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xuyiyang · 1 day ago

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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

taglist — @yukisroom97 @fancypeacepersona @jaeminnanaaa17 @shiningnono @junrenjun @honeybeehorizon @neotannies @noorabora @oppabochim @chenlesfeetpic @kynessa @awktwurtle @euphormiia @hi00000234527 @yvvnii @sunwoosberrie @ppeachyttae @dee-zennie @ballsackzz101 @neonaby @kukkurookkoo @antifrggile @dedandelion @fymine @zoesruby @yoonohswife @jessga @markerloi @ryuhannaworld @yasminetrappy @sunghoonsgfreal @jaemjeno @lovetaroandtaemin @yunhoswrldddd @dowoonwoodealer @enhalovie @jenzyoit @sunseteternal @dewyspace @markiesfatbooty @raysofpolaris @sunseteternal @oppabochim @markerloi @xiuriii @neocults26

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mrs-delaney · 4 hours ago

Text

Letters You Never Sent | Part One

🏈 Joe Burrow x Reader | 17.2k-ish words

request: college sweethearts since ohio state 🫶 but by 2023, fame starts to change joe. he acts single, barely mentions his girlfriend, and reader starts feeling invisible—like she doesn’t even exist in his world anymore. so she starts writing letters. not to give to him—just to survive it. just to say the things she doesn’t feel safe saying out loud. they break up in january 2024. she moves out in a rush and forgets the letters. months later, joe’s in a new (casual) relationship. and the girl finds the letters. she gives them to him. he reads them. and it wrecks him. realizing how badly he hurt someone who loved him with everything she had. and maybe… just maybe… there’s still a happy ending. 🥺❤️

📝 Author’s Note:

this one is heavy, guys. sincerely, thank you to the anon who requested it. i literally cried writing this.

i hope you feel it.

honestly i’m a little nervous because i’ve never written anything this heavy before. these requests have been such a fun challenge—some of y’all are asking for things i never would’ve thought to write, and it’s pushing me in the best way.

i feel like this goes without saying but creative liberties were taken here.

this one’s for anyone who’s ever felt left behind. Part Two is coming Friday.

alexa play if i were a boy by beyoncé 💔

✨ my masterlist ✨

💌 want to be tagged in future fics? join my taglist here 💫

🌙 ask box is open — come keep me company, i’m around tonight 💌

The photo falls out of your copy of The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo like a ghost from another life.

You're sitting cross-legged on the hardwood floor of your new apartment, surrounded by boxes labeled in your neat handwriting—Books - Living Room, Kitchen - Essentials Only—building this new life piece by piece, methodically, like everything else you've learned to do alone. December afternoon light filters through windows that overlook a city that doesn't know your history, doesn't whisper his name on every street corner.

The photo is from October 2018. Ohio State tailgate. Both of you wearing Buckeye gear, his arm draped over your shoulders, caught mid-laugh at something off-camera. You remember exactly what made you both crack up—his terrible impression of Coach Meyer that had you snorting so hard you nearly choked on your beer.

You're looking up at him in the photo like he hung the moon. He's grinning down at you like you're the only person in a crowd of thousands.

God, you were so young. So sure you were different. So sure you were forever.

Your thumb traces over his face in the photo, and for a moment you can almost feel the scratch of his stubble, smell his cologne mixed with autumn air and possibility. Before the fame changed him. Before success became more important than the girl who believed in him first.

Before loving him nearly killed you.

You slip the photo back between the pages, closing the book gently. Not throwing it away - you're not that angry anymore, not that hurt. But not keeping it out either. Just... acknowledging it existed, acknowledging it mattered, before putting it back where it came from.

It wasn't always like this, you think, looking at those two kids who had no idea what was coming. It used to be perfect. It used to be the kind of love that made other people jealous, the kind that felt like finding your missing piece.

It used to be everything.

* * *

August 2017 Ohio State University

The first time you see Joe Burrow, he's late to freshman orientation and clearly doesn't want to be there.

You're sitting in what you quickly realize is the wrong breakout session—Student-Athletes: Balancing Academics and Competition—but the session has already started and you don't want to cause a disruption by leaving. You're a transfer student, sophomore standing but new to OSU, and you're already feeling like you stick out in all the wrong ways.

The door opens at 2:58 PM, and he slips in just under the wire. Still in workout gear—navy Nike shorts, gray Ohio State Athletics t-shirt, hair damp from a quick shower—backpack slung carelessly over one shoulder. He scans the room for an empty seat and his eyes land on the one next to you.

"Sorry," he murmurs, settling into the chair. "Long practice."

You glance at him sideways. He's got this boy-next-door thing going on that probably makes professors want to adopt him, but there's something in his posture that screams frustration. Like he's carrying weight that doesn't belong to him.

"No worries," you whisper back. "I'm not even supposed to be in this group anyway."

That gets a small smile. "Yeah? What group should you be in?"

"Literally any other one. I'm not an athlete."

"Lucky you," he says under his breath, and there's something bitter in it that makes you look at him more carefully.

The orientation leader—a perky senior with a clipboard and an Ohio State cheerleading background—claps her hands together. "Alright, everyone! Time for our icebreaker. Partner up with someone you don't know and share your biggest fear about college!"

You turn to look at the boy next to you. Up close, you can see he's got these blue-green eyes that look tired despite his age, and there's something in his expression that gives him just enough edge to be interesting.

"Well," you say, "looks like we're partners."

"Joe," he offers, extending his hand.

"Y/N." His handshake is firm, confident in that way that comes from being an athlete, but his palm is slightly damp with nerves.

"So," you continue, settling back in your chair, "biggest fear about college. You go first."

Joe runs a hand through his hair, making it stick up in directions that should look ridiculous but somehow just look endearing. "That I'm gonna wash out. Like, everyone here is so sure of themselves and I'm just hoping I don't completely embarrass myself."

The honesty catches you off guard. Most guys, especially athlete guys, would never admit that to a stranger. There's something refreshing about it, something real.

"Your turn," he says.

"That I'll always be the transfer kid who doesn't really belong anywhere. This is my second school already."

"Second? What happened to the first one?"

You shrug. "It was small, didn't have the program I wanted. I'm in nursing school."

His eyebrows raise. "Nursing? That's hardcore."

"Says the guy who probably gets hit by linebackers for fun."

"Quarterback, actually. Well, third-string quarterback. Behind J.T. and Haskins." He laughs, but there's no humor in it. "Living the dream."

Something in his tone makes you study his face more carefully. "How long have you been here?"

"This is my third year. Redshirted as a freshman, barely saw the field last year." He shrugs like it doesn't bother him, but you can see that it does. "Coach Meyer likes to remind me that I'd be better suited for Division III ball."

"Ouch."

"Yeah. But hey, everyone starts somewhere, right?"

"Hey," you say, surprising yourself with how much you want to make that bitter edge disappear from his voice, "some of the best players had to wait their turn."

"Easy for you to say. You're not getting called 'John Burrow' by your own teammates."

"John?"

"J.T.'s real name is Joe too. So I'm John now. Very creative." He rolls his eyes, but there's hurt underneath the sarcasm.

"That's stupid."

"Welcome to my life."

The orientation leader calls for everyone's attention, but Joe's eyes stay on yours for a beat longer than necessary.

"Well, John," you say, and his face falls slightly before you continue, "I think Joe suits you better."

His smile, when it comes, is genuine and a little surprised. Like no one's bothered to stick up for him in a while.

"Thanks," he says quietly.

After the session ends, you both stand in that awkward way people do when they're not sure if the conversation is over. The other students are filing out, heading to their next activities, but neither of you seems in a hurry to leave.

"So," Joe says, shouldering his backpack, "what's your next thing?"

"Campus tour, I think. You?"

"Same." He pauses, then: "Want to get lost together? I mean, figure out where we're going together?"

You can't help but smile. "Want some company?"

"Yeah. Is that okay?"

"It's very okay."

You walk out of the building together, into the late afternoon Ohio sun, and something about the way he holds the door for you, the way he asks about your major like he actually cares about the answer, makes you think this might be the start of something good.

You have no idea, walking across campus with this frustrated quarterback who makes you laugh, that you're falling in love with someone who will break your heart so completely you'll forget how to breathe.

You have no idea that six years from now, you'll be sitting alone in a new apartment, holding a photo from when you thought you'd made it—when he was yours and you were his and the future felt as bright as those Ohio autumn afternoons—wondering how love that felt so right could go so wrong.

All you know is that Joe Burrow has kind eyes and a crooked smile, and when he asks about nursing school, you get the feeling he's the kind of person who actually listens to the answer.

So you tell him. And he listens. And somewhere between the academic buildings and the student union, between his stories about small-town Ohio and your dreams of helping people heal, something begins that feels like coming home.

* * *

Three weeks later - September 2017

You're reorganizing your notes for the third time when Joe slides into the chair across from you at the library, twenty minutes late and looking frazzled.

"Sorry," he says, dropping his backpack with a thud that earns him dirty looks from nearby students. "Coach kept us running extra drills because apparently we 'throw like we're afraid of the ball.'"

You look up from your perfectly color-coded anatomy flashcards and can't help but smile at his air quotes. "Yikes. Sounds like a fun afternoon."

Oh, the best," he deadpans, pulling out a crumpled syllabus and what appears to be three different notebooks. "Thanks for agreeing to this, by the way. Writing papers isn't exactly my strong suit."

It's become a routine over the past few weeks—these "study sessions" that Joe desperately needs for his Communications class and that you agreed to help with because, well, you like him. More than you probably should for someone you've known less than a month.

"What's the assignment this week?" you ask, even though you already know. You may have looked up his class schedule. Not in a creepy way. In a helpful way.

Joe squints at his syllabus. "Something about... 'analyzing the impact of digital media on interpersonal relationships in the modern age.'" He looks up at you with those blue-green eyes that have been showing up in your dreams lately. "I get the concept, I just hate writing papers."

You lean back in your chair, studying him. He's wearing a gray Ohio State hoodie that's probably two sizes too big, his hair is still damp from the shower, and he's got that slightly frustrated expression he gets when he has to translate his thoughts into academic essay format.

"You know what you want to say, right? You're just stuck on how to say it?"

"Exactly." Joe pulls out his notebook, and you can see he's already outlined his main points. His handwriting is messy, but his ideas are solid. "I've got all these thoughts about how social media makes people perform fake versions of themselves, but every time I try to write it down, it sounds like garbage."

You scan his notes. They're actually insightful—observations about authenticity, external validation, the psychology behind curated online personas. "These are really good points, Joe. You're just overthinking the academic voice."

For the next hour, you help him organize his thoughts into essay format. Joe doesn't need help understanding the concepts—he grasps them intuitively, makes connections you hadn't even considered. He just needs someone to help him translate his natural intelligence into the formal structure professors expect.

"You know," you say, reading over his revised introduction, "you should consider taking more psychology classes. You have good instincts about human behavior."

Joe shakes his head with a small laugh. "Nah. I mean, it's interesting, but I'm pretty single-minded about what I want to do with my life."

"Which is?"

"Make it as a quarterback. That's it. That's the plan."

There's something in his voice—not doubt, but determination so fierce it's almost startling. This isn't some childhood dream he's holding onto. This is his life's purpose, and he knows it.

"Must be nice," you say, "being that sure about what you want."

"What about you? You seem pretty sure about nursing."

"I am. I want to help people, you know? There's something about being there when someone's at their most vulnerable, being the person who helps them heal..." You trail off, realizing you've probably said too much.

But Joe's nodding like he gets it. "That's exactly how I feel about football. Like, I know it sounds dramatic, but when I'm on the field, everything makes sense. Even when I'm riding the bench, just being part of it feels right."

"Do you ever feel like you're trying to live up to someone else's expectations?" you ask.

Joe considers this, absently tapping his pen. "Not really. I mean, my dad played football, so people assume I'm trying to follow in his footsteps, but this has always been my choice. I was actually really good at basketball - could've probably played in college - but football just felt right, you know? Dad never pushed it on me. If anything, he tried to make sure I wanted it for the right reasons."

"And do you?"

"Want it for the right reasons?" Joe's smile is small but certain. "Yeah. I love everything about it. The strategy, the pressure, the way a perfect pass feels coming off your hand. Even the parts that suck, like sitting behind three other guys on the depth chart."

There's no bitterness in his voice when he mentions the depth chart, just the confidence of someone who knows his time will come. It's attractive in a way that has nothing to do with his looks and everything to do with his certainty about who he is and what he wants.

The library is starting to empty out around you, the late afternoon crowd heading to dinner or evening activities. You should probably pack up, get back to your own studying, but neither of you seems in a hurry to leave.

"Can I ask you something?" Joe says, leaning forward in his chair.

"Shoot."

"Why are you helping me? Most people would just go through the motions."

The question catches you off guard with its directness. You set down your pen and consider how to answer honestly without revealing that you've developed feelings for the frustrated quarterback who brings you Red Bull during these sessions and remembers the chocolate covered espresso beans you like.

"Because I like how your mind works," you say finally. "You see things differently than other people. And because..." You pause, feeling heat creep up your neck. "Because I like you. As a person."

Joe's smile is soft and genuine, the kind that transforms his whole face. "I like you too. As a person."

"Good," you say, fighting your own smile. "Now, do you want to actually work on this paper, or should we keep having this very important philosophical discussion about why we like each other?"

"Can we do both?"

"We can do both."

You do work on the paper, eventually. But you also talk about everything else—his frustration with being redshirted, your adjustment to OSU, his family back home, your plans for nursing school. The conversation flows easily, naturally, like you've known each other for years instead of weeks.

"Do you ever worry you won't make it?" you ask.

Joe's quiet for a moment, then shakes his head. "Not really. I mean, I know it's going to be hard, and I know there are no guarantees, but..." He shrugs. "I can't imagine doing anything else. This is what I'm supposed to do."

That certainty, the way he talks about football like it's not just a career but a calling—it's one of the things that draws you to him. Joe Burrow knows exactly who he is and what he wants, even at nineteen.

"See? You're not the only one with good ideas."

The library lights start dimming—the universal signal that it's time to leave. You both pack up slowly, neither wanting to break the bubble you've created in this corner table surrounded by anatomy textbooks and his chicken-scratch notes.

"Same time next week?" Joe asks as you walk toward the exit together.

"Of course. But Joe?"

"Yeah?"

"You're going to nail this paper. You've got good instincts."

His smile is the last thing you see before you part ways in the parking lot, and you drive home with a dangerous fluttering in your chest and the absolute certainty that you're in trouble.

The good kind of trouble. The kind that makes you want to write his name in the margins of your notebooks and find excuses to bring up Ohio State quarterbacks in casual conversation.

You have no idea yet that you're falling in love. But somewhere between helping him find the words for his thoughts and watching him light up when he understands a concept, something has shifted.

* * *

Two weeks later - October 15th, 2017

You're sitting cross-legged on your narrow dorm bed at 11:47 PM, staring at a blank piece of notebook paper, trying to figure out why you can't get tonight out of your head.

Your roommate Allison is already asleep, her gentle snoring mixing with the sounds of the dorm settling around you. You should be sleeping too—you have Clinical Skills at eight AM and Anatomy & Physiology right after—but your mind won't stop replaying the last four hours.

Joe had texted around seven: Library still open? Could use help with that comm paper

What was supposed to be an hour of editing had turned into... something else entirely. You'd finished his revisions in forty-five minutes—his writing was getting better, more confident—but then he'd just stayed. Stayed and talked about everything and nothing until the library staff started pointedly stacking chairs around you.

"You know what's weird?" he'd said, leaning back in his chair and stretching his arms overhead. "I've been here two months and you're the first person who's asked me what I actually think about stuff. Not football stuff. Just... stuff."

"What do you mean?"

"Everyone either wants to talk about football or they act like I'm too dumb to have opinions about anything else." He'd run his hand through his hair, making it stick up in six different directions. "You asked me about that social media thing like you actually wanted to know what I thought."

"I did want to know what you thought."

"Why?"

The question had caught you off guard. "Because you're smart. Because you see things differently than other people do."

The way his face had changed when you said that—like no one had ever called him smart before, like it was the best compliment he'd ever received—had done something dangerous to your chest.

Then he'd told you about watching Tom Brady win his first Super Bowl when he was eight years old. About the exact moment he'd decided he wanted to be a quarterback, sitting in his family's living room in Ames, pointing at the TV and announcing to his parents that someday that would be him.

"Everyone thinks I'm crazy for being so sure about it," he'd said. "Like, what if I'm wrong? What if I'm not good enough? But I can't explain it—when I'm throwing, when I'm reading a defense, when I'm in the pocket... it's like everything else goes quiet. Like I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be."

The way his whole face had lit up when he talked about football, like he was describing falling in love—God, you'd never seen someone that passionate about anything. And when he'd looked at you after, like he was checking to see if you thought he was ridiculous, you'd felt something shift in your chest.

Something that felt a lot like falling.

Now you're sitting here at midnight, pen hovering over paper, trying to figure out how to capture what you're feeling. Because this isn't just a crush anymore. This is something bigger, something that scares you and thrills you at the same time.

You start writing before you can talk yourself out of it.

October 15, 2017

Dear Future Famous Football Player,

Okay, this is probably the most ridiculous thing I've ever done. I'm sitting here in my tiny dorm room at almost midnight, writing a letter to someone who will never read it, but I can't get tonight out of my head and I need to put this somewhere.

We stayed until the library closed again. We finished your paper revision in less than an hour (and it's really good, by the way—you have this way of cutting through academic BS that's actually kind of brilliant), but then we just... stayed. We talked about everything and nothing. About how Coach Meyer still calls you "the kid from Iowa" even though you've been here for years. About how you miss your mom's cooking but pretend the dining hall food is fine because complaining feels ungrateful. About how you've known exactly what you wanted to be since you were eight years old.

And then you told me about that Tom Brady Super Bowl. The way your whole face changed when you talked about that moment—when you decided you wanted to be a quarterback. God, Joe. I've never seen someone love something that much. It was like watching someone talk about religion.

Here's the thing though, and this is going to sound crazy: I've been sort of accidentally watching practice from my dorm window (yes, I'm a creeper, sue me), and I see how hard you work. I see you staying late, running routes with receivers who barely acknowledge you exist. I see you studying playbooks in the dining hall while other guys are talking about parties. I see the way you watch film on your laptop between classes.

So I'm starting this collection. Because someday—and I mean SOMEDAY soon—you're going to be exactly what you dreamed of being when you were eight years old. You're going to be the quarterback everyone talks about. You're going to make all those people who overlook you now remember your name.

And when that happens, I want to be able to show you this box full of letters and say "I told you so."

Maybe that makes me presumptuous. Maybe I'm just some nursing student who has no business believing in your future. But I do believe in it. I believe in YOU, even when you're frustrated on the bench, even when Coach Meyer looks right through you like you're not there, even when you doubt yourself.

You're going to be something special, Joe Burrow. I can feel it in my bones.

And honestly? I really hope I get to be there to see it happen.

Love (yes, I said it, fight me), Your biggest believer

P.S. - Your Communications paper is going to get an A. I'm calling it now.

You set the pen down and read over what you've written, heat creeping up your neck. It's sappy and presumptuous and completely insane, but it's also true. Every word of it.

You fold the letter carefully and slip it into the small wooden box your grandmother gave you before she died—the one that's supposed to hold "treasures." This feels like the start of something worth treasuring, even if Joe never knows it exists.

Especially because Joe will never know it exists.

You turn off your desk lamp and slip under your covers, but sleep doesn't come easily. Instead, you lie awake thinking about blue-green eyes and crooked smiles, about the way Joe's voice changes when he talks about football, about the impossible certainty that you're watching someone destined for greatness.

You don't know yet that you're falling in love. But somewhere between helping him find his voice and listening to him share his dreams, something has taken root in your chest.

Something that feels like forever.

Outside your window, the campus is quiet except for the distant sound of late-night traffic and someone's music playing softly down the hall. You drift off to sleep thinking about eight-year-old Joe Burrow pointing at a TV screen, declaring his future to the world.

You have no idea that six years from now, you'll remember this moment—the purity of believing in someone completely—as both the best and worst thing you ever did.

All you know is that you've never felt anything like this before. And you never want it to end.

* * *

December 16th, 2017

You're stress-eating pretzels in the library when Joe slides into the chair across from you, looking like he's been psyching himself up for something.

"Hey," he says, drumming his fingers on the table. "So, my birthday was last week."

"I know. You mentioned it like twelve times." You look up from your nursing textbook. "How was it? Very exciting twenty-first birthday celebrations?"

"Went to dinner with some of the guys. Nothing crazy." He's still drumming his fingers, which means he's nervous about something. "But, um, I was thinking. Since we don't have any more tutoring sessions before break..."

"Yeah?"

"Do you want to grab dinner? Like, not a study thing. Just dinner."

You set down your highlighter and really look at him. Joe's wearing his usual Ohio State hoodie and jeans, hair messy from practice, but there's something different about the way he's looking at you. Less casual. More intentional.

"Like a date?"

His ears turn red, which is honestly kind of endearing. "Maybe. Is that... would you want to do that?"

You've been waiting for this question for weeks, but now that it's happening, you feel oddly nervous. "Yeah. I'd like that."

"Cool. Okay. Good." He grins, and some of the tension leaves his shoulders. "Friday work? There's this place off-campus that's supposed to be decent."

"Friday works."

"Awesome. I'll pick you up around seven?"

"Sounds good."

After he leaves, you sit there for a solid ten minutes staring at your textbook without reading a single word, trying to process the fact that you're going on an actual date with Joe Burrow.

* * *

Friday comes faster than you expected. You change your shirt twice before settling on something that looks nice but not like you tried too hard—dark jeans and a sweater that Allison insists "brings out your eyes," whatever that means.

Joe picks you up right on time, looking nervous and freshly showered. He's wearing a button-down shirt instead of his usual hoodie, and the effort doesn't go unnoticed.

"You look nice," he says as you walk to his car.

"Thanks. You too."

The restaurant he picked is a small Italian place near campus, the kind with mismatched chairs and good garlic bread. Busy enough that you don't feel like you're on display, quiet enough that you can actually talk.

"I've never been here before," you admit as you look over the menu.

"Neither have I, actually. My roommate recommended it. Said the pasta's good and it won't bankrupt me."

"Solid criteria."

At first you're both a little awkward - this is officially a date, after all - but once the food comes, you fall back into your usual rhythm. Joe complains about winter conditioning, you vent about your anatomy professor, and somehow you end up arguing about whether cereal is soup.

"It absolutely does not," you insist, laughing at his mock-serious expression.

"Milk is a liquid. Cereal pieces are solid ingredients floating in that liquid. That's soup."

"By that logic, ice cream with toppings is soup."

"Maybe it is."

"You're insane."

"You're the one dating someone insane, so what does that say about you?"

The word 'dating' hangs in the air between you for a second. It's the first time either of you has acknowledged what this is, and you feel your cheeks warm.

"I guess I have questionable judgment," you say finally.

"Clearly."

The drive back to your dorm is comfortable, filled with easy conversation and Joe's terrible taste in music. When he parks outside your building, neither of you seems in a hurry to end the night.

"This was fun," you say, turning to face him.

"Yeah, it was. Better than I expected, honestly."

"Wow, don't overwhelm me with enthusiasm."

Joe laughs. "You know what I mean. I was nervous I'd be weird about it. The whole date thing."

"Were you weird about it?"

"Was I?"

You consider this. "Maybe a little. But in a cute way."

"Ouch."

You're both smiling, and there's this moment where the air seems to shift between you. Joe's eyes drop to your mouth for just a second before meeting your eyes again.

"Y/N," he says quietly.

"Yeah?"

"Can I kiss you?"

Your heart does something acrobatic in your chest. "Yeah. You can."

He leans across the center console, and you meet him halfway. The kiss is soft, tentative, nothing like the dramatic first kisses you've seen in movies. It's better because it's real—a little awkward because of the car's interior, but sweet and genuine and completely them.

When you break apart, you're both smiling.

"That was..." Joe starts.

"Yeah."

"I've been wanting to do that for a while."

"How long is a while?"

"Since that first day when you made fun of my terrible introduction in orientation."

You laugh. "I did not make fun of you."

"You absolutely did. It was very attractive."

"Good thing, because I plan to keep making fun of you."

"I'm counting on it."

You kiss him again, just because you can, and this time it's less nervous, more sure. When you finally pull away, Joe's smiling at you like you've just made his entire week.

"I should go," you say reluctantly. "Allison's probably watching from the window like a creep."

"Probably?"

You glance up at your dorm room window and see the curtain drop quickly. "Definitely."

"Tell Allie I said hi."

"I'll tell her you're a good kisser. She'll want details."

Joe's ears turn red again. "Please don't."

"Too late. I'm telling her everything."

"Everything?"

"Well, not everything. But definitely the cereal soup debate. She'll think you're insane too."

"Great."

You lean over and kiss his cheek before getting out of the car. "Text me when you get back to your place?"

"Yeah. I will."

You watch him drive away before heading inside, where Allie is waiting with an expression that suggests she's been pressed against the window for the past twenty minutes.

"So?" she demands.

"So what?"

"Don't you dare. How was it?"

You collapse onto your bed, touching your lips where you can still feel the ghost of Joe's kiss. "It was really good, Allie."

"Good enough for a second date?"

"Definitely good enough for a second date."

Your phone buzzes: Made it back. Thanks for tonight. Sweet dreams.

You fall asleep thinking about the way Joe looked at you across the dinner table, like he was seeing you

* * *

April 14th, 2018

You're sitting in the stands with Joe's parents, wearing his number on a t-shirt you got specifically for today, and your stomach is in knots.

"He's been so nervous about this," Robin Burrow says, adjusting her Ohio State visor. "Barely slept last night."

"He'll be fine," Jimmy adds, but you can hear the tension in his voice too. "Joe's been working his ass off for this opportunity."

The spring game is supposed to be a glorified scrimmage, but everyone knows what it really is: Joe's last real chance to prove he belongs ahead of Haskins on the depth chart. Coach Meyer has been non-committal about the backup quarterback situation all spring, but the writing's been on the wall since Haskins' performance at Michigan last season.

Your phone buzzes with a text from Joe: See you after. Wish me luck.

You text back: You don't need luck. You've got this.

But watching him during warm-ups, you can see the pressure weighing on him. His jaw is set in that way it gets when he's trying not to let anyone see how much something matters to him. Three years of waiting, three years of getting told he's not good enough, all leading to this moment.

"There he is," Robin says, pointing as Joe trots onto the field with the second-string offense.

He looks good in the scarlet and gray, confident despite the nerves you know he's feeling. You watch him go through his pre-snap reads, the way he surveys the defense with the kind of calm intelligence that should be obvious to anyone paying attention.

The first quarter is mostly vanilla plays, nothing too exciting. Joe gets a few snaps, completes his passes, hands the ball off cleanly. Solid but unremarkable. You can see him settling in, finding his rhythm.

Then, in the second quarter, something clicks.

Joe drops back on a play-action fake, and the defense bites hard. He steps up in the pocket, eyes downfield, and launches a perfect spiral to K.J. Hill for a 35-yard touchdown. The crowd erupts, and you're on your feet screaming before you even realize it.

"That's my boy!" Jimmy yells, and Robin is clutching your arm so hard you'll probably have bruises.

Joe doesn't celebrate much—just a small fist pump before jogging to the sideline—but when he looks up at the stands, his eyes find yours immediately. He points right at you, that crooked smile breaking across his face, and your heart does something acrobatic in your chest.

"Did he just—" you start.

"He pointed at you," Robin finishes with a smile. "I've never seen him do that before."

The rest of the game is a blur of completions and smart decisions. Joe finishes 18 of 23 for 279 yards and two touchdowns, no interceptions. It's the kind of performance that should settle any debate about who the backup quarterback should be.

When the final whistle blows, you practically sprint down to the field level, Robin and Jimmy close behind. The crowd is filing out, but you're pushing against the current, desperate to find Joe in the chaos of players and families and media.

You spot him near midfield, still in his uniform, talking to a reporter. His hair is sweaty and sticking up in six different directions, and there's a grass stain on his jersey, but he's glowing. Actually glowing with the kind of satisfaction that comes from proving everyone wrong.

When he sees you approaching, his face breaks into that smile—the real one, not the media-trained version—and he excuses himself from the interview.

"Did you see that?" he says, jogging over to you, still breathless from the game. "Did you see that pass to Hill?"

"I saw everything," you say, and before you can think about it, you're in his arms and he's spinning you around right there on the 50-yard line. "You were incredible."

When he sets you down, his hands stay on your waist, and there's something different in his eyes. Something that makes your breath catch.

"I love you," he says, the words tumbling out like he can't hold them back another second.

Time seems to stop. The noise of the stadium fades into background static. It's just you and Joe and this moment that feels like everything you've been building toward since that first day in orientation.

"I love you too," you say, and his smile is so bright it could power the entire stadium.

He kisses you right there on the field, in front of his parents and the remaining fans and anyone else who happens to be watching. It's not perfect—his lips taste like Gatorade and sweat, and someone's taking pictures with their phone—but it's real and it's yours and it's everything.

"I've been wanting to say that for months," he admits when you break apart, his forehead resting against yours.

"Only months?" you tease. "I've been thinking it since December."

"Since our first date?"

"Since our first date."

Joe laughs, the sound mixing with the distant noise of the crowd still filing out. "God, I was so nervous that night. I thought I was going to mess it up somehow."

"You didn't mess anything up. You were perfect."

"Not perfect. But maybe perfect for you?"

"Definitely perfect for me."

You're both grinning like idiots, caught up in the euphoria of the moment—his performance, the "I love you," the feeling that everything is finally falling into place.

"Joe!" Jimmy calls out, approaching with Robin and a huge smile. "Hell of a game, son."

"Thanks, Dad." Joe's arm stays around your waist, like he can't bear to let you go. "Did you see that scramble in the third quarter?"

"Saw all of it. You looked like a quarterback out there."

"He looked like the quarterback," Robin adds, hugging both of you at once. "I'm so proud of you."

The next hour passes in a blur of congratulations and photos and people telling Joe how well he played. You stay close to his side, basking in his happiness, in the way he keeps glancing at you like he still can't believe you're there.

It's not until you're walking back to the parking lot, just the two of you, that reality starts to creep back in.

"Think this changes anything?" you ask, swinging your joined hands between you.

"It has to, right?" Joe says, but there's uncertainty underneath the confidence. "I mean, I couldn't have played much better than that."

"You were amazing."

"Coach Meyer actually smiled at me. Like, a real smile, not one of those scary ones."

You laugh. "High praise."

"The highest."

But even as you laugh and celebrate and replay every throw from the game, there's a part of you that's worried. Because you know how these things work. You know that one good game doesn't necessarily change everything, especially when the coaches have already made up their minds.

You don't say any of this to Joe, though. Not today. Today is for celebrating, for savoring this moment when everything feels possible.

"I love you," he says again as you reach his car, like he's testing out how the words sound.

"I love you too," you reply, and you mean it with every fiber of your being.

You drive back to campus with the windows down and the music loud, Joe's hand in yours, both of you high on love and possibility. The future feels bright and wide open, full of promise.

You have no idea that this will be one of the last purely happy moments you'll have for a long time. That the coaches have already made their decision about the depth chart, that Joe's transfer will be announced in just a few weeks, that loving someone with dreams as big as his means learning to love them through disappointment too.

All you know is that Joe Burrow just told you he loves you after the best game of his college career, and right now, that feels like everything.

Later that night, in your dorm room

April 14, 2018

My love,

You pointed at me. In front of 70,000 people, in front of all the coaches, in front of your teammates - after that beautiful touchdown pass, you found me in the stands and pointed right at me.

You pointed at me after that touchdown pass. In front of all those people, after the best play of the game, you found me in the stands first. I've never felt anything like that.

Coach Meyer actually smiled at you today. I saw it from the stands. And when you told that reporter after the game that your girlfriend was your inspiration? I thought I might spontaneously combust from pride.

But mostly, I can't stop thinking about what you said on the field. "I love you." Just like that, no hesitation, no fear. Like it was the most natural thing in the world.

I love you too, Joe Burrow. I love your terrible jokes and your competitive streak over everything and the way you actually listen when I complain about my anatomy professor. I love how hard you work and how much you care and the way you make me feel like I'm the most important person in your world.

You're not the backup anymore. After today, you can't be. You're the future.

And I get to love you through all of it.

Forever yours, Y/N

* * *

May 18th, 2019

You find Joe sitting on the couch in his apartment, staring at his laptop screen like it holds the answers to the universe. There are papers scattered across the coffee table—transfer portal documents, LSU recruiting materials, statistics sheets—and he looks like he hasn't slept in days.

"Hey," you say softly, setting down the coffee you brought him. "How are you feeling?"

He doesn't answer immediately, just keeps staring at the screen. You can see the LSU Tigers logo reflected in his eyes.

"Joe?"

"I'm scared," he admits finally, his voice barely above a whisper. "What if I'm making a huge mistake? What if I go down there and just prove everyone right—that I really am Division III material?"

You sit down next to him, close enough to see the stress lines around his eyes. It's been a month since spring practice ended, a month since it became clear that despite his spring game performance, Haskins was still ahead of him on the depth chart. A month of Joe weighing his options while you watched him slowly break apart.

"Tell me what you're thinking," you say.

Joe closes the laptop and runs both hands through his hair. "Coach O called again yesterday. Says they want me, says I can compete for the starting job immediately. But..."

"But?"

"But what if I can't? What if I transfer and sit on another bench for another year? What if I'm just not good enough, and I'm too stubborn to see it?"

You've never seen Joe like this—so uncertain, so vulnerable. The confident quarterback who pointed at you in the stands after throwing touchdown passes has been replaced by someone who's questioning everything he thought he knew about himself.

"What does your gut tell you?" you ask.

"That I need to go. That staying here means accepting being a backup forever." He looks at you then, and there's something desperate in his expression. "But it also means leaving you. Leaving us. And we just figured this out."

Your heart clenches. You've been dreading this conversation, knowing it was coming but hoping somehow you could avoid it.

"Joe," you say carefully, "what are you asking me?"

"I'm asking if you think this is crazy. If you think I should just accept my place here and stay."

The question hangs between you like a test. You know what the easy answer is, what the selfish answer is. Ask him to stay. Tell him you need him here. Make this choice about you instead of about his dreams.

But you also know Joe. You know that if he stays at Ohio State just for you, he'll spend the rest of his life wondering what could have been. And eventually, he'll resent you for it.

"I think," you say slowly, "that you've been preparing for this opportunity your whole life. And I think you'll never forgive yourself if you don't take it."

Joe's shoulders slump slightly. "What about us?"

"What about us?"

"Long distance is hard. Really hard. And if I go to LSU..." He trails off, but you can hear the unspoken concern. If he goes to LSU and succeeds, if he becomes the quarterback he's always believed he could be, will there still be room for a girl from Ohio?

"Joe," you say, taking his hands in yours, "do you love me?"

"Of course I love you. That's why this is so hard."

"And do you trust me?"

"Yes."

"Then trust me when I say that if we're really meant to be together, we'll figure it out. Distance is just geography."

"It's not just geography. It's everything else. The pressure, the spotlight, the way everything changes when you're actually playing at that level."

You can hear the fear in his voice, and it breaks your heart. Not fear of failure—fear of success. Fear that becoming the quarterback he's always dreamed of being will cost him the life he's built with you.

"Hey," you say, moving closer to him on the couch. "Look at me."

He does, those blue-green eyes full of uncertainty.

"I fell in love with someone who dreams big. Who works harder than anyone I know. Who refuses to settle for less than what he's capable of." You brush a strand of hair off his forehead. "If you stay here just for me, you won't be that person anymore. And then what are we really holding onto?"

Joe is quiet for a long moment, processing what you've said. When he speaks again, his voice is steadier.

"What if everything changes? What if I go down there and become someone different?"

"Then I'll learn to love that person too. As long as he's still fundamentally you."

"And if the distance is too hard?"

"Then we'll deal with it when it happens. But Joe, you can't make decisions based on fear. You taught me that."

"When did I teach you that?"

You smile. "Every day. Every time you get back up after Coach Meyer tells you you're not good enough. Every time you choose to keep fighting instead of giving up. You've been teaching me how to be brave since the day I met you."

Something shifts in Joe's expression. The uncertainty is still there, but underneath it, you can see the determination that's always driven him starting to resurface.

"You really think I should go?"

"I think you should do what your heart tells you to do. And I think your heart has been telling you to go since the day Coach O first called."

Joe nods slowly, then reaches for his phone. "Okay. I'm going to call him back."

"Now?"

"Now. Before I lose my nerve."

You watch as Joe dials the number, your own heart racing. This is it. The moment that changes everything.

"Coach O? It's Joe Burrow... Yes, sir, I've made my decision."

You can't hear the other side of the conversation, but you can see Joe's posture straightening, his confidence returning with each word.

"I want to be a Tiger... Yes, sir, I'm ready to compete... Thank you, Coach. I won't let you down."

When he hangs up, Joe just sits there for a moment, staring at his phone like he can't believe what just happened.

"I did it," he says finally. "I'm really doing this."

"You're really doing this."

"Holy shit." He looks at you, and now there's excitement mixing with the fear. "I'm going to LSU."

"You're going to LSU."

He pulls you into his arms then, holding you tight against his chest. You can feel his heart racing, matching your own.

"I'm terrified," he whispers into your hair.

"That's how you know it's the right choice."

"What if I miss you too much?"

"Then you'll call me every day. And I'll visit as much as I can. And we'll make it work because we have to."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

That night, you lie awake long after Joe falls asleep beside you, staring at the ceiling and trying to process what just happened. Tomorrow, he'll start the transfer process. In a few months, he'll be in Louisiana, chasing the dream he's carried since he was eight years old.

And you'll be here, supporting him from 900 miles away, hoping that love is enough to bridge the distance.

You think about that first letter you wrote, about believing in someone's potential before anyone else could see it. You just never imagined that believing in someone could require letting them go.

But that's what love is, isn't it? Wanting someone to become the best version of themselves, even when it's hard for you. Even when it means sacrifice.

Joe stirs beside you, and you turn to watch him sleep. In the morning, everything will change. But right now, he's still yours, still the frustrated quarterback from Ohio who pointed at you in the stands and told you he loved you.

Tomorrow, you'll help him pack. You'll drive him to the airport when it's time to visit LSU. You'll smile and be supportive and pretend your heart isn't breaking a little bit.

Because that's what love looks like sometimes. It looks like letting go so the person you care about can fly.

May 19, 2019

My love,

You did it. You made the call. You chose the scary, uncertain path because it's the one that leads to your dreams.

I watched you dial Coach O's number last night, and I have never been more proud of anyone in my entire life. Not because you chose LSU, but because you chose yourself. You chose to bet on your own potential instead of accepting what other people think you're worth.

I know you're scared. I know this means leaving everything familiar behind. But Joe, this is what you've been working toward your entire life. This is your shot.

I also know you're worried about us. About what distance will do to what we've built. And I'd be lying if I said I wasn't scared too. But I meant what I said—if we're really meant to be together, we'll figure it out.

You're going to LSU to play in big games, to compete for championships, to become the quarterback you've always known you could be. I'm so excited to watch you do it.

And when you're standing on that field in Death Valley, throwing touchdown passes and proving everyone wrong, just remember that there's a girl in Ohio who believed in you first.

I love you. Go be great.

Forever yours, Your biggest believer

* * *

Chapter 7

December 14th, 2019 - New York City

You're sitting in the Heisman Trophy ceremony audience, wearing a navy blue dress you bought specifically for this moment and trying not to cry before Joe even wins.

To your left, Robin Burrow is clutching a tissue and whispering prayers under her breath. To your right, Jimmy keeps checking his watch like he can speed up time through sheer willpower. The whole family section is buzzing with nervous energy, but you feel strangely calm.

Joe's going to win. You've known it for weeks, maybe months. The stats don't lie—78% completion percentage, 48 touchdowns, 6 interceptions, leading LSU to an undefeated season. He's not just the best player in college football this year; he's having one of the greatest seasons in the history of the sport.

But sitting here, watching them announce the finalists, you're not thinking about statistics. You're thinking about that scared boy in his apartment seven months ago, terrified he was making the biggest mistake of his life.

"The 2019 Heisman Trophy winner," the presenter says, and your heart stops beating for a moment, "quarterback Joe Burrow, Louisiana State University."

The room goes quiet for a beat, then fills with soft sounds of joy. Robin's eyes fill with tears that she wipes away quickly. Jimmy nods once, proud but not surprised. And you—you just sit there for a second, overwhelmed by the magnitude of it all.

Joe Burrow. Heisman Trophy winner.

The boy who was told he belonged at Division III Mount Union just won the most prestigious individual award in college football.

When you finally manage to focus on the stage, Joe is walking up to accept the trophy, and he looks... composed. Confident. Like he belongs there, like this is exactly where his journey was always meant to lead.

But you know him well enough to see the emotion underneath the composure. The slight tremor in his hands as he accepts the trophy. The way his voice catches just barely when he starts his speech.

"First, I'd like to thank God," he begins, and you feel yourself leaning forward like you can somehow get closer to this moment. "My family, who's always been there for me through everything..."

He thanks his coaches, his teammates, the LSU community. You're filming it on your phone like every other proud girlfriend in the audience, but you're not really watching the screen. You're watching Joe—really watching him—and marveling at how far he's come.

"And to all the kids in Athens and Athens County that go home to not a lot of food on the table, hungry after school—you guys can be up here too," Joe says, his voice steady but emotional.

You're crying now, not because he mentioned you—he didn't, and that's okay—but because this is who he is. Someone who uses his biggest moment to think about hungry kids back home.

The rest of the ceremony passes in a blur. Photos with the trophy, interviews with reporters, a receiving line of congratulations that seems to last forever. You hang back with his family, not wanting to intrude on his moment, but Joe keeps looking for you in the crowd.

When he finally breaks away from the media obligations, he comes straight to you.

"Did you hear that?" he asks, still slightly breathless from everything. The trophy is in his hands, heavier and more beautiful than you imagined.

"I heard every word," you say, reaching up to straighten his tie that got crooked during all the photos. "That speech was incredible. Southeast Ohio, LSU, everything."

"I meant what I said about those kids back home. About them being able to make it up here too."

"I know you did. That's why I love you."

Joe's expression softens. "I should have mentioned you specifically. I had so many people to thank, and I ran out of time, but—"

"Joe, stop." You place your hand on his chest. "That speech was perfect. You thanked the people who got you here, who believed in you. You don't need to mention me for the whole world to know how I feel about you."

"But I want them to know. I want everyone to know that you're the reason I'm standing here."

"No," you say firmly. "You're standing here because you worked harder than anyone. Because you took a chance on yourself. Because you refused to give up when everyone told you that you weren't good enough."

Joe sets the trophy down carefully on a nearby table and pulls you into his arms. Right there in the middle of the Heisman ceremony reception, with his family and reporters and important people everywhere, he holds you like you're the most precious thing in the room.

"I love you," he says into your hair. "I love you so much it scares me sometimes."

"I love you too."

"After the championship game, after all this craziness dies down, we need to talk about the future. About what comes next."

"The NFL?"

"All of it. The draft, where we'll live, how we want to build our life together." His voice drops lower. "I want to marry you, Y/N. Not now, not tomorrow, but someday. I want you to know that's where my head is."

Your heart does something acrobatic in your chest. It's not a proposal, but it's a promise. A commitment to a future that includes both of you.

"I want that too," you whisper.

"Good," he says, pulling back to look at you. "Because I'm pretty sure I can't do any of this without you."

Later that night, back in your hotel room, you finally have a moment to process everything that happened. Joe is in the shower, and you're sitting on the bed with your laptop, looking at the photos that are already popping up online.

There's one of Joe holding the trophy, beaming with pure joy. Another of him hugging his parents. And then there's one of him during his speech, talking about the kids back home in Athens County.

The caption reads: "LSU QB Joe Burrow wins Heisman, dedicates moment to hungry kids."

You're not mentioned in the articles, and that's okay. His speech wasn't about personal thanks—it was about using his platform for something bigger. That's who Joe is, even in his biggest moment.

You've loved him since he was a frustrated third-string quarterback that nobody believed in. You supported him through the scariest decision of his college career. You've been there for every step of this incredible journey.

And now he's the best player in college football, and you get to be proud of both his talent and his character. It feels like the beginning of everything.

December 14, 2019

My Heisman winner,

I'm sitting in our hotel room writing this while you're in the shower, and I can hear you humming. Actually humming. Like you're so happy you can't contain it.

When they called your name tonight, I felt like my heart might literally explode. Not just because you won, but because you looked for me in the crowd first. Before the cameras, before the handshakes, before the trophy—you found my eyes.

You didn't mention me in your speech, and that's okay. You talked about the kids back home, about Athens County, about giving hope to people who don't have much. That's who you are - even in your biggest moment, you were thinking about others. I was so proud watching you up there, using your platform for something bigger than yourself.

Do you remember orientation day? When we were both convinced we didn't belong anywhere? Look at us now. You're holding the Heisman Trophy and talking about our future together like it's the most natural thing in the world.

I'm adding tonight's program to this collection, right next to that first letter I wrote when you were worried about embarrassing yourself. The boy who was afraid he wasn't good enough just won the most prestigious award in college football.

I told you so, didn't I? I told you from the very beginning.

You're everything I always knew you were. And somehow, impossibly, you're mine.

Forever yours, The girl who knew first

P.S. - Your speech made me cry. Happy tears. The best kind.

* * *

April 23rd, 2020

The Burrow family living room has been transformed into draft day headquarters. There are laptops everywhere, multiple TV screens showing different networks, and enough snacks to feed a small army. You're sitting on the couch next to Joe, your legs curled underneath you, trying to pretend like your heart isn't beating out of your chest.

Everyone knows Joe's going first overall to Cincinnati. It's been a foregone conclusion for months. But sitting here, waiting for it to become official, the nerves are real.

"Stop bouncing your leg," you whisper to Joe, placing your hand on his thigh.

"I'm not bouncing my leg."

"You're absolutely bouncing your leg."

Joe looks down and realizes you're right. He stills his leg but immediately starts drumming his fingers on the arm of the couch instead.

"Joe," Robin says from across the room, "you're going to wear a hole in that fabric."

"Sorry." He stops drumming his fingers and instead reaches for your hand, interlacing your fingers with his. "I know it's Cincinnati. I know it's basically guaranteed. But until I hear my name called..."

"Hey," you say softly, squeezing his hand. "Breathe. This is your moment. Enjoy it."

The living room is full of both your families - his parents, your parents who drove down from Ohio, his brothers, and a few close family friends. It should feel overwhelming, but instead it feels perfect. Like everyone who matters is here to witness this moment.

When Roger Goodell appears on screen in his home office (because of course the 2020 draft is virtual), the room goes quiet.

"With the first pick in the 2020 NFL Draft, the Cincinnati Bengals select... Joe Burrow, quarterback, LSU."

The room explodes in celebration. Everyone's on their feet at once - hugging, cheering, shouting congratulations over each other. Someone's taking pictures, someone else is already on the phone spreading the news. It's chaos, but the good kind.

And Joe? Joe just sits there for a second, staring at the TV like he can't quite believe it's real.

"You did it," you whisper, and that seems to snap him out of it.

He turns to you with the biggest smile you've ever seen and pulls you into his arms, spinning you around right there in the living room while everyone cheers.

"I did it," he says into your ear. "Holy shit, I actually did it."

"Language, Joseph," Robin calls out, but she's laughing through her tears.

"Sorry, Mom. Holy crap, I actually did it."

The next few hours are a blur of phone calls and interviews and congratulations. You mostly stay in the background, letting Joe have his moment, but he keeps pulling you back to his side. When ESPN calls for a quick interview, his first words are about the journey, about LSU, about all the people who believed in him.

Later that night, after everyone has gone home and it's just you and Joe sitting on his back porch, you finally have a moment to process what happened.

"Number one overall," you say, still somewhat in disbelief.

"Number one overall," he repeats. "To Cincinnati, of all places."

"You excited about that?"

Joe considers this. "Yeah, actually. I am. It's close to home, close to you. And they need a quarterback badly enough that I'll probably get to play right away."

"No more sitting on the bench."

You're quiet for a moment, both of you looking out at the backyard where you've spent so many evenings over the past year whenever you visited from Ohio.

"So," you say finally. "Cincinnati."

"Cincinnati," Joe agrees. "You know, if you wanted to... I mean, if you're interested..."

"You're asking me to move with you?"

He turns to look at you, and there's something vulnerable in his expression. "Yeah. I am. I know it's a big ask, and I know you have your life in here, but—"

"Yes."

"Yes?"

"Yes, I'll move to Cincinnati with you. Of course I will."

Joe's smile is so bright it could power the entire neighborhood. "Really?"

"Really. Though I'll need to find a job, and we'll need to figure out living arrangements, and—"

Joe cuts you off by kissing you, soft and sweet and full of promise.

"We'll figure it out," he says when you break apart. "All of it. Together."

* * *

July 25th, 2020

Moving day is chaos.

You're standing in what will be your new apartment in Cincinnati, surrounded by boxes and furniture and the general disaster that comes with combining two people's lives into one space. Joe is attempting to assemble what the instructions claim is a coffee table but looks more like abstract art.

"I think you're missing a screw," you say, looking over his shoulder.

"I'm not missing a screw. The instructions are wrong."

"The instructions are not wrong, Joe. You probably have it upside down."

"I do not have it— Oh." He flips the piece he's been struggling with, and suddenly everything makes sense. "Okay, maybe I had it upside down."

You laugh and kiss the top of his head. "Good thing you're pretty."

"Hey!"

The apartment is perfect for you both—modern but not cold, spacious but not overwhelming, close to the facility but still in a neighborhood that feels like home. You found it together, both of your names on the lease, both of your input on the furniture. It feels like a real partnership.

"I still can't believe we did this," you say, looking around at boxes labeled with both your handwriting.

"What, moved in together?"

"All of it. You getting drafted, me finding a job at Cincinnati Children's, us actually doing this crazy thing."

Joe stands up from his coffee table project and walks over to you, wrapping his arms around your waist from behind.

"Not crazy," he says. "Right. This feels right."

You lean back into his chest, fitting perfectly against him like you always have. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, you can see the Cincinnati skyline in the distance, but it's the reflection of you two together that catches your attention—Joe's chin resting on your shoulder, your hands covering his where they're clasped around your waist.

"It does feel right," you agree. "Scary, but right."

"What's scary about it?"

You turn in his arms to face him. "Everything's changing so fast. Six months ago you were in college, I was finishing my degree in Ohio, and now we're here. You're about to be an NFL quarterback, I'm starting at the hospital next week..." You gesture around at the boxes. "We're adults. Like, with a lease and everything."

"We've been adults, babe."

"Have we? Because I still feel like I'm playing house sometimes."

Joe's expression grows more serious. "Hey, look at me." When you do, his blue-green eyes are steady, certain. "This isn't playing house. This is us building something real. Something that's ours."

Before you can respond, there's a loud crash from the kitchen, followed by a string of colorful language.

"Everything okay in there?" Joe calls out.

"Define okay," comes Jimmy's voice. "I may have just christened your new kitchen floor with a box of your fancy plates."

You and Joe exchange a look and burst out laughing.

"I'll get the broom," you say.

"I'll survey the damage," Joe says.

In the kitchen, Jimmy is standing amid a sea of ceramic shards and packing paper, looking like a kid who just broke his mom's favorite vase.

"I'm sorry," he says immediately. "I was trying to put the box on the counter and it just slipped and—"

"Dad, it's fine," Joe says, already grabbing the dustpan from where you'd unpacked it an hour ago. "They were just plates."

"They were the good plates," you point out, crouching down to pick up the larger pieces. "The ones we spent forty-five minutes debating at Pottery Barn."

"We can get new good plates," Joe says. "Better good plates."

"I'll replace them," Jimmy insists. "I'll buy you the best plates money can buy."

Robin appears in the doorway, takes one look at the situation, and shakes her head. "Jimmy Burrow, what did you do?"

"It was an accident!"

"It's always an accident with you."

You watch Joe's parents bicker good-naturedly while you both clean up the mess, and something warm settles in your chest. This is what you'd imagined when you decided to move in together—not just the two of you, but the life that comes with being together. Family helping you move, broken plates on the first day, the comfortable chaos of people who love each other.

"You know," you say quietly to Joe as you dump ceramic shards into the trash, "maybe the broken plates are good luck. Like, we got the disaster out of the way early."

"Is that a thing?"

"I'm making it a thing."

Joe grins. "I like it. New tradition: break something expensive on moving day for good luck."

"Let's not make it a tradition. These plates were thirty dollars each."

"Thirty dollars each?" Jimmy's voice rises an octave. "For plates?"

"They were really nice plates, Dad."

"They were highway robbery is what they were."

An hour later, the kitchen is cleaned up and Jimmy has been banned from touching anything fragile. You've moved on to unpacking books in what will be Joe's office—though you've already claimed half the shelves for your nursing textbooks and novels.

"We need a system," you say, holding up a copy of his quarterback camp playbook. "Your football stuff, my medical stuff, shared stuff?"

"Or," Joe says, unpacking his LSU championship trophy and setting it carefully on the bookshelf, "we could just mix it all together. Show the world that a football playbook and Gray's Anatomy can coexist peacefully."

You laugh. "That's very philosophical of you."

"I have my moments."

You're about to respond when Robin appears in the doorway holding your jewelry box—the small wooden one your grandmother left you.

"Sweetie, where do you want this?" she asks. "I wasn't sure if it should go in the bedroom or..."

"The bedroom's fine," you say, taking it from her. "Thank you."

Joe glances at the box. "What's in there?"

"Just some personal stuff from college," you say, taking it from Robin. "I'll put it away."

He nods and goes back to unpacking, not thinking much of it. You make a mental note to find a good hiding spot for your collection of letters he'll never read.

Joe doesn't press, just goes back to unpacking his books, and you clutch the jewelry box a little tighter. Later, when you're alone, you'll find a good hiding spot for it. Somewhere safe where you can keep adding to your collection of letters he'll never read.

By evening, the apartment is starting to look like a home. The furniture is assembled (correctly, after Joe swallowed his pride and actually read the instructions), the kitchen is functional, and you've managed to find places for most of your belongings.

Joe's parents left an hour ago after Robin made you promise to call if you need anything and Jimmy apologized one more time about the plates. Now it's just you and Joe, sitting on your new couch, takeout containers scattered on the coffee table he finally assembled properly, looking around at what you've built together.

"We did good," Joe says, his arm around your shoulders.

"We did," you agree. "Though I think your dad's banned from helping us move ever again."

"Definitely banned."

You curl closer to him, your head on his shoulder. "Joe?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm proud of us. For taking this leap."

"Even if it's scary?"

"Especially because it's scary."

Joe presses a kiss to the top of your head. "You know what I love about this place?"

"What?"

"It's ours. Not my apartment that you stay at sometimes, not your place that I visit. Ours. Both our names on the lease, both our books on the shelves, both our terrible cooking in the kitchen."

"Hey, my cooking isn't terrible."

"Remember the smoke alarm incident last week?"

"That was an accident!"

You laugh and burrow deeper into his side. "Fine, but you're not much better."

"Which is why we're going to learn together. Just like everything else."

Outside, Cincinnati is settling into evening—traffic sounds, distant music, the urban symphony you're both still getting used to after years of college towns. But inside your apartment, everything is quiet and warm and exactly right.

"I love you," you say into the comfortable silence.

"I love you too," Joe replies, pulling you closer. "This feels right, doesn't it? Being here together."

"It does," you agree, settling against his side. "Even with your dad breaking our plates on day one."

"Hey, that's a family tradition now. Good luck plates."

You're both laughing when Joe's phone buzzes with a text. He glances at it and his expression shifts slightly.

"What is it?"

"Coach Taylor. Team meeting tomorrow morning. Looks like the real work starts now."

There's something in his voice—excitement mixed with nerves, anticipation tempered by the weight of what's coming. Tomorrow, he stops being Joe Burrow the draft pick and becomes Joe Burrow the Cincinnati Bengals starting quarterback. Tomorrow, everything changes again.

"You ready?" you ask.

Joe considers this, looking around at the apartment you've built together, at the life you're starting to create. When he looks back at you, his smile is confident and sure.

"Yeah," he says. "I'm ready."

And sitting there on your new couch in your shared apartment, surrounded by boxes and the promise of everything ahead, you believe him completely.

You have no idea that this moment—this perfect, ordinary evening of takeout and broken plates and dreams coming true—will become a memory you'll cling to years later when everything falls apart.

All you know is that you love Joe Burrow, and he loves you, and you're building something beautiful together.

It feels like forever.

Later that night, after Joe falls asleep

July 25, 2020

My love,

We moved in together today. Officially, permanently, with both our names on a lease and everything. Your dad broke our good plates (the ones we spent forever picking out at Pottery Barn), and you spent two hours assembling a coffee table upside down, and it was perfect.

Perfect because it was real. Because we're not playing house or pretending anymore—we're actually doing this. Building a life together. Making a home.

I keep looking around this apartment and thinking about how it's ours. Our books mixed together on the shelves, our pictures on the walls, our terrible cooking experiments in the kitchen. Everything we've worked toward, everything we've dreamed about, starting right here.

You asked about my letters earlier, and I almost told you. Almost handed you this entire box and said "here, read about how much I love you." But these are mine. My way of loving you, my way of documenting this incredible journey we're on.

Someday, maybe I'll show them to you. When we're old and gray and you want to remember how we got here. But for now, they're my secret way of telling you everything I feel.

Tomorrow you start training camp. Tomorrow you become an NFL quarterback for real. But tonight, you're just my Joe, sleeping next to me in our bed in our apartment, and everything is exactly as it should be.

I love our life, Joe Burrow. I love the life we're building.

Forever yours, Y/N

* * *

April 15th, 2022 - Cincinnati Children's Hospital

You're adjusting the IV drip for seven-year-old Dylan when you hear the commotion in the hallway. Excited voices, the sound of sneakers squeaking on linoleum, someone saying "Oh my God, is that really him?"

Dylan looks up at you with wide eyes. "Miss Y/N, what's all that noise?"

You smile, checking his chart one more time. "I think some very special visitors just arrived."

"Special visitors?"

Before you can answer, Joe appears in the doorway wearing his Bengals polo and that easy smile that makes patients feel instantly comfortable. Behind him are Ja'Marr, Tyler Boyd, and a few other teammates, but Dylan only has eyes for Joe.

"No way," Dylan breathes. "No freaking way."

"Dylan Rodriguez," you say in your best stern nurse voice, "what did we say about language?"

"Sorry, Miss Y/N. But that's Joe Burrow!"

Joe steps into the room, and you feel that familiar flutter in your chest watching him with kids. He's a natural—crouching down to Dylan's eye level, asking about his favorite plays, listening to Dylan explain his treatment like Joe's genuinely interested in the medical details.

"So Dylan," Joe says, pulling up a chair beside the bed, "Miss Y/N here tells me you're the bravest kid on this whole floor."

Dylan beams. "She takes really good care of me. She's the best nurse ever."

Joe glances at you, and there's something in his expression that makes your heart skip. Pride, love, admiration—like he's seeing you through Dylan's eyes and falling for you all over again.

"She really is," Joe agrees. "I'm pretty lucky she takes care of me too."

"She takes care of you?" Dylan asks, confused.

"Well," Joe says, winking at you, "she's my girlfriend. So when I get hurt playing football, she patches me up just like she patches you up."

Dylan's eyes go wide. "Miss Y/N is your girlfriend? That's so cool!"

"I think so too," Joe says, and the way he's looking at you makes you forget there are other people in the room.

The next two hours pass in a blur of room visits, autographs, and photos. You work alongside Joe and his teammates, but it doesn't feel like work. It feels like showing off your two favorite worlds—Joe getting to see you in your element, your patients getting to meet their hero.

In eight-year-old Sophie's room, you're checking her post-surgical dressings when she whispers conspiratorially to Joe, "Miss Y/N sang to me when I was scared before my operation."

"She did?" Joe looks over at you. "What did she sing?"

"Taylor Swift," Sophie giggles. "She knows all the words."

"She's very talented," Joe says seriously. "Though I have to warn you, her singing voice is... questionable."

"Hey!" you protest, laughing. "Sophie, don't listen to him. He thinks he can sing better than me."

"Can you?" Sophie asks Joe.

"Absolutely not. But don't tell her I said that."

In the NICU, you're explaining ventilator settings to Tyler Boyd's wife Kierra when Joe comes up behind you, his hand settling naturally on your lower back.

"You're really good at this," he murmurs in your ear.

"It's my job."

"No, I mean... you're really good with them. The kids, the families. They all love you."

You turn to look at him. "You sound surprised."

"Not surprised. Just... proud. Really fucking proud."

"Language, Burrow," you tease, glancing around at the tiny patients. "There are babies present."

"Sorry," he grins. "Really freaking proud."

The local news crew arrives halfway through the visit, and you try to fade into the background like you usually do during Joe's media obligations. But this time, Joe won't let you.

"Actually," he says to the reporter, his arm sliding around your waist, "I want to make sure you get the real story here. This is Y/N, my girlfriend, and she's a nurse here at Children's. These kids aren't just patients to her—they're her kids. She takes care of them every single day, not just when the cameras are here."

The reporter's eyes light up. "Oh, that's a wonderful angle. How long have you been working here, Y/N?"

You glance at Joe, suddenly nervous to be on camera, but he squeezes your hand encouragingly.

"Almost two years now," you say. "Since Joe and I moved to Cincinnati."

"And what's it like having your boyfriend surprise your patients?"

"It's pretty special," you admit. "These kids fight so hard every day. Seeing them light up like this... it's everything."

Joe's thumb traces circles on your hip, and when you look at him, he's watching you with an expression so soft it takes your breath away.

"She's amazing," he tells the camera, but his eyes never leave yours. "These families are lucky to have her."

Later, after the team has left and you're finishing your shift, you find a note tucked into your locker:

Thank you for letting us see what you do. Watching you with those kids today... I've never been more proud to be with someone. You're incredible at this, babe. Really incredible. - J

P.S. - Dylan asked me if I was going to marry you. I told him that was the plan. Hope that's okay.

You read the note three times, your heart doing acrobatic flips in your chest. The plan. Like it's not a question of if, but when.

That night, curled up next to Joe on the couch, you're both scrolling through the news coverage on your phones.

"Look at this," Joe says, showing you his screen. "Channel 12 posted a whole segment about you. 'Bengals QB's girlfriend is local children's nurse.'"

You peer at his phone. The photo they used is from today—you and Joe with Dylan, all three of you laughing at something off-camera. You look happy. More than happy. You look like you belong.

"They called me 'local children's nurse,'" you point out. "Not just 'Bengals QB's girlfriend.'"

"Good. That's what you are. That's who you are."

You curl closer to him, your head on his shoulder. "Thank you for today. For including me, for making it about the kids."

"Thank you for being amazing. Seriously, watching you work today..." He trails off, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. "I love seeing you in your element. You're so good at what you do."

"I love what I do."

"I know. It shows."

You're quiet for a moment, both of you scrolling through comments on the hospital's Facebook post about the visit. Most of them are about Joe, but there are plenty about you too:

"Y/N is the sweetest nurse! She took such good care of my daughter last year."

"Love that Joe's girlfriend actually works at the hospital. She's not just there for the cameras."

"You can tell she really cares about those kids. What a sweet couple."

"See?" Joe says, reading over your shoulder. "They love you."

"They love us," you correct.

"They love us," he agrees.

Later that night, after Joe falls asleep, you slip out of bed and retrieve your wooden box from its hiding place in the closet. You've been writing letters less frequently lately—life has been so good, so stable, that the urgent need to document everything has faded into simple contentment.

But today deserves to be remembered.

April 15, 2022

My love,

Today you came to my hospital. MY hospital, with MY kids, and you were so perfect I could hardly breathe.

Watching you with Dylan, listening to you tease me about my "questionable" singing voice when Sophie brought up your Taylor Swift performances, seeing you crouch down to every child's eye level like they're the most important people in the world... God, Joe. My heart was so full I thought it might burst.

But the best part wasn't watching you with the kids. It was watching you watch me. The way you looked at me when Dylan called me the best nurse ever. The way you insisted the reporter interview me too, like you were proud to claim me. The way you told that little girl at the end that you were planning to marry me someday.

THE PLAN, you wrote in your note. Like it's not even a question anymore.

I've never felt more seen, more valued, more loved than I did today. You didn't just bring the team to visit kids. You brought them to see what I do, who I am when I'm not just "Joe Burrow's girlfriend." You made sure everyone knew I matter.

This is us at our best, Joe. This is the team we make, the life we're building. You supporting my dreams while I support yours. You being proud of me while I'm proud of you.

I love our life. I love the way we fit together. I love that your dreams and my dreams somehow make perfect sense side by side.

Forever yours, Your very proud girlfriend

P.S. - I do NOT have a questionable singing voice. Sophie clearly has excellent taste.

* * *

January 30, 2022 - Arrowhead Stadium, Kansas City

The silence in the family section is deafening.

You're sitting between Robin and Jimmy, all three of you staring at the field in stunned disbelief. Overtime. They lost in overtime. Three points away from the Super Bowl, and it's over.

Your hands are shaking as you watch Joe on the field, still in his uniform, helmet off, talking to Patrick Mahomes at midfield. Even from here, you can see the devastation in his posture—shoulders slumped, head down, the weight of this loss written in every line of his body.

"He played his heart out," Robin whispers, tears streaming down her face. "He gave everything he had."

"It wasn't enough," Jimmy says quietly, and the defeat in his voice breaks your heart almost as much as watching Joe does.

You want to run onto the field, want to wrap Joe in your arms and tell him it's okay, that there will be other chances, other seasons. But you know better. You know how much this meant to him, how hard he worked to get here, how close they came to something extraordinary.

The family section starts to empty slowly, other wives and girlfriends gathering their things, preparing for the long, quiet flights home. But you don't move. You can't move. You just keep watching Joe, waiting.

"Come on, honey," Robin says gently, touching your arm. "We should head down."

You nod but don't get up immediately. You're memorizing this moment—not because you want to, but because you know it's important. This is Joe at his lowest point, and you're about to find out if you're still the person he turns to when his world falls apart.

The walk down to the field level feels endless. Security guards guide the families through corridors that smell like concrete and disappointment. You can hear muffled crying, quiet conversations, the sound of dreams being packed away for another year.

When you finally make it to the designated family area outside the locker room, most of the other players have already come and gone. You wait with Joe's parents, all of you checking your phones obsessively, none of you sure what to say.

Then you see him.

Joe emerges from the tunnel still in his uniform, his face a mask of controlled devastation. His eyes scan the small crowd of remaining family members, and when they land on you, something in his expression cracks.

He doesn't say anything, just walks straight to you and pulls you into his arms so tightly you can barely breathe. You feel his body shaking against yours, feel the way he buries his face in your neck like he's trying to disappear.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, his voice broken. "I'm so fucking sorry."

"No," you say fiercely, pulling back to look at him. "Don't you dare apologize. Do you hear me? Don't you dare."

Joe's eyes are red-rimmed, whether from tears or exhaustion or pure emotion, you can't tell. "We were so close. We were right there."

"I know, baby. I know."

"I let everyone down. The team, the city, you—"

"Stop." You cup his face in your hands, forcing him to look at you. "You didn't let anyone down. You were incredible. You ARE incredible."

Joe shakes his head, but you don't let him argue.

"Joe Burrow, you took this team to the AFC Championship in your second season. You came back from a knee injury that could have ended your career and you made it to one game away from the Super Bowl. That's not failure. That's extraordinary."

"It doesn't feel extraordinary."

"I know it doesn't. Not right now. But baby, this is just the beginning. This isn't the end of your story—it's the chapter that makes the next one even better."

Joe pulls you close again, and you feel some of the tension leave his body. Around you, his parents are talking quietly to Ja'Marr's family, giving you both space to process this moment.

"I love you," Joe says into your hair. "I need you to know that. I couldn't have gotten here without you."

"I love you too. And I'm so proud of you I can barely stand it."

"Even after that interception in overtime?"

"Especially after that interception in overtime. Because you got back up. You always get back up."

Joe pulls back to look at you again, and there's something in his eyes—gratitude, love, but also a kind of desperation. Like he needs you to anchor him to something real when everything else feels like it's falling apart.

"Come on," he says, his arm around your waist. "Let's get out of here."

The flight back to Cincinnati is quiet. Joe stares out the window for most of it, your hand in his, occasionally squeezing your fingers like he's making sure you're still there. You don't try to fill the silence with empty platitudes. You just stay close, let him know through your presence that he doesn't have to carry this alone.

Back in your apartment, Joe goes straight to the shower while you order food from his favorite Sushi place. When he emerges twenty minutes later, hair damp and wearing sweatpants and an old Ohio State t-shirt, he looks younger. Less like an NFL quarterback and more like the boy you fell in love with in college.

"Not hungry," he says when he sees the takeout containers.

"I know. But you should eat something anyway."

"Y/N—"

"Please. For me."

Joe sighs but sits down next to you on the couch, mechanically eating pad thai while you curl up against his side. The TV is on, but neither of you is really watching. There will be analysis tomorrow, articles about what went wrong, speculation about next season. Tonight is just for grieving.

"Do you want to talk about it?" you ask after a while.

"Not really."

"Okay."

"Maybe later. Just... not tonight."

You press a kiss to his shoulder. "Whatever you need."

Joe sets down his barely touched food and turns to face you. "I need this. Just you. And me."

"You have me. You'll always have me."

"Promise?"

There's something vulnerable in the way he asks it, like he's not just talking about tonight or this loss, but about everything that's coming. The pressure, the expectations, the spotlight that's only going to get brighter.

"I promise," you say, and you mean it with every fiber of your being.

Joe kisses you then, soft and desperate and full of everything he can't say out loud. When you break apart, you're both breathing hard.

"I love you," he says again, like he needs to keep saying it to make sure it's real.

"I love you too. Win or lose, good games or bad games, I love you."

That night, Joe falls asleep with his head on your chest, your fingers running through his hair. You stay awake for a long time, listening to his breathing even out, feeling the weight of his trust in the way he sleeps so completely in your arms.

You think about what you said on the field—that this is just the beginning of his story. You believe that with everything in you. Joe Burrow will get back to this moment, and next time, he'll be ready.

What you don't know is that when he gets there, when he reaches the heights you're both dreaming of, you won't be standing next to him anymore.

All you know is that tonight, in this moment, you're exactly where you belong. You're the person he turns to when the world falls apart, the one who picks up the pieces and helps him remember who he is.

You're his home. His safe place. His forever.

At least, that's what you think.

Later that night, while Joe sleeps

January 30, 2022

My heartbroken love,

I'm writing this after you finally fell asleep. It took hours for your breathing to even out, for your body to stop carrying all that tension from tonight. You're curled up next to me now, finally peaceful after the worst night of your football career so far.

Watching you walk off that field tonight was the hardest thing I've ever had to do. Seeing you so close to your dreams and watching them slip away... God, Joe. My heart broke for you.

But then you found me. In all that chaos, all that devastation, you found me first. Not the media, not your teammates, not the coaches. Me. You walked straight to me like I was the only thing that could make any of this bearable.

That's when I knew. Not that I love you—I've known that for years—but that I'm the person you trust with your broken pieces. I'm who you turn to when everything falls apart.

You apologized tonight. You actually apologized to ME, like losing that game was something you did to me personally. Baby, you could never disappoint me. You could lose every game for the rest of your career and I would still be proud to love you.

But you won't lose every game. You won't even lose most games. Tonight was heartbreaking, but it wasn't an ending. It was education. It was motivation. It was the foundation for everything that's coming next.

You're going to get back there, Joe. And when you do, when you're holding that Lombardi Trophy, I want you to remember this night. Remember how it felt to fall short, so you never take success for granted.

I'll be there for all of it. The comeback, the victories, the championship we both know is coming. Just like I was there tonight.

Forever yours, Y/N

P.S. - You said you couldn't have gotten here without me. The truth is, I couldn't imagine being anywhere else.

* * *

March 15th, 2023

You're having lunch with your friend Emma at a trendy spot downtown, catching up on everything you've missed since she moved to Cincinnati for her marketing job. It feels good to have your college friend nearby again, someone who knew you before you became "Joe Burrow's girlfriend."

"So," Emma says, stabbing her salad with more force than necessary, "how are things with Mr. Quarterback? I barely see you guys together on social media anymore."

"We're good," you say automatically, the response you've perfected over the past few months. "Just busy. His schedule is crazy during the season, and now with all the off-season training..."

Emma nods, but there's something in her expression that makes you pause.

"Actually," she says, setting down her fork, "that's kind of why I wanted to talk to you. I saw something last night and I wasn't sure if I should mention it..."

Your stomach drops. "What kind of something?"

Emma pulls out her phone, and you watch her scroll through Instagram with the kind of purposeful navigation that means she's looking for something specific.

"Because," she says, turning her phone toward you, "when I was scrolling last night, I noticed Joe's been... active."

The screen shows Joe's Instagram activity. Your heart starts beating faster as you see a long list of likes on photos from accounts you don't recognize. @KelseyAnderson @DanielleFitness. @MiaMartinii.

"Sarah, what—"

"Keep scrolling," she says gently.

You scroll down with trembling fingers. Photo after photo of beautiful women—models, influencers, actresses. All liked by @Joeyb_9 All within the last few weeks.

Your mouth goes dry. "This... this doesn't mean anything. It's just social media."

But even as you say it, you're thinking about the photos. Bikini shots. Workout videos. Professional modeling photos where the women are wearing next to nothing.

"Honey," Sarah says softly, "there are like fifty of them. Just in the past month."

You hand her phone back, your hands shaking slightly. "He probably doesn't even realize he's doing it. You know how guys are with social media. They just scroll and like without thinking."

"Maybe," Emma says, but she doesn't sound convinced. "But Y/N, some of these are really... explicit. And it's not just random scrolling. Look."

She shows you her phone again, this time on @KelseyAnderson's profile. "He's been liking her photos for weeks. Consistently. And she's been liking his back."

The room feels like it's spinning. You stare at the phone, at the evidence of Joe's digital attention being given to women who look nothing like you. Women with perfect bodies and professional photographers and hundreds of thousands of followers.

"I probably shouldn't have shown you," Emma says, watching your face carefully. "I just... if it were my boyfriend, I'd want to know."

"No," you say quickly, "you did the right thing. I just... I need a minute to process this."

The rest of lunch passes in a blur. You go through the motions of eating, of responding to Emma's conversation, but your mind is spinning. Every interaction you've had with Joe over the past few weeks is suddenly cast in a different light.

The way he's been more distant lately. How he's always on his phone but angles it away from you. The fact that he hasn't posted a photo of you together since... when? You can't even remember.

"I should probably go," you say, checking the time even though you have nowhere urgent to be.

"Y/N," Emma says gently, "are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. It's just... a lot to think about."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"Not yet. But thank you for telling me. Really."

Emma nods, but she looks worried as you both stand to leave. "Call me later? Promise?"

"Promise."

But you don't go home. Instead, you drive aimlessly around Cincinnati, Emma's words echoing in your head. Fifty of them. Just in the past month.

When you finally make it back to your apartment, Joe is in the kitchen making a protein shake, still in his workout clothes from training.

"Hey babe," he says without looking up from his blender. "How was lunch with Emma?"

"Good," you say, trying to keep your voice normal. "How was training?"

"Brutal. Coach has us doing these new conditioning drills that are basically torture."

You watch him pour his shake into a tumbler, notice how he immediately reaches for his phone. The same phone he's been using to like photos of other women.

"Joe," you say before you can lose your nerve.

"Yeah?" He's scrolling already, not really looking at you.

"Can we talk?"

"Sure, what's up?" But he's still looking at his phone, and something inside you snaps.

"Can you put that down? Please?"

Joe looks up, surprised by your tone. "Everything okay?"

"That's what I want to ask you."

He sets his phone face-down on the counter and gives you his attention. "What's going on?"

You take a breath, trying to figure out how to bring this up without sounding like a crazy, jealous girlfriend. "Emma showed me your Instagram likes today."

Joe's expression doesn't change, but you catch the tiny flicker in his eyes. "My Instagram likes?"

"The photos you've been liking. Of other women."

"Y/N—"

"Models, influencers. A lot of them, Joe. Like, a really concerning amount of them."

Joe runs his hand through his hair, a tell you recognize from years of watching him when he's uncomfortable. "It's just social media. It doesn't mean anything."

"Doesn't it?"

"No, it doesn't. I scroll through my feed, I see photos, I like them. It's literally meaningless."

"But these aren't just random photos, Joe. These are specific accounts. Some of them you've been consistently liking for weeks."

"I don't monitor my likes, Y/N. I just double-tap and keep scrolling."

There's something in his tone—dismissive, almost annoyed—that makes your chest tighten. This isn't the Joe who used to listen to your concerns, who used to care when something upset you.

"So you're saying it means nothing? The fact that you're giving attention to dozens of half-naked women online?"

"Jesus, when you put it like that, you make it sound like I'm cheating or something."

"Aren't you? Kind of?"

Joe stares at you like you've lost your mind. "No, I'm not cheating. Not even kind of. I'm double-tapping photos on an app. That's it."

"It doesn't feel like 'that's it' to me."

"Well, that's your problem, isn't it?"

The words hit you like a slap. Your problem. Like your feelings about this are irrational, unreasonable, something for you to deal with alone.

"My problem?"

Joe seems to realize how that sounded and softens slightly. "I didn't mean it like that. I just meant... this isn't as big a deal as you're making it."

"How would you feel if I was constantly liking photos of shirtless male models?"

"I wouldn't care."

"You wouldn't?"

"No, because I'd know it didn't mean anything."

But there's something in the way he says it, too quick, too defensive, that makes you wonder if he's lying. To you or to himself.

"When was the last time you posted a photo of us together?" you ask.

The question catches him off guard. "What?"

"When was the last time you posted a photo of us? Together?"

Joe is quiet for a moment, clearly thinking. "I don't know. Recently?"

"Try again."

"Y/N, I don't keep track of that stuff."

"Well, I do. It's been four months, Joe. Four months since you posted anything that shows we're together."

"So?"

"So people are starting to wonder if we're still dating."

"People need to mind their own business."

"These people include my friends. And your teammates' wives. People who actually know us."

Joe picks up his phone again, a clear signal that he's done with this conversation. "I'm not going to change how I use social media because of gossip."

"I'm not asking you to change how you use social media. I'm asking you to understand why this hurts me."

"It hurts you that I like photos on Instagram?"

"It hurts me that you're giving other women attention that you don't give me. It hurts me that strangers have to ask if we're still together because I've disappeared from your online presence. It hurts me that when I try to talk to you about it, you dismiss my feelings like they don't matter."

Joe is quiet for a long moment, staring at his phone screen. When he looks up, his expression is tired.

"I don't know what you want me to say, Y/N."

"I want you to say that you understand why this bothers me. I want you to say that you'll be more mindful about it."

"Fine. I'll be more mindful."

But he says it like he's humoring you, like he's agreeing just to end the conversation. There's no understanding in his voice, no recognition that your feelings are valid.

"Joe—"

"I said I'll be more mindful. What else do you want?"

What you want is for him to apologize. What you want is for him to seem like he cares that he hurt you. What you want is for him to put his arms around you and promise that you're the only woman who matters to him.

What you get is dismissal and irritation and the growing certainty that something fundamental has shifted in your relationship.

"Nothing," you say quietly. "Forget I said anything."

"Good," Joe says, already looking back at his phone. "Because I have a conference call with my agent in ten minutes."

You watch him walk away, disappearing into his office and closing the door behind him. You're left standing in the kitchen, holding the pieces of a conversation that solved nothing and somehow made everything worse.

That night, you lie awake staring at the ceiling while Joe sleeps peacefully beside you. You think about Emma's concerned face across the lunch table. You think about the photos you scrolled through—beautiful women getting attention from your boyfriend that you haven't received in months.

But mostly, you think about Joe's reaction. The dismissiveness. The casual way he made your feelings seem unreasonable. The Joe you fell in love with would never have done that.

For the first time since you've been together, you wonder if you're fighting for something that's already over.

March 15, 2023

Joe,

Today Emma showed me your Instagram activity. Fifty likes on other women's photos in just the past month. Models, influencers, women who look nothing like me.

When I tried to talk to you about it, you called it "my problem." You acted like my feelings were irrational, like caring about this made me crazy and jealous.

Maybe it does make me crazy. Maybe I am being unreasonable. But I don't think I am.

I think I'm watching the man I love slowly erase me from his life, one Instagram like at a time. I think I'm watching you explore options while keeping me as a safety net.

The worst part wasn't discovering the photos. The worst part was your reaction when I brought it up. You didn't apologize. You didn't seem to care that it hurt me. You just wanted me to stop talking about it.

When did I become so unimportant to you that my feelings don't even register?

When did you stop loving me enough to care when you hurt me?

I keep telling myself this is just a rough patch, that we'll get through it like we've gotten through everything else. But I'm starting to wonder if you want to get through it, or if you're hoping I'll just stop fighting and let you slip away.

I love you. But I'm starting to think that's not enough anymore.

Y/N

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