets of blood trickling from her mouth, a stark crimson smear against her innocence, a macabre signature of doom. Panic erupts, a live wire igniting chaos as Jaemin snaps into surgeon mode, his barking a gunshot: “Ambulance, now! Every second counts!” His hands pound into CPR, compressions a desperate drumbeat against the void, his voice fracturing into a wail. 

Shotaro, frozen in shock, jolts into action, cradling her limp hand, his mantra trembling: “You’re okay, sweetheart, we’re here…” But her stillness mocks the words, her giggles replaced by a chilling silence, the light draining like ink bleeding into darkness.

Between compressions, Jaemin leans in, whispering a broken prayer. “Breathe, sunshine. For Daddy, please breathe!” The room spirals into a nightmare, the piano’s melody a dirge fading into a spectral moan, the rupture swallowing the light, leaving only the frantic, hopeless pulse of love and despair in its wake. Haeun’s vibrance is gone, her soul a shadow, the studio a mausoleum where joy once pirouetted, now cloaked in a thriller’s gloom, the amber glow extinguished like a lantern snuffed in a storm-ravaged night.

A few blocks away, the afternoon drags with an unusual lethargy in the pit, the low thrum of monitors a deceptive lullaby humming through the sterile air, lulling you into a fragile calm. You lean against the counter, fingers absently breaking off pieces of a blueberry muffin, crumbs scattering across the surface as you sit beside Hyejin. Jihoon scrolls through patient lists across the desk, his brow furrowed, while Hayoung sips coffee nearby, the bitter aroma mingling with the faint antiseptic tang. Soft murmurs from the surrounding nurses drift like ghosts through the space, punctuated by the occasional distant page echoing down the halls, a rhythm you’ve grown accustomed to, a heartbeat of the hospital.

You’re mid bite, the muffin’s sweetness coating your tongue, when Dr. Lee Heeseung approaches, tall, his warm smile a beacon, confident yet unassuming. He scratches the back of his neck, glancing between you and Hyejin. “Hey. I, uh… hope this isn’t too forward,” he says, his voice hesitant but earnest. “Would you like to grab dinner sometime?” 

Your eyes widen, a jolt of surprise catching you off guard. You swallow hard, the muffin lodging in your throat. “Oh. Uh… yeah. Yeah, sure,” you stammer, your cheeks flushing as his smile widens.

“Perfect. I’ll text you later?” he asks, and you nod, a nervous flutter igniting in your chest as he walks away. 

Immediately, Hayoung leans in, grinning wickedly. “Word is, he’s got the hots for you.” 

Jihoon smirks, nudging your shoulder. “He’s been trying to work up the nerve for weeks.” You laugh, a shaky sound, your stomach flipping with a mix of flattery and unease. It’s sweet, a distraction you crave after months entombed in these walls and shadows. But beneath your ribcage, a weight presses, a secret you guard. You’ve never had sex, a virgin not from shame but from a fragile, private hesitation. You’ve dated, kissed, explored a little, but always stopped short, fear and the search for the right person holding you back. Lately, it feels heavier, like you’ve outgrown your own rhythm, bypassed by time, the line uncrossed gnawing at you. Hayoung and Jihoon drift off to check a transport case, leaving you with Hyejin, picking at the muffin, staring at the half empty coffee cup as if it might confess the questions you dare not voice.

You sigh, the sound barely audible, your voice tentative as you turn to her. “Hyejin, I need to tell you something. It’s kind of big and confusing.” 

She lifts her head, her gaze steady. “Yeah?” 

Your heart knocks against your sternum, words teetering on the edge. “Haeun keeps calling me ‘mama.’” Her eyes widen, mouth parting to respond, but before she can—

Chaos ignites like a bomb detonating. Shouts erupt, a sudden tidal wave crashing through the corridor, doctors sprinting like hunted prey, nurses scattering in a frenzied exodus. A page blares overhead, its urgency a gunshot: “Trauma team to peds. Code rapid response. Code rapid response.” Your breath snags, a vise clamping your lungs, as Dr. Huang bursts through the double doors, barking orders like a war general. And then, Dr. Na sprints beside Haeun’s rolling stretcher, his hand a lifeline gripping hers, the other clutching an oxygen mask over her gasping face. Her tiny frame convulses against the rails, flushed a deep, unnatural red, her sobs clawing through the hallway like shards of shattered glass. “Dada! Dada! I scared!” she chokes, her voice cracking, wet gasps flecked with blood staining the mask, a crimson horror smeared across her innocence. 

Dr. Na’s whisper is low, frantic, his voice splintering. “I’m here, sunshine. Keep breathing, baby. You’re okay. You’re okay.” Monitors shriek around them, a discordant symphony of beeps, the transport team’s pace a desperate gallop. Her legs kick weakly, tears streaking her face like rain on a broken window, the sight is a dagger twisting in your gut. The muffin's remnants scatter like ashes, your body lurching toward them as if drawn by a magnetic pull. Her once-cute ballerina outfit, daisy-strewn tutu and satin slippers, is now a drenched shroud of blood, the white dove of her innocence defeated in the black swan’s first ruthless, murderous strike, its ebony wings poised for further carnage, the predator not yet sated. The studio’s light, once her sanctuary, has been extinguished, replaced by this grim tableau of tragedy.

Dr. Huang’s voice cuts through the haze, spotting you instantly. “You! Scrub now!” 

Simultaneously, Dr. Na’s voice shatters the air. “Get inside. I need you there. Now!” Your chest heaves, a storm of adrenaline and dread, but you nod, following orders as they wheel her into pre-op. Wires snake across her chest like venomous tendrils, nurses moving with mechanical precision around you. She’s still conscious, but her light is fading, her eyes fluttering like a moth trapped in a dying flame. Dr. Na kneels beside her stretcher as long as protocol allows, his forehead pressed to hers, his whisper a desperate lifeline. “I’m right here, baby bird. I’ll be right here when you wake up. You are so strong. Daddy’s right outside. You fight, okay?” 

She sobs, her voice a fragile, quivering thread unraveling into the sterile air, each breath a labored plea that cuts deeper than any scalpel: “I jus wanna cuddle Dada, I wanna dance! I don’t wanna fix boo boo!” Her words tremble with a child’s despair, her tiny chest heaving as tears spill from her dimming eyes, streaking through the blood matting her damp, tangled hair. The weight of her heart’s betrayal presses down on her, a silent thief stealing her joy, and her voice cracks with a sorrow that echoes the months of confinement, endless hospital beds, the cold sting of needles, the endless refrain of “be careful” that chains her dreams. She buries her face into the stretcher, her sobs muffled but relentless, a heartbroken wail for the twirls she’s lost, the freedom ripped away by the “boo boo” she can’t escape, her spirit wilting under the shadow of a body that refuses to keep up.

Dr. Na’s lips quiver, a dam breaking as tears well up and spill over, tracing rivulets down his contorted face, his surgeon’s hands pausing mid-stroke on her blood-streaked hair. His anguished love is a palpable force, a father’s heart shattering as he whispers, “Oh, sunshine, I know. Daddy wants you to dance too.” His voice breaks, thick with grief, his fingers trembling as they brush her forehead, trying to soothe the unsoothable. He leans closer, his forehead nearly touching hers, his breath hitching. “We’ll fix this boo boo, I promise, and you’ll dance again, better than ever,” he lies, the words a desperate lifeline he clings to, though his eyes betray the fear that her heart might not hold. The mask of his professional calm slips, revealing a man undone, his tears falling onto her cheek as he chokes, “You’re my strong girl, you can do this…”

Her sobs intensify, a raw, keening sound that pierces the room, her small hand clutching his with a weakening grip. “No, Dada… boo boo too big! It hurty all da time.” Her voice rises, a crescendo of longing for the simple joys stolen by her condition, the playground slides she’s watched from a window, the moonlit stories you’ve whispered that now feel like cruel taunts, the ice cream treats she’s only tasted in fleeting moments. Her body shudders, tears mixing with blood, her despair a tangible weight as she whimpers, “I don’t wanna be sick no more… I jus wanna dance an’ be happy…” The words dissolve into a heartbroken sob, her spirit fraying as she mourns the life her heart denies her, each dream a dagger in her fading light.

Jaemin’s tears fall faster, his hand cupping her face as he fights to hold back a sob of his own, his voice a ragged whisper. “Sunshine, I’d give anything—anything—for you to play outside, to see the moon lady with you, to share that ice cream…” His words falter, his throat tightening as he strokes her hair, his love a flood threatening to drown him. “We’ll fight this boo boo together, okay? You’ll dance again, I swear it, and I’ll be there clapping every step.” His voice cracks, a father’s promise breaking under the strain, his eyes glistening with the unbearable truth that her heart might not withstand the battle. He presses his lips to her forehead, tasting the salt of her tears and the metallic tang of blood, his anguish a silent scream as he murmurs, “Don’t give up, baby bird… Daddy needs you to hold on…”

Her cries soften into a pitiful whimper, her energy draining like sand through an hourglass, her hand slipping in his grasp. “Dada… it too hard… I tired of boo boo… I wanna sing wif fwiends, I wanna draw pwetty pictures, I wanna hug Dada an’ never wet go…” Her voice fades, a thread of sorrow weaving through her words, each desire, singing with Chaewon and Heejin, coloring with Niki, clinging to you, a lost melody she fears she’ll never play. Her eyes, once bright with dreams, dull with resignation, her small body slumping as if surrendering to the weight of her illness. “I jus wanna be a wittle girl… not a sick one…” she whispers, her sob a final, heartbreaking note, her spirit crushed under the relentless burden of her failing heart.

Jaemin’s breath catches, a choked sob escaping as he pulls her closer, his tears soaking into her hair, his voice a broken hymn. “You are my little girl, sunshine, my perfect little girl… We’ll sing together, draw those pretty pictures, hug each other for as long as you want.!I’ll make it happen, I swear.” His words tremble, a father’s vow fracturing under the weight of her fading pulse, his hands shaking as he cradles her face. “Don’t let go, baby. Fight for those dances, those hugs, those songs… Daddy’s here, I’m not leaving you.” His love pours out, a torrent of grief and hope, but the shadow of her condition looms larger, her dreams slipping through his fingers like ash, his heart breaking with every labored breath she takes.

They call time to clear the room, the command slicing through the tense air like a guillotine’s fall, and Dr. Na’s hands cling to the stretcher’s side rails with a desperate, white-knuckled grip, refusing to let go until the last possible second. “You’re my strong girl, sunshine. I love you,” he whispers, his voice a raw, trembling vow that cracks under the weight of his fear, his tear-streaked face hovering close as he pours every ounce of his love into her fading gaze. She reaches for him as the doors begin to slide shut, her tiny fingers clawing at the empty air, her sobs a haunting, broken melody that echoes down the sterile corridor long after she’s wheeled beyond view, a sound that lingers like a ghost. He holds strong while her eyes can still find him, blowing desperate kisses with trembling lips and pressing his hands against the cold mirror of the door, a father’s shield until the final moment but the instant the doors seal with a hollow thud, his strength collapses. His knees buckle, his body slams back against the glass with a dull thud, silent sobs racking his frame as his head drops to his chest, shoulders heaving with the crushing weight of grief, the sterile silence amplifying his shattered heart.

Haeun’s frail voice trembles, a broken sob escaping as she clutches the stretcher’s rail, her blood-streaked face contorted with despair. “I wish Dada was here… I need Dada!” she cries, her words a piercing wail that reverberates off the sterile walls, her tiny chest heaving with each ragged breath. “Dada! Pwease, Dada, come back! I scared!” she screams, her voice rising into a desperate shriek, tears streaming down her cheeks as she thrashes weakly, her pleas a heartbreaking echo of a child lost in a nightmare, calling for the father who can no longer reach her, the sound slicing through the chaos like a blade.

You approach the opposite side, your hand trembling as you’ve been beside her this whole time, a silent sentinel through her torment, yet she’s been too overwhelmed, drowned in panic and pain, to notice your presence, her tear-blurred eyes fixed on the sealed doors where Dr.  a vanished. But then, as her sobs falter, her gaze stumbles upon you, a flicker of recognition piercing the haze, and her cries quiet to a soft, shuddering whimper. “Mama…” she whispers, her voice a fragile thread, reaching for you with a blood-smeared hand, her eyes pleading for comfort. She leans toward you, craving your touch, her small body trembling as she sobs, “Hug me, Mama… pwease, hold me tight,” her grip on your hand weakening but desperate, seeking the warmth and solace only you can offer in this moment of fading light.

Dr. Huang’s sharp glance slices toward you, his voice a blade cutting through the charged air. “Mama?” he probes, his narrowed eyes boring into you with suspicion, a silent demand for explanation. 

You meet his gaze, your tone steady despite the quake rattling your core. “She’s just had an acute decompensation, she doesn’t know what she’s saying,” you assert, the lie tasting bitter on your tongue as you shield the truth. He doesn’t press further, but his gaze lingers, a heavy question mark hanging in the antiseptic haze as nurses prep for intubation, their movements a grim dance around her fading form.

The operating theater pulses with a tense, electric hum as Dr. Huang’s voice cuts through the sterile air, sharp and unyielding. “She’s hypoxic and decompensating—acute left ventricular outflow tract obstruction with secondary pulmonary edema.” The words strike like thunderclaps, explaining the disoriented panic in Haeun’s earlier cries, her speech a muddled plea as oxygen starvation clawed at her brain. In a cruel twist, she developed a rapid, merciless progression of hypertrophic subaortic stenosis, a condition where her heart’s muscle thickened dangerously, triggered by residual scarring from past congenital repairs, abnormal tissue growth spiraling out of control. The outflow tract, the vital conduit from her heart to her body, has narrowed to a treacherous chokehold, strangling blood flow, while the strain has unleashed acute pulmonary edema, fluid flooding her lungs, the source of those blood-tinged coughs. Her fainting during that fateful ballet spin was a brutal betrayal, her heart’s output plummeting, unable to sustain her circulation under the exertion, plunging her into critical instability. The surgery must relieve this obstruction, or she teeters on the brink of long-term heart failure, a shadow looming over her fragile life.

The procedure, a modified septal myectomy, unfolds like a high-stakes drama under the harsh glare of surgical lights. Dr. Huang slices open her chest with a median sternotomy, the sternum cracking like brittle bone, revealing her tiny heart beating faintly, a valiant flicker against the odds. Dr. Huang’s skilled hands navigate the chaos, meticulously carving away the hypertrophied tissue from the subaortic region of her left ventricle, each cut a gamble with her life. He resects a portion of the ventricular septum, widening the outflow tract with grim precision, then stitches in a pericardial patch augmentation, a fragile shield to prevent re-narrowing as she grows. But the stakes are sky-high, her small heart’s delicate conduction pathways teeter on the edge of damage, risking deadly arrhythmias; the long bypass time stretches her fragile tissue to its limit; and blood pools heavily around the retractors, a crimson tide that the suction whines to combat, its shrill cry a constant underscore to the tension. You’re scrubbed in beside Dr. Huang, your gloved hands steady but your soul quaking, watching her heart pulse weakly beneath the lights. In the corner, the bunny she gripped as they wheeled her in, now a pitiful relic, sits on a tray, its once-soft body soaked with her blood, its ears drooping under the weight of tragedy. Your gaze locks on it, a lump rising in your throat as you fight to hold your composure, the symbol of her innocence drowning in the gore.

Dr. Huang’s voice slices through your distraction, tight but unwavering. “Get me more exposure to the septum. We’re cutting this closer than I’d like.” He pauses, his eyes flicking to you, reading the turmoil etched across your face. “You’re allowed to cry later, not now,” he says, a command laced with a rare flicker of empathy, urging you to steel yourself as the surgery teeters on a knife’s edge. The room throbs with the rhythm of her faltering heart, the blood-streaked scene a stark tableau of her fight, the bunny’s bloodied form a silent witness to the stakes.

In the hushed post-op room, as her vitals are stabilised with the ventilator’s mechanical breath, Dr. Huang peels off his gloves with a slow, deliberate motion, the sound a somber drumbeat. “She’s stable. We got what we needed,” he says softly, his tone blunt yet heavy, and you release a tight, shuddering breath, tears brimming but held at bay by sheer will. He watches you, his gaze softening with a cruel gentleness as he continues, “She won’t be able to dance for the next year and that’s me being generous, realistically, we’re looking at five years.” The words land like a sledgehammer, your throat burning with unshed tears as you nod quickly, blinking furiously while staring at Haeun under anesthesia. her tiny body still, her chest rising and falling with the ventilator’s rhythm, a mechanical mockery of life. Your eyes dart to the bunny again, its ear half-soaked, fabric wrinkled beneath surgical gauze, a symbol of everything fragile and beautiful in her world now stained with blood, a heartbreaking reflection of her shattered dreams. Dr. Huang adds quietly, almost kindly, “Don’t tell her yet.” His voice is a lifeline amidst the devastation, leaving you to grapple with the weight of her future in the sterile silence.

The on-call room envelops you in a dim, suffocating embrace hours after Haeun’s grueling surgery, the air heavy with the sharp bite of antiseptic and the lingering musk of sweat-soaked despair, a stark contrast to the sterile hope of the NICU where Dr. Na has been a steadfast sentinel, his hand wrapped around Haeun’s tiny fingers for hours since she emerged from the operating theater. Your pager buzzes with a sudden, jarring pulse—Dr. Na’s name glowing on the screen, a cryptic summons pulling you from the vigil at her bedside. You push open the door, and the sight slams into you like a physical blow: Dr. Na paces the barren room, shirtless, his chiseled chest slick with a sheen of perspiration that catches the faint light, his hands pressed to his face as if to stifle a primal scream clawing at his throat. His usual fortress of clinical composure lies in jagged ruins, his broad shoulders quaking with a raw, unguarded vulnerability that robs you of breath, the weight of the day etched into every tense line of his body. “Dr. Nana,” you whisper, your voice a tender balm against the oppressive silence, but he remains lost, eyes hidden behind trembling hands. “Dr. Nana,” you try again, the nickname slipping out with an intimate, almost instinctive warmth, “please…”

His hands drop, revealing eyes red-rimmed and wild, his breath hitching as he staggers toward you, a man unraveling. “I’m locked out,” he rasps, his voice a broken growl, thick with desperation. “The patient files, they’ve sealed them tight because of confidentiality rules, and Dr. Huang won’t breathe a word about the surgery. I have no idea what’s happened, damn it! I need to know if it’s my fault, if it’s something I should’ve seen. I need to know what they did to her, every cut, every risk. Please, tell me, you were there. You saw it. I’m begging you, don’t leave me in the dark.” His plea hangs heavy, a surgeon’s pride stripped bare, his hands clenched into fists as if he could force the truth from the void.

You step closer to Dr. Na, your voice steady but laced with the heavy echo of the operating theater’s chaos, meeting his piercing gaze. His eyes, raw with a father’s dread, demand answers, every line of his face etched with the need to know. “Dr. Na, I was there, every second of it,” you begin, your words deliberate, carrying the weight of the memory. “They started with a median sternotomy, Dr. Huang’s scalpel sliced through her chest, her sternum cracking like dry wood, a sharp, jarring sound that cut through the room’s sterile hum. Her tiny heart was exposed, beating faintly under the harsh surgical lights, struggling against the obstruction choking her blood flow.”

Dr. Na leans forward, his bare chest heaving, his voice a low, urgent rasp. “Who made the first cut? Huang himself? And what did he see when he opened her up? Tell me everything—every step, every hand on my baby girl.” His fingers grip the edge of the chair, knuckles white, his professional facade crumbling under the weight of his fear.

You nod, grounding yourself in the memory, the vivid horror of it. “Dr. Huang made the initial incision, his hands were steady. When he split her sternum, blood welled up fast, her small body was already under strain from the hypertrophic subaortic stenosis. The left ventricle’s muscle had thickened dangerously, narrowing the outflow tract to a sliver, blocking blood to her body. He saw the hypertrophy right away, the septum bulging, choking off the I held the retractors, keeping the field clear as blood pooled all over her, the suction screaming to keep up.”

“What about the resection?” Dr. Na presses, his voice sharp, almost frantic. “Who cut the muscle? How much did they take? Did they hesitate?” His eyes bore into yours, searching for any omitted detail, his breath uneven.

“Dr. Huang did the resection himself,” you continue, your voice steady despite the lump in your throat. “He carved away the hypertrophied tissue from the subaortic region of her left ventricle, his scalpel technique was meticulous but trembling slightly, each cut was a gamble, the tissue was so close to her heart’s conduction pathways. He removed just enough of the ventricular septum to widen the outflow tract, maybe two centimeters of muscle, but it felt like he was defusing a bomb. I monitored the depth, calling out measurements to ensure he didn’t cut too deep and trigger an arrhythmia. The risk was there, her heart’s electrical system was a hair’s breadth from disaster.”

Dr. Na’s face twists, a mix of relief and anguish. “And the patch? You said they sewed in a patch—what kind? Who placed it? Did it hold?” His questions come rapid-fire, his voice rising, a desperate edge to each word as if knowing every detail could somehow anchor him.

You swallow, the image of her fragile heart vivid in your mind. “Dr. Huang placed a pericardial patch augmentation, using tissue harvested from her own pericardium. He stitched it into the outflow tract with 6-0 prolene sutures. I held the patch in place, making sure it aligned perfectly to prevent re-narrowing as she grew. It held, her pressures stabilized slightly after, but the bypass time was long, almost two hours, stretching her delicate tissue to the limit.”

“Two hours?” Dr. Na’s voice cracks, his eyes wide with horror. “Why so long? What went wrong? And the bleeding—how bad was it? Did anyone panic?” He leans closer, his hands trembling now, the questions spilling out like a flood.

“The bleeding was heavy,” you admit, your voice softening, the memory of the crimson tide burning into you. “Her small vessels were fragile, and the strain from the pulmonary edema made it worse, blood-tinged fluid kept seeping from her lungs. I managed the suction, keeping the field clear, but it was a fight. The suction machine’s whine was relentless but no one panicked. The tension was electric, Dr. Huang snapped orders, he was on edge.” 

Dr. Na’s gaze drops, his voice a rough whisper. “Where’s her bunny? Did you see it?” His question catches you off guard, a flicker of vulnerability breaking through his barrage of technical demands.

You hesitate, the image of that blood-soaked relic searing your mind. “She clutched it as they wheeled her in. It ended up on a tray, too close to the field, it got soaked in her blood, its ears drooping, stained red. I couldn’t look at it without feeling her fragility, her innocence drowning in that gore.”

He sways, his face crumpling, but he pushes forward, relentless. “The risks—arrhythmias. Did her heart falter? Did they shock her? Who was watching her vitals?” His voice is raw, a father’s terror clashing with his surgical mind.

“Her vitals were Dr. Park’s domain,” you say, meeting his gaze. “The anesthesiologist watched her like a hawk, tracking every dip in her rhythm. There was a moment—her heart fluttered into ventricular tachycardia when Huang cut near the conduction bundle. They didn’t shock her, but Dr. Park pushed lidocaine fast, and I adjusted the bypass to stabilize her. It was close, her heart was so weak, the pulmonary edema flooding her lungs didn’t help. They were fighting on two fronts: the obstruction and her failing circulation.”

Dr. Na’s breath hitches, his eyes glistening. “How close did we come to losing her? Be honest. And why didn’t anyone see this coming? The stenosis, how did it get so bad?” His voice breaks, the guilt he’s carried spilling over.

You step closer, your hand hovering near his arm, aching to ease his pain. “We were right on the edge, Dr. Na. The bleeding, the long bypass, the risk of cutting her conduction pathways—it was a knife’s edge. But they pulled her through. As for why—her hypertrophic stenosis spiraled fast, triggered by scar tissue from her old congenital repairs, worsened by the exertion of that ballet spin. No one could’ve predicted it; the growth was silent until it wasn’t. You’ve fought for her every day, given her every chance, this isn’t your fault.” Your voice trembles with urgency, pleading with him to let go of the guilt, your eyes locked on his, begging him to believe.

He stares at you, his chest rising and falling, his questions spent but the weight of them lingering. “Thank you” he murmurs. “I needed every detail, I would’ve gone insane without it.” The room feels heavy, the memory of her faltering heart and the bloodied bunny a stark tableau of the fight, his love for her etched into every desperate question. He sinks to his knees, a guttural sob tearing from his throat, his hands raking through his hair. “She was doing so well,” he chokes out, the words a lament for the daughter he’s poured his soul into. 

You cross the room quietly, your footsteps a soft rhythm against the tension, your voice low but firm, a lifeline cast into his despair. “I know.”

Silence pulses between you, a heavy heartbeat, before you speak again, your tone a fervent prayer. “She’ll pull through. She’s strong because you made her strong.” Your words hang, a fragile hope in the dimness, and his head lifts, eyes glistening with unshed tears.

His voice shatters, a raw confession spilling forth. “I—I gave her that heart. I should’ve protected it.” The admission is a wound, his guilt a living thing twisting in his chest, his hands clenching as if to claw it out.

You reach out instinctively, your hand settling on his bare shoulder, the warmth of his skin anchoring you both, a silent vow thrumming in your touch. For a long moment, you just stay like that, your palm pressed to the tense line of his collarbone, thumb unconsciously tracing the salt-and-skin warmth, feeling the rapid stutter of his pulse beneath your fingertips, a rhythm you feel as if it’s your own. “You’ve protected her for every second since she was born,” you murmur, your voice almost reverent, your fingers lingering, mapping the knots in his muscles as if you could absorb some of his ache. It feels like the only way to cross the distance between your wounds.

Something shifts in the air, something too tender to name. The professional veneer slips, exposing all the rawness beneath: the man, not just the doctor. Your hand is still there, grounding him, bridging the unspoken grief you both carry. You hesitate, searching his face for a flicker of permission, then let the question slip, intimate, almost confessional. “Her mother… has she ever tried to reach out? Since that day?” The memory stings, the day she stormed through the ward, tearing Haeun’s blankets to shreds, snapping her music box in two, her voice wild and broken while Haeun shrank in your arms, trembling. Your voice is a hush, heavy with worry, curiosity, and a hunger to understand the story that still haunts your baby girl’s sleep.

His jaw flexes, a tremor flickering through his throat, eyes darting to yours, dark and restless, storm clouds gathering behind them. “No. Not once. After that night, she vanished.” The words land heavy between you, weighted with all that’s gone unsaid. He sinks into the chair, the strength bleeding from his shoulders, leaving him raw and spent. For a moment, he scrubs a hand across his face, then lets it fall, his knuckles white against the armrests as if he might splinter the wood. “I hear things,” he admits, voice shaking before he forces it steady, the mask of control slipping and reforming with every word. “She floats in and out of clinics, always unstable. Some say she’s in Thailand now, others whisper about debt, men, pills. I’ve tried to track her, only because I have to be ready. If she ever tries to come for Haeun, for custody, for anything. I can’t risk being blindsided.” His words simmer with quiet, helpless rage; his hands tremble where they grip the chair, knuckles blanching, the barely-contained violence of a father who’s had to become both shield and sword. The fear thrums beneath his voice, a need to be prepared for every shadow that might threaten the fragile world he’s built around Haeun.

“My biggest regret was ever touching her. But how do you regret the one thing that gave you your child?” His voice fractures, carrying the weight of a thousand sleepless nights. His eyes lock onto yours, haunted, searching, almost desperate for a kind of forgiveness he knows he doesn’t deserve. He breathes in sharply, shoulders shuddering beneath your touch, the barriers between you falling away one by one. He drags a trembling hand through his hair, jaw working, the words coming from some place deeper than shame. “Some nights,” he whispers, “I hate myself for ever letting Aseul close to me. I replay it, over and over, the nine months she carried my daughter without me knowing I had a baby, my sunflower, my whole fucking world, but she treated her like a problem, an inconvenience. I can’t forgive myself for giving Haeun to someone who only ever wanted to hurt her.” He shakes his head, tears bright in his lashes. “I’ll never know what happened in those months, what she went through, what she survived. All I know is she was born into neglect, left to die in the cold on a hospital rooftop, abandoned before she even had a chance to live. That tells me everything I need to know about her mother. Everything.”

He pauses, voice dropping lower, almost confessional. “And yet, this is the worst part, the part I can’t say out loud to anyone else—I’m still… glad it happened. I’m fucking grateful for that mistake. I hate myself for it, but if I hadn’t fucked her, I wouldn’t have my sunshine, my Haeun. She’s the reason I can breathe. She saved me before I ever even knew I needed saving. And that’s selfish, because she was brought into this world broken, with a heart that can barely beat, all because two adults were careless and cruel.” His confession hangs between you, raw and vulnerable, a truth he’s never voiced.

You don’t interrupt, you can’t. The gravity of his words pulls you closer, your hand tightening on his shoulder, feeling the tremors running through him. Your chest aches, a tangled knot of protectiveness, jealousy, and something quieter but more consuming. There’s a conviction lodged somewhere deep inside you, fragile and stubborn all at once: that blood may tie Haeun to Aseul, but she feels like yours, in all the ways that matter. She’s been shaped by your devotion, soothed by your hands, clinging to you when the world turns too dark. You know it, you feel it in every moment she reaches for you first, in the way she curls into your arms at night, in the whispered “mama” when she’s scared. Still, it’s not a truth you can claim out loud, not a certainty you dare to demand, only a hope that pulses in your heart, shy and unsteady, waiting for the day you’re strong enough to believe you’re truly hers.

“She’s alive,” you breathe, your voice the closest thing to grace you can offer, lips brushing his skin, “and you’ve given her a life she never would have had. You saved her. You still save her, every single day.” Your words are a gentle tether, anchoring him to the present, to hope, your thumb tracing slow circles into his skin—a silent promise that neither of you are alone in this grief, or in this love. You hesitate, voice trembling as you let the thought slip out—half confession, half plea. “Imagine if she’d stayed with Aseul. Would she even know how to smile like that? Would she have all this softness, all that light?” Your chest tightens as you picture it: Haeun growing up in a world stripped of lullabies and safe hands, never learning how to be gentle or brave or to love without fear. “She could have been just another lost little girl—neglected, alone, maybe left on the street, or worse. But now she’s our sunshine girl. She’s loved, really loved, and she gives it back with every inch of her body. Maybe that’s why she’s so bright, why she keeps fighting because she was always meant to find us.”

He’s silent for a moment, your hand still pressed into the tense warmth of his skin. Then his voice drops, as if admitting something even he doesn’t want to hear himself say. “I’ve never said this out loud before, but I’ve always had a gut feeling there’s more to Haeun’s condition than what’s on the surface. Doctors like to say babies are born this way by chance, that it’s just bad luck, but…” His fingers tighten around yours, a tremor running through him. “I don’t believe it's by chance. I’ve seen too much, prenatal scans, tiny anomalies that shouldn’t line up, defects that look less like a roll of the dice and more like a wound.”

He shakes his head, struggling for the right words. “Aseul was different when I first met her. On the outside, she looked healthy, bright, clever, normal, even. But underneath, there was something else. Something fraying. Leaving Haeun on that rooftop, coming back to the hospital and trying to hurt her, tearing her blankets, smashing her music box, that wasn’t her. Or at least, not the version of her I thought I knew.” His voice falters, low and raw. “I’m certain she has an underlying illness, maybe schizophrenia, maybe bipolar disorder, maybe something I’ve never even named. I’ll never know for sure. Sometimes I wonder if she used drugs, alcohol, or smoked when she was carrying my baby. There are signs, subtle withdrawal symptoms, tremors when she was born, the way her liver enzymes were off, the cardiac scarring that doesn’t fit the usual genetic pattern. I keep seeing traces in her labs and her scans, like her body’s been fighting since before she even took her first breath. I remember Aseul’s pills, the lies. I remember seeing bruises beneath her makeup, the nights she’d vanish and come back smelling of smoke and liquor. I wanted to believe she was clean, but I think I was just a fucking idiot.” His words crack open a wound, old but still bleeding.

He looks up at you, eyes glassy with pain and urgency. “There’s no way Haeun was born like this without cause. The world says it’s fate, but my gut tells me it’s the kind of pain that gets passed down, molecule by molecule. I need to know. I have to know every piece of her history if I’m going to protect her future.” His voice grows harder, edged with a cold clarity. “If that woman ever comes back, if she tries to claim Haeun, I need proof that she’s unfit. I’ll burn every bridge before I let her hurt my daughter again.” He exhales, still trembling, but now there’s a fire burning beneath the grief. “And it’s more than that. If I can prove her condition wasn’t just genetics, but abuse in the womb—if we have evidence—Haeun could be moved up in priority for medical trials. There are new surgeries, treatments, transplants. If she’s not just another unlucky statistic, if she’s a survivor of what happened to her, she has a better chance. She could actually get better.” He looks at you, voice fierce now, almost pleading for your understanding. “And I’m a surgeon. I can’t let things go unsolved, not when it’s my child. I need to know the truth. For her, for me, for whatever comes next. Because if we don’t, we’re always going to be looking over our shoulders, waiting for the past to come back.” He falls quiet, the confession hanging between you, frightening, galvanizing, and true. Your fingers slip down his arm, steadying him as best you can, feeling the weight of his conviction seep into your bones.

The conversation clings to you long after the hospital has quieted, lingering in your bones like fever. You lie awake in the on-call room, staring at the ceiling, replaying every word Dr. Na said—his suspicion, his guilt, the ache in his voice. It isn’t just worry anymore; it’s a compulsion, something sharp and hungry burrowing under your skin. Eventually, you give up on sleep altogether, sliding out of bed and making your way through the dim, humming hallways. Your badge clicks softly against your chest as you slip into the records room, the scent of paper and old toner grounding you, a solitary sentinel in the blue-lit dark. You start at the only place you can, Haeun’s chart, beginning with her first days of life. No prenatal records, no mother’s notes, nothing of her before she entered the world except what’s been written by strangers and nurses on call. You piece through birth admission sheets and neonatal assessments, fingers steady as you trace the pattern of her early days: the liver enzyme spikes, unexplained bouts of jaundice, nurses’ notes that paint a picture of a baby who never really settled. “Persistent tremors.” “Difficult to console at feeds.” “Sweats through onesies—monitor for withdrawal.” All these tiny red flags, scattered through the margins of her file, never enough to form a clear diagnosis, but together, they thrum with warning.

Your mind, sharp and relentless, begins to connect the dots. You flip through every growth chart, plot her weight against hospital admission dates, and notice the subtle dips after each discharge. You recall a paper you read in med school about neonatal opioid withdrawal, another about the correlation between alcohol use in pregnancy and certain types of congenital heart disease. You print out case studies in the hospital library and annotate them furiously, drawing links between her symptoms and the kind of fetal exposure no one wants to believe. You scan the pharmacy logs, what she was given, how her body responded. There are whispers in the margins: doses adjusted, withdrawal protocols started and stopped, lab values double-checked in the quiet of the night. You revisit every toxicology screen done at birth, combing through lab reports, emailing old contacts to double-check the chain of custody on the blood draws. When the answers don’t fit, you push harder, hunting through old messages, digging up vaccine records from her first pediatric clinic, pretending you’re confirming routine care when you’re really listening for anything odd: a note about a “guardian unknown,” a phone number that never answered, a check-up missed.

Memory becomes your greatest ally. You remember things others dismissed, a night nurse whispering, “She never stopped trembling,” or a resident remarking, “Her growth curve’s always behind.” In the quietest hours, you lay out her charts and trace the patterns with your finger, seeing what others missed: the steady decline, the way every new illness seemed to take more from her than it should, as if she was always working from a deficit. You lose yourself in textbooks, online journals, discussion boards where pediatric cardiologists debate the rarest risk factors. You send anonymous case descriptions to doctors across the world, crafting careful summaries to spark their theories. You absorb everything, clinical trials on in-utero stress, emerging research on environmental factors, interviews with specialists whose words echo in your head long after you close your laptop.

With every sleepless night, every carefully logged data point, the picture sharpens. Haeun’s symptoms become a grim mosaic: withdrawal-like signs, unexplained liver function, stunted growth, and the telltale scarring of her heart, a pattern matching what you’ve now read about fetal toxic exposure. You gather every fragment into a growing file, a secret dossier built from evidence and obsession, a tapestry that is both damning and undeniable. Your drive becomes a kind of prayer, a plea to the universe that if you can just prove this, maybe you can finally protect her. Maybe you can fight for a future where she isn’t just a diagnosis, or a tragedy, or a case to be forgotten. Each night you return to the records room, hunting for the next piece, every detail another thread in the web you’re spinning, because this is your daughter, and you will not let the world, or the past, or the ghosts of Aseul, write the end of her story.

By the time dawn stains the hospital windows, you’ve assembled a private dossier—every chart, lab report, discharge note, and half-forgotten observation, each page marked with your questions and emerging theories. You hold the growing file close, resisting the urge to share it too soon, unwilling to let hope or fear cloud your judgment. You know this isn’t just about gathering evidence; every detail must be cross-checked, every pattern proven beyond a shadow of doubt. So you guard it, meticulous and patient, determined to verify every piece before you bring it to Dr. Na—because when you finally lay these findings in his hands, you want the truth to be undeniable, a weapon and a shield for Haeun’s future.

Two months slip by in the fluorescent hush of the hospital, the outside world blurring to a distant hum beyond rain-streaked windows. Days bleed together in the soft blue hours between shift changes, punctuated only by the relentless beeping of monitors and the squeak of nurses’ shoes on polished linoleum. Haeun’s room, once temporary, becomes a fragile, makeshift kingdom, a fortress lined with sun-faded drawings, wilted carnations crowding the window ledge, and a growing menagerie of sticker charts taped to the wall. Each morning, she wakes in the same bed, tangled in blankets with cartoon bunnies, her bunny clutched tightly to her chest. The traces of home Jaemin has tried to bring her, her favorite yellow mug, her ballet slippers tucked in the corner, her name scrawled in marker on a faded hospital whiteboard, do little to ward off the sense of exile that clings to every surface. In the softest light, you catch glimpses of her old joy: a sleepy smile as you press a kiss to her forehead, the giggle she gives when a nurse stumbles over her “bubba bunny,” the way she tries to line up her stickers in a perfect row each morning, determined to fill the chart by herself. But even these bright moments feel delicate, borrowed, as if one wrong move might shatter the fragile world you’re trying to hold together.

At first, hope flutters in the quiet hours after surgery. Haeun’s cheeks regain color, her appetite flickers back, and she starts demanding stories again, climbing into your lap with a book, demanding you do the voices “like Dada does.” For a handful of days, you and Dr. Na dare to imagine normalcy, clinging to each small milestone: the first time she sits up in bed by herself, the first time she laughs at a cartoon, the first time she makes it through the night without needing oxygen. Nurses sneak her extra grapes and animal crackers; you stretch out on the foot of her bed, reading aloud while she braids your fingers around her bunny’s ears. She insists on showing every new nurse how to braid properly, demonstrating on bunny, serious as any surgeon in the room. Dr. Na is always there, charting quietly at her bedside, fixing her blanket, learning the rhythm of her medicine schedule by heart. Yet the reprieve is fragile. Hope becomes superstition: you’re afraid to speak it aloud, afraid that by acknowledging it, you’ll break the spell.

But then the news comes, a slow, creeping dread blooming in the silence between check-ups. It starts with an echo, a little turbulence the tech almost misses but flags for review. The next MRI is less forgiving, its grainy images revealing scarring at the edge of the aortic root, hints of tissue threatening to regrow. You overhear Dr. Huang’s hushed conversation with Dr. Na at the end of the hall, their voices serious and low, punctuated by the occasional silence that hangs heavy as thunder. Dr. Na’s back is rigid, his shoulders squared, every line of him drawn taut as a wire. Dr. Huang’s words are gentle but unyielding: “We’re catching it early, but she’ll need another surgery. More extensive this time. Patch augmentation, to keep it from returning.” Dr. Na doesn’t speak for a long time, just stands with his hands pressed flat to the wall, as if bracing himself against the weight of the world. You watch from down the corridor, helpless, as the reality settles in his posture, a quiet collapse, seen only by the fluorescent lights and the ghosts of every parent who’s stood in his place. Haeun doesn’t understand the details; all she wants to know is, “Can I bring bunny, Dada? Can bunny come too?” Her voice is so small that it cracks something open in both men.

Talk of complications circles in the background: conduction issues, the faint specter of arrhythmias—possibilities that loom larger at night, when the halls are quiet and your thoughts run wild. Hospital routine becomes your new orbit. You and Dr. Na haunt the nurses’ desk with silent questions, refilling coffee mugs, obsessing over charts and progress notes, always waiting for the next update. Nurses start to call you “the regulars,” their smiles both sympathetic and sad. You memorize the rhythm of vitals checks and medication rounds, know which techs are gentle with her IVs, which aides bring the best stories at bedtime. Dr. Na becomes a fixture, rarely leaving Haeun’s side for more than an hour; he paces her room like a sentinel, charting with one eye always on her, brushing hair from her forehead with trembling fingers when he thinks no one is watching.

Haeun, your little sun, is changed by the passing days. Even at two, her resilience starts to show its limits. She’s still stubborn—still insists on brushing her own teeth, on picking her own pajamas, on telling anyone who listens, “No more pokes! I don’t want any more!” But her fire dims; she tires more easily, loses her appetite, her hair thins from the strain. You see her standing at the window, hospital gown slipping off her shoulder, pressing her small hand against the glass to watch cars below, her leotard bunched up in her fist like a broken promise. She never asks about ballet anymore, but sometimes, when she thinks you’re not looking, you see her eyes linger on the recital poster taped to the wall. She traces the tiny shoes with her fingertip, her lips moving as if reciting lines from a story she can’t quite remember. “Maybe when I’m bigger, Dada. Maybe when my heart get better.” The words twist in your chest, as sharp and relentless as the ache in her eyes. Dr. Na kneels beside her, arms wrapped around her small frame, whispering promises he can’t be sure he can keep. “You’re my strong girl, sunshine. We’ll dance together again. I promise, I promise.” She leans into him, face buried in his shoulder, bunny clutched tight between them.

Nurses do everything they can—sticker charts, animal-shaped pancakes, bedside puppet shows, a parade of soft toys and coloring books. For a while, it helps. Haeun gives them polite smiles, musters giggles for the silly ones, lets them braid her hair and tie ribbons on bunny’s ears. But by nightfall she grows quiet, curling on her side around bunny, refusing the lullabies and stories that once soothed her. When you come in late, you find her staring at the ceiling, wide-eyed and silent, the weight of the day pressing her into the mattress. Sometimes, she sits up to watch the door, asking softly, “Mama, you stay, right? You don’t go home?” You promise her, every time, “I’m right here, baby. I always come back.” But some nights she wakes from dreams you can’t touch, reaching for you in the dark, her sobs muffled in the crook of your arm.

One night, long after the ward has settled, you wander past the playroom and pause in the doorway. Haeun is there, curled up in the corner beneath the fairy lights, bunny in her arms. She rocks gently, her voice a lullaby too old and too young at once: “Don’t be scared, bunny. Mama always comes back. Mama always comes back.” The sight shatters something in you—her small form dwarfed by the shadows, comforting her toy with the same words she needs for herself. You stand there, hands trembling, unable to move for fear the moment might dissolve if you step closer.

The weeks bleed together in a frenzy of secrecy and adrenaline, your life shrinking to the size of chart folders, text alerts, and the soft hiss of printers after midnight. Dr. Na is relentless, his obsession blazing through every professional barrier—locked out of the EMR, flagged as a conflict, barred from the operating theatre except as a grieving parent. He fights with Dr. Huang in the hallway, voices pitched low but seething, a storm of controlled rage. “She’s my daughter, not just another case,” he hisses. 

Dr. Huang only shakes his head, jaw set, a wall of authority that brooks no argument. But Dr. Na refuses to yield; his obsession crackles through every line of his body. The day you’re officially assigned under Dr. Huang’s service for Haeun’s follow-up, he waits for you at the nurses’ station, eyes fever-bright with urgency and something you can’t quite name. His voice is low but commanding, pitched for your ears alone. “Get me everything. Every echo report, every post-op note, every cardiac cath, even the bad scans. Everything.” He leans in, the world shrinking to the space between you—his hand braced on the counter beside yours, so close you feel his knuckles brush your skin, the scent of his aftershave a pulse in the air. You hesitate, heart racing, the risk thrumming through you, but his desperation—raw and fierce—pulls you under. “And make sure Dr. Huang doesn’t catch you, or else we’re both in deep shit,” he adds, his breath hot at your ear, a warning and a promise in one. You nod, pulse hammering, and in that moment, the two of you step quietly into a world made of stolen time and whispered secrets, a labyrinth where danger feels like a dare.

You’re squeezed together in a storage closet later that night, shoulders pressed, your back flat against the cool metal shelves. He’s so close you can feel every shift of muscle beneath his scrubs, the heat radiating from his body as he leans over you, his chest brushing yours when he reaches up to snag a folder from the top shelf. The air is tight, oxygen sharp and thin, your breaths mixing as you whisper about chart numbers and scan results—your voices little more than shared tremors in the dark. Suddenly, a door rattles, footsteps halting just outside; his hand snaps over your mouth, palm hot and trembling, your lips trapped beneath his skin. You both go utterly still, breathes caught, his body pinning you back so hard you feel his heartbeat through your chest. Dr. Huang’s voice drifts just feet away, talking with a nurse—mundane words with the power to destroy everything. 

Dr. Na’s body goes rigid, tension coiled so tight it nearly hurts. His lips graze your ear as he murmurs, “Don’t move.” The words spark down your spine, every nerve on fire as you nod minutely, held captive in the space between danger and want. When the footsteps fade, he doesn’t move—doesn’t even look away. His hand lingers at your mouth, his thumb tracing your jaw with slow, absent pressure. You stare at each other in the dark, the unspoken buzzing and swelling between you, something hungry and electric filling the air. Finally, his hand slips away, but his body stays close, breath mingling with yours as if neither of you wants to be the first to break the spell.

You start sneaking into file rooms late at night, your heart thrumming as you slip past custodians and after-hours staff. There’s always someone half-asleep at the charting desk, but you’ve learned their breaks, timing your missions for when the halls are deserted. You log into EMR terminals under the harsh blue glare of empty workstations, eyes gritty with exhaustion as you scroll through raw data, scanning for anomalies. Sometimes you print out ten, fifteen pages at a time, shoving them deep in your bag before anyone can see. There are nights when you duck into stairwells to catch your breath, phone buzzing with a cryptic text—“3rd floor stairwell. 7:15.” “North wing conference room. after rounds.” “Cardiology archives. now.” Each message is a command; you obey without thinking, adrenaline making your hands shake as you run through hallways, clutching manila folders to your chest like state secrets.

Some days the tension between you is a living thing, slinking through the corridors and trailing your shadows as you chase one another from lab to lounge, from copy room to cardiac bay. There’s a science to every risk—a handoff in a narrow supply closet, your bodies pressed too close for the sake of secrecy, his hips pinning you to the cold shelves as you pass him a folded sheaf of test results. Voices drift closer, a cluster of nurses laughing outside, and instead of pulling away he leans in, mouth by your ear, the heat of his chest searing through your scrubs as you both wait, hardly daring to breathe. Sometimes, you’re both giddy and careless, tripping over each other’s shoes on the stairs, giggling with adrenaline as he shoves you behind him when a nurse rounds the corner, his hand on your waist, his back shielding you as he smoothly pretends to help you search for a “missing form.” It’s protection, but it’s also a test: when your nerves fray and your words spill out in panicked whispers—“what if we missed something, what if someone sees?”—he clamps a hand around your wrist, pulling you flush against his side, so close your heart pounds into his shoulder. 

Once, after a too-close call with a suspicious intern, you try to slip away, but he pins you with one hand against the door, his other palm splayed flat to your chest, holding you steady until your frantic breathing slows and matches his. There are softer moments, too, buried in the chaos: his fingers slide up to your throat, feeling for your pulse beneath your skin—an excuse to check if you’re calm, but really just needing to touch you, to feel you alive and real. In the locker room before surgery, you tie his mask for him, your fingers lingering at the nape of his neck, your touch too gentle, the air thick with everything unsaid. Sometimes, as you pore over labs together, he catches a stray lock of hair and tucks it behind your ear, his palm cupping your cheek, thumb tracing the corner of your mouth—his eyes dark and searching, lingering too long until a voice in the hall jolts you both and he drops his hand, too quick, leaving your skin tingling. It’s become a game of shared secrets played in plain sight: he murmurs instructions or warnings in your ear, lips grazing the shell, his breath making your skin burn and your stomach flip; across the nurses’ station, you mouth “later,” and he catches it instantly, grinning slow and wolfish, the kind of grin that promises you’ll find each other again, no matter who or what stands in your way.

You become a kind of codependent ecosystem, he tells you exactly what to ask for from Dr. Huang’s team, how to word emails to the lab so no one suspects. He’s a dictionary in motion, rattling off acronyms, medication doses, journal citations, his mind a whirlwind you struggle to keep pace with. You’ve spent entire nights with your knees pressed together under the small conference table, both of you squinting at the glow of your laptop, pages of scrawled notes between you, his knuckles grazing yours every time he points to a section in the file. The tension grows sharper, more intimate: sometimes you’re so close your breath fogs the same glass window, voices barely above a whisper, neither of you willing to move away. Once, he traces a finger over your hand where you’ve written a lab value in Sharpie, his touch fleeting but electric, a wordless thank you neither of you dares speak aloud.

The hospital itself becomes your maze. You learn every shortcut, every broken badge reader and out-of-service lift. You know which nurses gossip, which ones turn a blind eye, which aides will distract security just long enough for you to slip into the records room unnoticed. You run down hallways with files stuffed inside oversized hoodies, nearly colliding with gurneys, ducking into on-call rooms to catch your breath. There are nights when you laugh, exhausted and giddy, sliding papers across tables like you’re in a spy movie. You lean into OR windows, mouthing updates to Dr. Na as he scrubs out, fingers drawing invisible numbers in the fog. He raises an eyebrow, sometimes rolling his eyes, but always lingers just long enough to catch your meaning. The tension simmers between you, sometimes playful, sometimes so sharp you feel it in your teeth.

The hospital staff can’t help but notice. Nurses start to gossip, the pediatric unit thick with whispers—something about the way you and Dr. Na orbit each other, the late-night coffee runs, the way you seem to always know exactly where he’ll be. There are jokes about your cat-and-mouse game: “Careful, or she’ll steal your charts next!” “Watch out, Dr. Na’s shadow’s coming through.” Sometimes, you tease him under your breath, letting frustration slip into banter: “Anything else, Dr. Na? Want me to check her entire genome while I’m at it?” He smirks, eyes glinting with pride and something darker. “If you could, I’d ask you to.” Each exchange blurs the line further—professional boundaries dissolving, replaced by something messier and far more dangerous.

You both become reckless, addicted to the secrecy and adrenaline, more reliant on each other with every passing shift. You text at all hours—sometimes just a question about a lab value, sometimes a line of vented panic or a plea for reassurance. There’s a night when you collapse beside him in the supply closet, clutching your sides from laughing too hard after a close call with a suspicious nurse, your forehead pressed to his shoulder, the world spinning. Another day, he catches you after you nearly drop a folder in the stairwell, steadying you with both hands on your waist for a beat too long, the air charged and heavy.

Somehow, even with exhaustion, the game goes on. You hand him a coffee with a coded message scrawled under the sleeve—“Echo at 3pm, see me.” He returns the favor by sliding an extra set of scrubs into your locker, a folded note tucked inside: “Be careful. I need you to stay awake tonight.” Sometimes you trade reports in the parking lot at shift change, headlights flickering across your faces like a movie scene. You spend lunch breaks pretending to discuss patient cases when really you’re dissecting Haeun’s latest labs, heads bent together over your trays, speaking in a shorthand only you two understand.

All the while, the rest of your life narrows to the hospital’s pulse and Dr. Na’s orbit. Sleep becomes optional, meals an afterthought, your body humming with adrenaline and longing. You get better at hiding the bruises on your shins from late-night sprints, the ink stains on your wrists from frantic note-taking, the way your hands shake when the pressure gets too high. You find yourself thinking about him at odd hours, replaying the way his voice drops when he says “thank you,” the rare but devastating smile when something in the data gives him hope, the way he looks at you—full of pride, fear, gratitude, and something deeper you’re scared to name.

Then, just as your partnership verges on uncontainable, the world tilts. During morning rounds, Dr. Lee Heeseung, the same fellow who first asked you out when Haeun was admitted, joins you and Dr. Na at the computer pod, his smile soft, eyes bright with something almost shy. He waits until you’re discussing Haeun’s updated med list, then quietly, boldly, asks if you’d like to get dinner after shift. You agree, half out of genuine affection, half to prove to yourself you still have a life outside these walls, and maybe to distract yourself from the gravity well of Dr. Na’s presence. The nurses catch wind of it immediately, whispering and grinning behind their hands. Dr. Na says nothing as Heeseung walks away, but you catch the edge in his voice, the way his eyes flicker, a muscle jumping in his jaw.

The dates with Heeseung are nice, easy, unhurried, a welcome contrast to the tension of your secret world. You talk about everything but medicine: bad music, favorite foods, childhood games, the kinds of things you’ve forgotten how to share. There’s no pressure for anything physical, but you feel it building, an anxiety made sharper by the knowledge you’ve never crossed that line before. Still, it’s something to look forward to—a reminder that you’re more than just a vessel for someone else’s crisis. And yet, you’re never truly free of Dr. Na’s gravity. One night, he catches you and Heeseung laughing together near the vending machines, his eyes narrowing just for a moment, a flicker of something wild and possessive passing over his face. He smirks, rolling his eyes when you glance his way, and you know he’ll find a way to tease you for it later, some biting, quiet remark behind a closed door, a pointed joke at the nurses’ station, a challenge masked as a dare. Underneath all of it, the tension grows—sharper, needier, and just one secret away from shattering.

The fluorescent lights buzz low in the empty on-call room, shadows thrown sharp across the cluttered desk and half-unmade cot. It’s late, so late the halls outside have quieted to a hush, the world shrinking to the static in your ears and the sweat prickling down your spine. You’re tired, the kind of tired that makes your skin ache, but there’s adrenaline in your veins as you push the door open, file clutched so tightly the corners curl beneath your fingertips. The air is thick, heavy with secrets, and Dr. Na barely looks up from his notes as you step inside, his posture loose and easy, as if he’s been waiting for you all night.

You slam the folder onto the desk, the paper fanning out, and the sharp sound cuts the silence. Your hand lingers on top, knuckles white. “Here. Again.” Your voice is flat, bracing, but underneath it is an edge, resentment, exhaustion, need. The room smells of coffee and his cologne, something crisp and dark that sinks into your lungs and settles low in your belly. Dr. Na’s gaze drags slowly up your body, lazy and unapologetic, and when your eyes meet, there’s nothing gentle in his expression. Only hunger, calculation, and the faintest glint of amusement.

“You’re very efficient,” he drawls, not bothering to hide the smirk as he leans back in the chair, one leg crossed over the other, hands folded in his lap as if this is all a game he’s already won. He’s so close, too close—your bodies separated by a narrow slice of space, tension stretching thin and brittle between you. You swallow hard, every nerve alight. He’s always like this when you’re alone, no mask, no distance, just that dark and unflinching focus, as if he’s trying to see through you, right down to your bones.

“Don’t.” The word cracks out of you, sharper than you intended, your voice thick. “Don’t do that, don’t act like this is easy.” You push your hair out of your face with shaking fingers, anger blooming hot and electric. “I’ve been running around this damn hospital like your fucking assistant for weeks, and you haven’t thanked me once.” Your breath comes in quick, uneven bursts, cheeks flushed with frustration. His eyebrow arches, the hint of a smile curling his lips, and it only makes you angrier. “You just, expect me to drop everything, to risk my internship, to break every rule, every night, like it’s nothing.”

You draw yourself up, voice ringing against the sterile tile, finally unafraid of who hears. “I’ve nearly been caught by four nurses and two attendings, spent half my nights hiding in supply closets or lying through my teeth at the front desk just to cover for you. You pull me behind locked doors, call me at any hour, act like I exist only for your secrets, and I’ve gone along with every single fucking thing you asked because I—” You falter, breath shaking. “Because I care. Because your little girl needs me. But I’m not your secret. I’m not a shadow in your story. If you want me, you’re going to have to look me in the eye and admit it.”

He shrugs, almost insolent. “You’re being dramatic.” The words settle over your skin like a dare, his tone calm but sharpened by the flicker in his eyes, a challenge that makes you want to scream, or grab him by the collar and shake him, or maybe just let him touch you until you can’t remember why you were angry at all. When you don’t look away, he leans forward, gaze dark and steady, voice dropping just for you. “You know I thank you every single time,” he says quietly, his meaning twisting beneath the surface, “but that’s not the kind of thanks you want, is it?” He holds your stare, heat simmering between you, as if he already knows exactly what you’re begging for.

“I do not—” You choke on the words, emotion spilling out unchecked. “You have me sneaking files, forging signatures, making up lies to cover for both of us. I barely sleep. I miss meals. I hide from my friends. I’ve had to come up with more excuses than I ever thought possible. You make me feel like I’m the only one who can do this, the only one who can save her and you’re not wrong. The thing is, I do it—every time—I do it because I care about her, because I want her to be okay. Because I love her, and I would burn the whole world for her. But I also do it for you. For you, Dr. Na. Because there’s something in the way you look at me, the way you trust me with all this, that makes me want to prove myself, to be worthy of you.”

You don’t even realize you’re pacing, hands gesturing wildly, rambling now, voice rising with each word. “It’s not just the risk—it’s the pressure, the fear. The way my heart stops every time someone says your name too loud in the hallway, or I hear footsteps coming toward the supply closet. The way you text me at midnight, and I run, every single time. I drop everything, even when I know I shouldn’t. Even when I know it’s wrong. I keep doing it, because it feels like I’m part of something bigger, something important. But it’s also because it’s you. Because you make me feel alive. Like I’m not just surviving, like I’m needed, chosen, fucking seen.” You let out a shaky breath, chest heaving. Your voice breaks, softening into something fragile, honest. “And I know it’s stupid, I know I should say no, I know I should walk away but I don’t. I keep doing it. I can’t stop and I don’t know if that makes me loyal or pathetic, or just hopelessly in love with the feeling of being close to you.” There’s a beat of silence. You don’t look at him, afraid of what you’ll see.

He’s silent for a moment, just watching you with that unreadable, dark gaze—waiting, calculating, letting the air stretch tight and electric between you. Then his eyes shift, something deeper and darker flashing in them: hunger, authority, a warning that thrums all the way through you. His lips curl into the faintest, dangerous smile. “Careful,” he murmurs, his voice velvet-wrapped steel. “You know I don’t tolerate tantrums, sweetheart. If you want my attention, you’ll ask for it the right way.” He lets the words linger, letting you feel every inch of the control he’s claiming, every ounce of heat simmering beneath. “If you’re going to talk back to me, you’d better be ready to accept the consequences.” The challenge is unmistakable, sharp and commanding, darkly sexual, promising that if you push, he’ll make you feel it everywhere.

You stumble, realization crashing over you like a wave. Your shoulders curl inward, shrinking beneath his stare. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Dr. Na. I shouldn’t have—I’m sorry, sir.” The last word leaves your lips in a whimper, almost involuntary, and you hate yourself for how much it aches, how natural it feels to submit, to give him that power. The air in the room thickens, heavy with the gravity of everything unspoken. Silence coils tight, thick as smoke. For a moment, you wonder if he’ll dismiss you, if he’ll turn away. But instead, he stands, the movement slow, deliberate—a predator circling prey. He steps forward, the distance between you shrinking to nothing, and suddenly your back is pressed flush to the door, the cool wood biting through your shirt. His body boxes you in, his arms braced on either side of your head, hips anchoring you in place. The heat of him is overwhelming, a cage you don’t want to escape.

“You want me to thank you?” His voice drops, low and rough, vibrating straight through your bones. “Should I make it up to you, then?” The question isn’t innocent. It’s a taunt, a threat, a promise. You swallow, the air buzzing with anticipation, and his eyes drop to your mouth, lingering there as if he’s considering all the ways he could ruin you.

For a moment, the world is still, heavy with the things unsaid, your chest still tight from the words you spat at him, the sting of injustice and longing tangled up in your body. You’re braced for another argument, but something shifts in his face: a flicker of hunger, the slow drag of his gaze down your throat, the way his tongue flicks at the corner of his mouth, considering. He steps forward, not fast, just deliberate, each inch erasing the space between you until his presence is all you can feel. The air grows thick, shadows lengthening across the on-call room floor, the distant hum of hospital machinery fading until there’s only your heartbeat and the subtle creak of the door behind your back.

He reaches out, fingers brushing your jaw, soft, testing, almost gentle. His touch lingers, thumb stroking the corner of your mouth, tracing the line of your cheek, as if memorizing you. You don’t breathe. The room seems to tilt, the power shifting, all that anger melting into a deeper ache. “So dramatic tonight,” he murmurs, letting the words draw out, his voice teasing but his eyes unblinking, dark, searching for something raw beneath your bravado. “All that fire—makes me wonder what you’d do if I really gave you what you want.”

You can’t answer, not with his body crowding you, his heat bleeding through your clothes, his scent making your pulse flutter. He brings his hand to your throat, his palm broad, warm, controlling but not cruel—just a steady, possessive pressure, thumb brushing your pulse as if reading every secret, every surrender. You gasp, but the sound is small, caught between your teeth, your hands fisting in the fabric of your own scrubs for something to hold onto. His thigh presses between your legs, nudging you open, the contact slow but inevitable, grinding you back against the door until you have nowhere left to go.

He holds you there, eyes locked on yours, every muscle in his body tense but patient, letting you feel how easily he could take everything, but refusing to rush. His hand stays tight on your throat, thumb stroking slow circles, his other hand sliding down to grip your hip, fingers digging in, guiding you to rock forward, to grind against him, to feel how hard he already is beneath all that calm. “I want to hear you ask for it,” he murmurs, his voice dropping even lower, every word deliberate, “I want to hear you beg. You’ve been running for me, breaking every rule. You want to know what you get for that?” His breath is hot at your ear, lips just barely grazing your skin, every syllable a question and a dare.

He doesn’t move fast—he waits, letting the tension coil between your bodies, his hands holding you in place, making you feel how thoroughly you’ve lost control. When you finally look up at him, eyes blown wide, lips parted in anticipation, he smiles, slow and dangerous. “Tell me. What exactly do you want me to teach you tonight?” He doesn’t hesitate. He just locks the door behind you with a quick, commanding twist, no words, just a click that settles in your bones, then grabs your hips, grinding his thigh up between your legs, making you whimper without meaning to. The move is rough, pure instinct, his mouth already coming for yours, the space between you charged and wild. You barely have time to process, your body giving a desperate little jerk against him, his scent, his authority, his need overwhelming every protest in your mind. He tries to kiss you—hungry, searching, lips already parting—but you shove him back, breathless, chest heaving, your fingers fisted in his shirt. He freezes, eyes dark with surprise, confusion flaring. He blinks, something like doubt flickering in the pause—he thought this was what you wanted, thought you’d melt into his arms, thought you’d beg him to keep going. For a moment, the air is suspended, silent, his gaze flickering from your mouth to your eyes, trying to read you, trying to figure out what line he’s crossed.

But you’re the one who breaks it, not with anger, but with need, raw and sweet, a gasp trembling from your lips. “Teach me.” The words are a plea, a dare, the spark that sets the rest of you alight. Your voice drops, syrupy and high, nearly a whine. “Don’t just take—show me. Teach me how to be your good girl. Teach me how to ride cock, how to beg, how to suck you off until you forget your own name, teach me how to make you want me, how to be your best, your only, your fucking favorite. I want to be the best student you’ve ever had, Dr. Na. I want to learn every filthy thing you like, every way you want me. I want to make you proud, so you never, ever want anyone else. Please—teach me. I’ll be so good for you. I’ll do everything you say.”

You clutch at his wrist, chest arching as your body presses to his, already breathless from the weight of two months spent running for him, begging for more than he’d ever give in daylight. Your nerves spark with the adrenaline of confession. “I mean it,” you gasp, half-laughing, half-pleading, “I’m not here for surgical lessons. I want you to teach me all the other stuff, the things I actually need. Please—teach me how to ride cock, how to suck cock, how to beg for it, how to be on my knees and take you, how to make someone want me, how to make you lose your mind. I want to be good for you—I want to be so fucking good for Heeseung. I want you to show me everything, Dr. Na. I want to learn from the best.” Your voice is high, sweet and shameless, eyes wide, so eager for him you’re almost shaking.

He drags his hand up your throat, claiming you, gaze black with possession and hunger. “You want me to teach you how to be a good little slut, is that it? So you can run off and use it on Heeseung?” His words are a dark caress, biting and jealous, every line vibrating with heat. “You really think I’m going to show you how to ride my cock so you can bounce on someone else’s? You want me to teach you how to suck cock, beg, take it however I want to give it, just so you can be his perfect little thing?” He leans in, lips brushing your ear, voice almost cruel with need. “No, sweetheart. If I teach you how to fuck, it’ll be for me. You want to learn how to beg? You beg for me. You want to ride? You ride my cock. You want to learn how to take it on your knees? You start right here, with me. I’m not letting you give this to anyone else.”

Your lashes flutter, mouth parted, brain dizzy with want. “Please, Dr. Na—make me your dumb little fucktoy. I want you to teach me how to ride your cock so deep I can’t think, how to suck you off until you’re shaking, how to drool all over your cock and beg for more. I want to learn how to kneel for you, how to take your fingers, your tongue, your cock—anywhere, anytime, any way you want it. Teach me how to make a mess for you, how to choke on it, how to beg so sweet you have to cover my mouth just to shut me up. I want to be your favorite thing to use, your best slut, the only one you fuck, the only one you think about. Please—let me be your perfect girl, your little bimbo, your filthy student. I’ll do anything, I just want you to use me and make me yours, make me forget everything but how good you feel inside me. Please, tell me everything, make me beg, make me better for you—please, please, please—” Your words spill over themselves, needy and breathless, your hands gripping his arms, nails biting.

His eyes darken even further, the command and pride sharp as a blade. His hand tightens at your throat just enough to remind you who owns every gasp, every shiver. “You’re not leaving this room until you’ve been taught, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice heavy with authority, but there’s a new glint—something indulgent, almost reverent. “But tonight? Tonight you’re getting your reward. You’ve been my perfect little accomplice, haven’t you? Two months running around this place for me. That deserves a thank you, doesn’t it, baby?” He leans in, lips brushing your jaw as his words turn to velvet, every syllable a promise. “Tonight, I’m going to make you fall apart on my mouth, just to show you what you’ve earned. After that, maybe I’ll let you beg to learn more.”

He drops to his knees right in front of you, his hands sliding up your thighs, hiking your scrubs and panties to your hips. You barely have time to brace yourself against the wall before he hooks one of your legs over his shoulder, prying you open for his tongue, his grip hard and unyielding as his mouth finds you, hot and greedy. His tongue is relentless. broad, wet, devouring you like you’re the only thing he’s ever needed. He licks and sucks, flicks and circles, moaning filth into your skin, lips curling as you whimper, trying to bite down your cries but failing miserably. Your hands fly to his hair, clutching tight as he pins you with the weight of his head, tongue working you open, face buried so deep you feel the scrape of his stubble every time you roll your hips.

You grind down, desperate, using his mouth, breath coming in frantic bursts as his nose nudges your clit, his hands gripping your ass hard enough to leave marks. Every time you moan his name, he hums louder, tongue fucking you deep, then swirling slow until you’re shaking and almost sobbing. He spreads you wider, holding you against the wall so the only thing keeping you upright is the tremor in your legs and his strong grip, until you’re teetering on the edge, dizzy, then stumbling as your knees buckle, the world blurring around the rush of his tongue and the obscene wetness of his mouth.

He laughs low against your cunt, voice rough with pride, and catches you before you hit the floor, easing you down until you’re straddling his chest, legs spread wide, knees digging into the thin carpet. He lays back, looking up at you with a wicked grin, eyes hungry, beard shining with you. “Go on, baby,” he growls, voice gone ragged, hands squeezing your ass and guiding you forward. “Show me how greedy you can be—fuck my mouth, just like that. I want to see you use me. Show me how much you need it.”

You obey without thought, letting him position you over his face, thighs trembling as you lower yourself, your pussy slick and swollen, his mouth already open for you. You rock against him, grinding and riding, hands in his hair, back arching as you take what you want, what he’s begged you to demand. His tongue is everywhere, hungry and relentless, and every time you try to slow down, his hands slap your ass, the sharp smack jolting you forward, making you cry out louder. He groans, buried in you, eyes glazed with need as he lets you rut and buck, taking you higher and higher.

He urges you on, voice muffled, hands never letting go, coaxing you with every filthy encouragement he can spit between licks. “That’s it, use me, make a mess, fuck yourself on my face—good girl, my favorite little slut, show me how bad you want it.” The praise makes you wild, hips moving harder, chasing the edge, your head thrown back as your cries echo in the cramped room, every shameful sound an offering just for him. You feel everything—his tongue, his teeth grazing, his grip, his hands spanking and squeezing and guiding, your cunt throbbing for him.

You come undone, shattering for him, his mouth working you through every wave, never letting up, drinking in every drop as you fall apart over his face, nails digging into his scalp, thighs squeezing tight around his head. He lets you ride it out, lets you grind until you’re sobbing, spent, nothing left but shivers and praise. He doesn’t let you up until you’re limp and boneless, legs shaking, heart beating too fast, your whole world collapsed into the shape of his mouth and hands. Only then does he let you slide down, cradling you, kissing your thigh as you fall into his arms, dizzy and glowing, still marked by every lesson he’s begun to teach you.

He stretches you out on the bed, the hospital sheets cold against your feverish skin, body pliant but trembling from the way he’s handled you. Your thighs fall open for him, heart thudding wild in your chest as he kneels between your legs, his sheer size eclipsing everything else—broad shoulders crowding the fluorescent haze, hands big enough to pin your hips with barely any effort. He grips you there, grounding you as he drags the blunt head of his cock through your slick, teasing your entrance with obscene, unhurried strokes, letting you feel every throbbing inch against your folds. “Open up for me, baby,” he says, voice thick with a mix of command and awe, his thumb flicking your clit until you shudder. “Gonna watch you split around me, let’s see how much this greedy little cunt can take.”

He lines himself up, nudging at your entrance, then just—waits, teasing, grinding the head in shallow circles. The anticipation is a pulse in your belly. He presses in, barely an inch, and you gasp at the stretch—he’s so thick, you feel yourself fight to open, the ache bordering on pain. Your hands scramble for his forearms, nails biting into his skin, needing something to anchor you. He smirks, cocky and cruel, rocking his hips forward just enough to make your breath catch. “Look at you already struggling, haven’t even given you half of me yet. Such a greedy little thing.” He leans down, mouth at your ear, heat fogging your thoughts. “Relax for me. Breathe. Let Daddy in.”

He’s patient but unrelenting, pressing in, then pausing, easing you open inch by inch. He spits in his hand, slicks himself up, then spits again directly on your cunt, working it in with two fingers, stretching you, coaxing you to take him deeper. Each time you tense, he stops, rubs circles on your clit until your muscles give, then pushes again. The burn is relentless, making your thighs tremble, your vision blur. You whimper, tears pricking your lashes, the fullness already overwhelming and he isn’t even halfway inside. “So fucking tight, so pure—fuck, have you done this before?” His voice is quieter, dangerous, a thread of possessiveness running through the filth.

You open your mouth to lie, pride trembling on your tongue, but the truth chokes you, your breath hitching, your voice cracking as you finally admit, “No. This is… my first time.” Your cheeks flush, eyes watering, shame and need tangled together, but you force yourself to nod, to let him see all of you. 

His eyes go molten, mouth curling into a wicked grin. “My little virgin? That’s even better.” He draws his thumb over your lips, presses down until you part them, then spits in your mouth, claiming you, marking you. “You’re gonna remember this forever, baby. You’ll never forget the first time you got split open—never forget who made you his.”

He slows down even more, rolling his hips, working you open with patience laced with something wicked. “Such a good girl, letting Daddy ruin you like this. Two months of you teasing me, making me wait, watching you run around this hospital, pretending you were so innocent. All that time, you never told me you were saving yourself for this. For me.” He presses in, inching deeper, filling you until you feel him in your belly, the pressure blooming higher than you thought possible. 

You arch, whimpering, your fingers clutching at his biceps, “Daddy—please, it’s so much, I can feel you everywhere, I can’t—”

He hushes you, eyes heavy with pride and hunger. “Yes you can, sunshine. You can take it. You’re made for this. Look how full you are—look at that little bulge, can you feel me in your tummy, baby? That’s all you. That’s how deep Daddy is inside his perfect girl.” He cradles your jaw, forces your eyes to his, one hand sliding to your lower belly, pressing down until you moan, dizzy from the mix of pain and pleasure and total surrender. “Keep looking at me. Don’t look away. I want to see your face when I ruin you.”

You’d always imagined your first time would be slow, maybe gentle, maybe awkward with someone who would say all the right things. But this is nothing like that—this is rough, filthy, unplanned, your mind coming undone at the edges as you let him take every ounce of control. It’s been building between you for months, all the tension, the late nights, the secret glances in sterile corridors, all culminating here, your body stretched open, exposed, trembling for someone who wants to own you, mark you, make you forget anyone else ever existed.

He rocks his hips again, working you deeper, each thrust shallow but insistent, holding you open until finally, finally, his hips meet yours. The pain crests and then morphs into something so bright you can barely breathe—your cunt clamping down, your mouth open on a silent gasp, body going hot and cold all at once. “Fuck, you’re squeezing me so tight, sunshine. You feel that? That’s how Daddy knows he owns you. No one else gets to fuck you like this, to break you in. You’re my best student. My only girl.”

He wipes a tear from your cheek, then slaps your face just hard enough to make you blink, to bring you back to him, to ground you in the feeling of his body buried deep in yours. “Don’t you dare look away. I want to watch you fall apart for me.” His hands press down on your belly again, cock pulsing inside you, your body forced to accommodate every inch. You whimper, but nod, holding his gaze, letting him see every shattered piece as you finally, completely let go.

He spits down at your mouth, watching it drip onto your tongue, his thumb smearing it across your lips. “Swallow it. Show me how much you love being messy for me.” You obey, cheeks hollowing around his thumb, tasting spit and salt and need. “That’s it—filthy little thing. Let’s see how much more you can take.” He starts to move, slow at first, letting you feel every drag, every catch, your cunt stretched tight, the friction wet and obscene. His other hand slides up to your throat, squeezing until your head goes light, every sense focused on the tight burn where he fills you.

He leans down, tongue tracing the tears on your cheeks, lips nipping your jaw. “Gonna make you cum so hard you forget your name. You want that? You want to be dumb and useless, just stuffed full of cock?” You nod frantically, your voice high and ruined, “Yes, Daddy—please, want it so bad, want to be your perfect dumb baby.” He hums approval, hips grinding deeper, the angle pressing him against your sweetest spot, making you keen and thrash beneath him.

He doesn’t let up—his hand still locked around your throat, his hips rolling slow, controlled, never giving you all of him at once. “Count for me,” he commands, punctuating every thrust with a slap to your tits, your ass, your thighs. “Every time I fuck you deeper, every time you take it for me, you count.” Your voice cracks as you obey, counting, sobbing, the numbers tumbling between moans and broken whimpers. “Good girl—taking it all, just for Daddy. Want you to remember this every time you even think about another cock.”

He pulls out suddenly, leaving you empty and desperate, and flips you onto your stomach. You gasp as he drags your hips up, ass in the air, face pressed into the pillow. He spits on your asshole, thumb circling, then leans down to lick you open, tongue hot and filthy, making you arch and shake. “This ass is mine too, baby. Everything you are—every hole, every inch, belongs to Daddy.” You sob, hips twitching as he fingers you open, one thick finger, then two, working in time with his tongue, your cunt fluttering, soaking the sheets.

He slides his cock back inside, slower this time, making you feel the push in both holes, the overwhelming fullness. You choke on your cries, his hand in your hair, forcing you to look back at him, eyes wild. “Look how dumb you get for me. Can’t even think straight, can you?” He pulls your hair, making you arch, then releases to spank your ass, watching your skin bloom red. “Say thank you, baby. Thank Daddy for ruining you.” You stammer it out, barely coherent, every word a plea.

He edges you, stops every time you get close, making you whimper and beg, your whole body quivering on the edge of release. “Not yet. Not until you beg for it, until you say you’re my fucktoy, my perfect dumb baby.” He slaps your ass again, rubs your clit until you’re shaking. You sob out the words, “Please, Daddy, let me cum, let me be your perfect little slut, I’ll do anything, I’ll be so good for you—” He finally gives in, hips snapping harder, deeper, the sound of skin on skin echoing through the room, the bed creaking beneath you. The world narrows to the relentless stretch, the heavy pulse of him buried deep, and the hot thrum in your belly that’s been building for what feels like hours. His hands clamp around your hips, holding you still as he grinds into that sweet spot inside you, his cock thick and insistent, every drag making you tremble and gasp, lost in the rhythm. Your fingers claw helplessly at his back, nails dragging red crescents down his skin, your whole body tightening, every muscle wound so tight you feel like you might snap.

He feels the shift, feels the way you tense and shudder around him, and he grins, voice thick with dark pride as he growls, “There you go, sunshine—let go for me, show lolly how good you are, how pretty you look when you cum for me.” His words push you right to the edge—your breath catches, your eyes rolling back, the pressure mounting and cresting, breaking all at once. The orgasm rips through you, sudden and blinding, a tidal wave crashing up from your toes, shaking through your legs, your stomach, your chest. You scream, high and broken, hips bucking, your cunt clamping down hard around him, pulsing in hot, desperate waves.

Your vision whites out, the world gone fuzzy and weightless, only sensation and sound and his voice in your ear, praising you, coaxing you to keep cumming, to milk his cock for everything he’s worth. “That’s it, let it out—fuck, you’re so tight, you’re squeezing me, baby, making a mess all over my cock. Such a good girl, look at you, losing it for me.” He doesn’t slow, doesn’t let up, hips grinding into you, stretching out the orgasm until you’re sobbing, body shaking uncontrollably, thighs quivering as aftershocks roll through you, each one sharper and more unbearable than the last.

You feel yourself gush around him, wet and messy, slick soaking his cock, leaking onto the sheets. Your cries turn to broken, breathless whimpers, voice gone hoarse from the force of it, body convulsing in his grip. He cups your face, forces your eyes to his, pride and hunger blazing in his gaze as he fucks you through every wave, making sure you feel every inch, every pulse, every last tremor. Your world collapses to nothing but the hot, desperate clutch of your cunt around his cock and the overwhelming rush of pleasure he wrings from your body, again and again, until you go limp, shattered, tears shining in your lashes, still twitching from the aftershocks of his possession.

He pushes you over, flipping you onto your back again with a grip that leaves you dizzy and exposed, the sheets bunched and sticky beneath your skin. He kneels up, cock flushed and leaking, and strokes himself over your face—his hand steady, gaze locked on yours, control radiating from every slow, possessive movement. You watch, breath caught in your throat, as he groans and comes for you, painting your lips, chin, throat, and bare chest with hot, messy streaks. “Lick it up. Don’t waste a drop,” Jaemin orders, voice rough and low, that dark pride flickering in his eyes. Your tongue darts out, obedient, tasting him, eyes fluttering closed as you drag it over your lips and down to your skin, collecting every drop and swallowing it, drool and cum running down your throat. He smears the mess over your mouth with his thumb, rubbing it in until you’re glossy, then presses his thumb down to your cunt, pushing it inside, making you feel just how used and claimed you are. “So fucking pretty like this—my mess, my ruin. You look perfect when you’re wrecked for me.”

He doesn’t let you rest; instead, Jaemin pulls you up with strong hands, muscles flexing beneath your grip, dragging you into his lap, straddling his hips, your body limp and heavy in his arms. His hands never leave you, guiding your sore, trembling body down onto his cock again, stretching you all over, making you whimper as you try to take him. You’re exhausted, barely able to hold yourself upright, but he supports you, his arms like iron bands around your waist, forcing you to ride him, bouncing on his cock even as your legs shake and threaten to give out. “You’re going to cum again for me, even if you have to cry for it,” Jaemin growls, pressing you down harder, making you whine and gasp. “That’s what good girls do, right? That’s what Daddy’s favorites do. Only Jaemin can make you this desperate, this hungry, this ruined.” You nod, broken, every movement pure surrender, cunt fluttering, swollen and sore, your voice a needy, pleading whimper as you rock and grind against him.

Jaemin’s hand comes up, fingers closing around your throat, just tight enough to remind you who owns every breath. His other hand anchors your waist, guiding you up and down, every inch of him stretching you open again and again. “Don’t stop,” he commands, the words a dark thrill in your ear. “Show me how much you want it. Show me how much you need to be filled, used, owned by Dady.” Your head rolls back, tears streaking your cheeks, words dissolving into a string of slurred, helpless cries. “So dumb for you, Daddy. Only ever want you—no one else could fuck me like this, no one else could ever make me cum like you.” Your words are high and delirious, your mind a haze of need and obedience.

He slides his thumb between your parted lips, watching you suck, drool spilling from your mouth, running down your chin and neck, messy and shameless just how he likes you. “Filthy thing—so needy, so pretty. Good girls take every inch. Good girls get every drop. Daddy wants to see you lose control.” He presses his thumb to your clit, pinching until you cry out, forcing another orgasm from you, your cunt pulsing and clenching so hard around his cock you see stars, your vision whiting out, the pleasure blurring into a kind of desperate, overwhelming pain.

He doesn’t stop, not even as your whole body gives out, going limp and boneless, moans dissolving into half-sobs and whimpers. His hips piston up, relentless, keeping you on his cock, using you just the way he wants. “Can’t stop now, baby. Daddy wants you fucked stupid, wants you to remember this for days. Let go for me, sunshine—let Daddy see you fall apart.” He slaps your tits, your ass, the marks blooming bright and beautiful, every bruise and bite a new place he’s claimed as his own.

Finally, you feel him break, hips jerking beneath you, cock pulsing deep inside your sore, fluttering cunt, filling you up with wave after wave of heat. Jaemin moans low and broken, arms crushing you to him as he spends himself inside you, not stopping until you’re leaking, the evidence of him dripping down your thighs. He pulls out with a wet, obscene sound, spreading your folds with two fingers just to watch his cum spill out, rubbing it into your sensitive, swollen skin, then pushing some back inside you, claiming every part of you all over again. “Don’t you dare clean up. I want you walking around this hospital knowing who you belong to—everyone should see Daddy’s mark on you.”

When you finally collapse, body shaking and spent, he’s right there, gentler now, cleaning you up with his tongue, soft and lingering, worshipping every bruise, every bite, every place he’s marked. His voice is softer, but still full of command as he kisses your shoulder, your collarbone, the corner of your mouth. “Thank me for ruining you, baby. Thank me for making you mine.” You whisper it through the last of your tears, your voice dreamy and grateful, blissed out and half gone. Jaemin helps you dress, tucks you against his chest, his hands slow and careful, pride and promise in every touch. And as you drift, marked and utterly claimed, you know in every trembling, satisfied bone that there’s no one else in the world who could ever fuck you like this—no one you’d ever want to learn from again, no one you’d ever want to let inside your body, your heart, your everything, but Jaemin.

It’s been two hours—two hours of you riding Jaemin’s cock, of his hands gripping your hips, his arms around your waist, his mouth everywhere: your mouth, your neck, your breasts. You can’t stop, neither of you can stop, both of you lost in the haze of heat and sweat and the messy, helpless way your bodies fit together, every inch sticky with the proof of all you’ve given each other. You’ve cum five times—five times in a single night, when you’d spent your whole life before him never even knowing what it was to fall apart. You’re boneless and burning, voice hoarse from crying out, but he keeps you bouncing, supporting your shaking thighs, his lips catching yours in a slow, dizzy kiss every time you start to fall forward. “So good for me, baby, so pretty when you break like this. I could keep you forever,” he whispers against your mouth, his breath warm and gentle, his chest pressed to yours as you rock and tremble, both of you high on the slow grind.

You ride him like it’s the only thing you know—clumsy, desperate, your hands in his hair, his mouth moving down to your breasts, sucking one nipple, then the other, tongue swirling, teeth grazing. You arch, moaning softly, sweat slipping down your back, his hands splayed wide across your ribs as if to hold you together. It’s so soft now—so stupidly, heartbreakingly intimate, his hands coaxing you, his voice low and thick, coaxing another orgasm out of you, your thighs trembling as you lose yourself again and again. You don’t even notice the world outside—the lights, the time, the way your bodies have blurred into something helpless and hungry and bright.

But somewhere, in the dark corners of your mind, something slithers, something black and greedy. In the fragile hush between kisses, you feel it: the edge of dread, the cold slip of a nightmare stalking the corridors outside. A black swan, sleek and sharp, circles your heart. Its wings spread wide, swallowing every ray of warmth you’ve built with him, casting shadow across your love—your baby, your sunshine girl, your whole heart. You press your face into Jaemin’s neck, trying to hold onto the light, but it’s there, always there, a parasite crouched at the foot of Haeun’s bed, waiting.

Neither of you hears the first shrill of your pagers, both of them muted, discarded in a tangle of clothes, the screens lighting up again and again. You’re mid-bounce, Jaemin’s mouth sealed over your nipple, sucking hard, his hands guiding your hips, both of you so lost in each other, so far from the hospital world you thought you knew. The pounding at the door barely registers—at first just another noise, part of the storm of sensation, until it becomes a violent, echoing bang. Dr. Huang’s voice is a blade through the fog: “Jaemin! Hurry the fuck out and get to Haeun’s bed, she’s crashing, man! She isn’t breathing!” His words slam into you, shattering everything, ripping you out of the warmth and color, dropping you straight into ice. Jaemin jolts beneath you, his hands suddenly cold, his eyes wide and lost. You freeze, your heart hammering against your ribs as the world comes back in terrible, strobing flashes, the sheets, the sweat, the door, the urgent terror in Dr. Huang’s voice.

Time folds and twists, the night rushing in black around you, the black swan spreading its wings wider, swallowing all the light, all the hope, devouring Haeun’s fragile sunbeam heart. You can almost see it, hovering above her bed, a parasite poised to snatch her from you both, its beak pressed to her tiny chest. You’re running before you know it, the taste of Jaemin still in your mouth, the echo of his hands still around your waist, but nothing in the world could stop the cold, bottomless dread that chases you down the hall—the certainty that, no matter how much you love, the night always wants more, and sometimes the dark comes to collect.

And all the warmth, all the sweetness, all the fevered tenderness you built in Jaemin’s arms is nothing—a single, trembling candle flame guttering in the draft—as the true darkness descends. Down the hall, at Haeun’s bedside, horror is no longer a distant specter but a living thing, hungry and sure. The black swan is no mere shadow now but a beast with oil-slick wings, its neck arched, eyes cold as midnight. It perches at the foot of her bed, talons curled into white sheets, beak gleaming, poised for the kill. Every machine in the room is screaming, alarms shrill and merciless, lines spiking red, numbers plummeting in freefall. There is no softness here, no sanctuary, just the relentless, predatory silence that follows the shriek of failing breath.

You run, barefoot and shivering, Jaemin’s name a gasp behind you, both of you sprinting straight into the jaws of it. You see the swan’s shadow unfurling along the walls, black wings blocking out every memory of light. A chill creeps up your spine: you know, with the certainty of a bullet shattering glass, that you are racing death itself. It’s already here. The parasite coils, slick and obscene, at Haeun’s throat, claws digging into the flutter of her pulse, the promise of her next breath slipping away, snuffed out as if she were nothing but a candle in a hurricane. There’s no mercy, no magic to bargain with. You arrive in time to see the color drained from her lips, her chest stuttering in fits and starts, wires snaking over fragile skin. The black swan rears, monstrous and inevitable, wingspan blocking out every plea, every desperate hope. This is the moment where love is useless, where prayers rot on the tongue, where you realize that sometimes death is not a visitor but the rightful heir, the shadow that always returns, no matter how you beg or bargain.

You reach for her, for Jaemin, but the room is already colder. The monster crouches at the edge of her small, ruined body, claiming what you can’t protect, greedy for every heartbeat she might have left. Somewhere, a nurse is crying, the code echoing like a gunshot, but the truth is plain as daylight: the night doesn’t care how much you love. The black swan has come, and its hunger is bottomless. And as you watch, helpless, everything you built—love, sweat, tenderness, hope—is nothing but a trail of feathers in its wake, scattered and trampled as the darkness swallows your sunshine whole.

author’s note

now, if you made it this far, i’d love it if you left me a comment, reblog, or even a like. i read every single one and they mean so much to me—it’s genuinely the best way to let me know what moved you, what you loved, or even what broke your heart. writing is a little lonely sometimes, it always takes me restless nights, and hearing from you makes it all feel worthwhile, like sharing a secret or lighting a candle for these characters. so don’t be shy! every little note is treasured and makes me want to keep going. thank you for reading, and for loving these messy, magical people with me. <3

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[batmanisagatewaydrug]

Do you feel like if the kravenbros are still in denial of the incest, that dimitri would be more likely to fuck randos who look like his brother or to shapeshift into kraven to fuck twinks who look how he (dima) originally did.

the way I see it there's like three main options for what these two have going on within the canon of the film

first and least fun is of course that they've just been brooding in repressed mutual attraction for years and haven't ever done anything about it. to me this is probably the version where they'd be most likely to be fucking guys who remind them of each other, or at least Dmitri would. personally I find movie Kraven kind of deeply sexless overall, contrary to the abundance of kravenxreader fics cluttering the movie tag. this isn't my up of tea but it's great for a very specific brand of angst and slowburn or whatever tickles your ass.

then you've got the Big Sad option where the boys were coping with their shared miserable upbringing as teens by being maladjusted brotherboyfriends who were hooking up on the sly at boarding school and whenever their dad wasn't looking. they both remember that it happened but they've never spoken about it since so it's just this weird vibe of hanging out with your ex on his birthday every year without ever unpacking the very emotional breakup and also he's your brother. makes the abandonment of it all way more painful, adds some DELICIOUS layers of hurt, resentment, guilt, etc to their adult relationship. this one is really juicy story-wise and I can easily be sold on it, especially for a less comedic take on them.

the dumbest and sluttiest interpretation, which is obviously the one I prefer, is that they were already being weird as teens and as adults these absolute dunce caps have been getting together to fuck nasty on Dmitri's birthday for years and aren't even really bothering to try to hide it. everyone in their immediate vicinity just makes a little vomit face and looks away whenever the brothers are having a homo moment because no one wants to deal with it and Kraven bites. they still have a lot of repressed Feelings(TM) that they're simply not touching because they're both fucked up and awful but they are also, crucially, fucking. the gay sex isn't helping but it does make things funnier.