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xiuriii · 10 days ago

Text

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

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xiuriii · 2 months ago

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it was silently observing the chaos and asking ivan to apologize it's verbally asking to stop screaming instead of using violence it's holding ani from running away but it looks like a bear-hug the whole time it's mumbling "wait.you freezing already?" before giving the scarf it's making small gestures like pouring a drink/sharing cigarettes it's using own jacket as a blanket for you it's keeping the wedding ring till the end but don't tell toros it's "i like anora more than ani" it's-

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xiuriii · 2 months ago

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M.I.L.F. (Make It Last Forever) ― L.DH

Haechan, a favorite among classy wives to hire during the hot summer season for a nice, thorough pool cleaning, seems to have a favorite wife of his own. You. Or the one where Haechan was the pain-in-your-ass son of the family you used to babysit for, but now he’s making it his mission to be the pain-in-your-ass pretend husband that you never asked for, but very clearly need.

minors dni

PAIRING ― lee haechan x afab milf!reader

WORDCOUNT― 18.9k

CONTENT― age gap: reader is 31 and haechan is 24, milf trope/single mother reader, college pool boy haechan (turned part time babysitter), reader has 1 kid and haechan really wants to give her another, reader has morals!! haechan just doesn’t see it as a moral issue, he is actually very sweet

!WARNINGS! ― age gap, haechan is somewhat of a manipulator, he’s gentle but won’t take no for an answer. dub-con in one instance. major breeding kink and kind of a mommy and daddy kink (domesticity), angst regarding reader and her ex husband, reader has huge tits

NOTE ― this was written for jay from enhypen over on my other blog, but i am gifting it to you guys here as well! I WROTE THEM BOTH!!!! NOT PROOF READ.

nsfw tags under cut

nsfw tags― thick big dick haechan, small instant dubious consent, tit obsessed haechan, groping and grinding, mommy/daddy kink, breeding kink, unprotected sex, cum stuffing-ish,pussy eating, fingering, basically it’s haechan doing stuff to you, this ain’t smut this is making love, also reader doesn’t shave her coochie and haechan fucking loves it.

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

Having a stray eye isn’t typically something you afford yourself when it comes to men. Things tend to change with time though, that much you know is true.

It was proven to you for the first time when your ex husband decided to up and leave you three weeks before your due date for a woman–well, girl, fresh out of highschool. Years of trust and promises crushed with just a single sentence and a slam of the door. Time must’ve changed you for him to leave so heartlessly. Time must’ve changed him to become so cold.

It was proven again when you were able to heal despite never believing you could. Seconds of pain turned to minutes, to hours. Days. weeks. Months. Years of pain before being able to wake up and feel somewhat numb to it all. Like a flip switch in your head that told you that you can be happy now even if as a single mother. After all, the hard part was over.

It took some four to five years, but it did happen. Time did change you, it healed you, it matured you. As your child grew, so did you. And for the better, you think. You count your blessings of living a life far more lavish than you ever could have anticipated given the circumstances that had been thrown at you. Even to the point of nesting, wanting another child, wanting a big and happy family. But alas, your ex husband had better things to do.

At the end of the day, you’d never be able to call this home yours if you had stayed with your ex husband. He didn’t like this kind of “flashy” lifestyle, and to him, everything you wanted seemed too flashy for him. Perhaps he was right to some extent, as you recognize the brand name goods you now own, solely because you had promised yourself in the depths of your despair that you’ll get to a point in life where you can buy yourself everything you not only need, but want. So, here you are, owning an expensive home, in a nice neighborhood, with a nice car and a nice pool.

Your daughter has everything she could want and need too, aside from a sibling, it’s certainly still more than what you had growing up and it’s all because of you. A fully decorated bedroom drenched in glitter, purples, creams, yellows, and pink, her favorite color. All sorts of play houses, costumes, dolls, a few lego sets, and even some plastic swords and knives for the days she wants to pretend to be her favorite movie characters. Clothes she can grow into, and a nice little fund building up for her as she grows up. Her first car, college, help for a downpayment on her own first house.

Both of you have everything you could ever want or need and for that, you’re so proud. Especially knowing your husband would have never believed you could make it this far without him. Still, despite having everything you could ever ask for, there’s something in you that feels empty.

Time changes things.

Time changes a lot of things, you note more than usual, as the man you’ve been ogling for the past three weeks makes himself far more known to you than you ever wished he would.

The interaction with him was always so quick before today and given the fact that he was a complete stranger, you never quite invited him into your home considering–you know, small child and all. You had hired him over text. Haechan, your neighbor said his name was. His handsome features didn’t offer you anything more than a clean pool and a wandering eye.

Your neighbor apparently has a friend who has a cousin that has an even nicer pool than you do. Given, it’s only a nicer pool due to the fact that this young man, Haechan, tended to it weekly and made damn sure it could be drunk out of if a person had a craving for chlorine.

You feel like an idiot now that it didn’t dawn on you quick enough. Sure, he looked a bit familiar to you but who doesn’t when you’re always out and about seeing so many different faces on a daily basis? His name, Haechan, didn’t ring any bells. Now though, the shame of staring at his sweaty pecs and biceps came crashing down the moment you realized who Haechan actually is.

He didn’t do a damn thing to remind you either, if anything, all he did was walk around all sweaty in the afternoon heat with his tank top either sticking to him, or off entirely. It appears that you had just been too busy running errands with your child, considering his shifts were always when you were home. Too busy cooking, cleaning, reading, lounging. Too busy looking at…well, not his face.

Too busy to give the man a glance more than that of a slice of pie behind a bakery window.

Haechan.

Since fucking when was that his name?

“Lee Donghyuck.” You whimper near mortified, three weeks too late as you hand him his pay with nervous hands. “Spray-cheese in my hair Donghyuck?”

“Ah, was wondering when you’d pick up on that.” He smiles at you with that crooked grin, a knowing look that any man at a bar would give you if he had caught you checking him out. Then, he pockets the hefty amount of cash that you hand to him. “I go by Haechan more often these days.” He trails off, an amused smirk half-falling as he looks at your expression of realization. “You can call me whatever you want though.”

He’s well aware of how often you’ve checked him out since he started intentionally taking his clothes off. After all, it’s mid-july by this point and the sun baring down on him doesn’t quite call for a fucking turtle neck sweater. Or a T-shirt, or a tank top, for that matter. It calls for all skin baby, beautifully tanned and toned for you and any of your neighbors to look at if they so wanted to.

Haechan doesn’t work out for nothing, after all. Summer after summer, he’s found himself to be quite fond of the rich women that hire him for their pool services. Always wanting an attractive young man to wander around half naked and satiate their lack of sex life with their husbands, or boytoys, or what have you. He knows all that extra pay isn’t because he does a good job either. He’s gotten winks, small comments, even a few offers of his body for more pay.

He’s turned them all down, of course. For a full-on affair, anyway. Haechan has gotten a few blow jobs and quickies as a tip before though, and a lot of that is why he keeps getting referred to more women. Richer women. Never single women.

Until you.

He quite enjoyed catching you looking at him. Especially given the fact that he knew exactly who you were when you introduced yourself to him via text. That little childhood crush on you came back within an instant upon actually seeing you again. Truly, he had forgotten all about you up until that fateful day three weeks ago.

If he’s being honest, he’s been pining something fierce since he first stepped foot on your property. Excitement swelled inside of him just to see you again. To see if you’re still hot, to see how you’re doing, what you’re doing. How your life is going.

He knew you didn’t recognize his nickname through text, and he definitely knew you didn’t recognize him to be eating him up with those eyes of yours either. So, he played along, enjoying it while he could before it would inevitably dawn on you. Still, he remembers you so well from back then. Crazy to know that he rarely thought of you for the past twelve years or so, and how all those little butterflies of his came back in a far more mature way. He was only twelve back then, but he’s a man now.

Twenty four and perfectly sound as a man who knows what he likes. The fact that you happen to fall into that category is no fault of his own, honestly. It’s your fault if anyone’s at all. Haechan is a man that likes a specific type of woman too. Woman. Not a girl, not a young lady, not a free spirit, nor a prude. He is drawn to the idea of experience, to the idea of settling down. It’s not easy to find that at his age, in college, surrounded by party girls and casual drug use.

And, well, imagine his smile upon seeing your lovely, lavish home with the large pool, no ring on your finger, a whole fucking child, and your motherly instincts when you buckle her into the car for an errand. Oh and the broken fence in the far back of your yard.

You’re a single mom.

A hot single mom who lives lavishly. One who could probably use a man’s help around your house.

He half expected you to be able to recognize him when he appeared for work the first time. He even had a monologue in his head on what to say to you, and how to present himself. You didn’t seem to take notice though, introducing yourself to him as if you hadn’t spent all that time in his childhood home when you were a teenager. Like you never mothered him, or put him to sleep with the soft stories when you let him watch all those scary movies before bed. Even at twelve, he was a scaredy cat.

Clearly you’re too busy experiencing life to notice the way he fawns over you too. Hating how you’re more reserved than the other lavish, fixed-up women. You seem to have standards, or maybe it’s just priorities ... that's so hot. Truly, it only makes him want you more because by now, the other women would already be rubbing all over him. The ones who shouldn’t be wanting him the way they do. So, yes, he’s always stealing glances at you with sparkling dark eyes, fantasizing in his head that this pool is his to clean now, because that’s what a good man would do for you, right? With him around servicing your pool and lawn, you’d never need to hire or spend money on another broke ass college student again.

Yes. That’s how quickly he fell into this infatuation solely because you looked at him like you want it without realizing who he was. Hell, without realizing how perfect you are in terms of what he wants.

God, how are you still single?

Like, why do you have a child and a house so beautiful without a man wandering around doing all of this work for you? Not that you couldn’t do it on your own, it’s just, you clearly have the means to make a man do as you please. Why haven’t you?

You happen to fall almost perfectly into the categories of what he’s looking for. Save for the fact that now you recognize him as that kid you used to babysit rather than the man who tries to be sexy while cleaning your pool. Which is a fucking shame, if he’s being honest, to be written off as that same ten year old child rather than a fucking man who very clearly has needs and desires.

The point is– Haechan wants you and he parades around your pool for you to look at him. So what if you used to babysit him? It’s not like you’re an old swamp-hag trying to lure him with candy. You’re just…a woman. And he’s just a man.

“Well, thank you for cleaning again,” You trail off in an awkward tone, shifting your eyes to anywhere but him. He watches you though, smiling a smile you know all too well from his childhood antics. It must mean something different now, or maybe not. “I guess I’ll see you next week?”

“Well, actually,” Haechan offers, “Would you be opposed to–” You cut him off instantly with an awkward wave of your hand.

You don’t know why you make assumptions, maybe from that damned smile on his face, but you do recall your ex husband reminding you time and time again that it’s one of the things he hated about you.

Assumptions. Always thinking the worst, or perhaps the most filthy of situations and expressions. To be fair, you feel guilty about how you’ve been looking at him, you can’t help but panic trying to pretend like it never happened, and that he never saw it happen.

“I’m not interested, Donghyuck.” You respond hastily, pressing your thumb to your bottom lip to bite the skin on it, keeping your eyes away from him with the awkward words. After all, he knew who you were this whole time and paraded around like that?

Even before recognizing him yourself, you know men well enough to know when they’re trying to flaunt. Is it so wrong to assume?

“Interested in what?” Haechan tilts his head knowingly, seeing the way you buckle under the guilt of staring at the very man you used to tuck into bed every night. He can see the way you try to push those sexual thoughts you had away in the quick rejection to a simple assumption.

“I was just going to ask if you want me to fix your fence.”

Ah, you did get ahead of yourself through the guilt, and you’re far too aware of it as you draw your eyes back to him and note the expression on his face. Amused, maybe a bit of concern in his eyes, even?

“Ah, um–” You start, trailing your eyes down your fence line never once noticing a break in it. Haechan is quick to point though, leaning to you with a whisper of “right there.” And well, you did not need to hear that tone in his voice the way you just did.

God, it’s so awkward.

“Well, how much would that cost me?” You question with an empty voice, staring at the broken fence.

“Free.” He uses the same tone, leaning away from you now and smiling wide. “That is, if you provide lunch.”

Well, despite the awkwardness, that break over there would cost you a pretty penny to fix, and your daughter needs the safety of playing in her own yard without random animals or worse, people, making their way in. Plus, you’re quite fond of saving money. How else would you be here if you weren’t good at it? And now, given that you’re most definitely not interested in Haechan, what's the harm in making a few sandwiches for someone you already know well enough? It’s not like you’ve never made him lunch before.

The awkwardness will pass and your guilt will subside. You both will laugh at it over a cold glass of iced lemonade, surely. It’s not like you realized who he was anyway, it’s not like you’re just gonna keep looking at him like that. You should just push forward and it’ll all be fine.

“Hell, I’d even watch the kiddo so you can have a break every now and then.” He watches your reaction, wanting to ask so many questions about why you’re single, who the father is, where he is, why he isn’t here. “After all, I learned quite a bit from you.”

For a second you consider that too.

And there’s three reasons as to why you should. The first being that you were literally just looking for a new child care facility due to learning of the staff coming to work while sick. Your poor daughter came home with a fever just last week, and you’ve had little luck in finding a place with the same educational benefits for her.

The second being that, well, while you’re not hurting for cash or anything, it wouldn’t hurt to be able to put a little more back for her college fund. Or for fun little vacations.

And lastly, despite your guilt of lusting over someone you shouldn’t have, you know Donghyuck and you know his family even better. No background check would be needed, your daughter could be in the comfort of her own home rather than a classroom setting that she’s sure to see for at least twenty years of her life in the future.

So, yes. You consider it instantly, and Haechan sees it.

You only know of the childhood version of him and, well, the slutty pool-side version of him apparently. If only you knew of that other side of him and how fond he is of watching his own younger cousins. How good he is with children, and how much he clings to the idea of being a father one day.

Haechan is great with kids, with or without them having a hot mom.

And well, he knows that he’s fond of looking at you at least. Besides, as long as you can work with his class schedules, he’d be willing to do just about anything to play pretend-husband, even if you’re unaware of it.

“Is that so?” You finally ask, curious eyes looking at him with a furrowed brow. “Shouldn’t you be out living the life? College parties and such?” You add, wondering why such a great deal has managed to flop down on your lap. The idea of even cheaper childcare without the risk of unvaccinated children, and sick caretakers being far too good of a deal to pass up.

“Well, yeah I guess.” He shrugs, leaning backwards to stretch and roll his shoulders. “Not really my scene though. I have classes Monday and Wednesday all day, Tuesday and Thursdays my classes are online. If you can work around that, I’d rather just be making money and chilling.”

You think about it just for a second more when he continues.

“I can be here on weekends too. Maybe you should be the one out relaxing and having some drinks.”

“Well, I don’t quite need that, or for you to be here on weekends.” You think as you say it, knowing you have given up on going out to try and meet men two years ago. “I could pay you though, let’s say, thirty an hour?”

Well, shit, that’s not too bad at all, especially considering he’s about to give up on cleaning the pools of a few women in his contacts for this. It’s a major pay cut, but still enough to get by comfortably if you’ll have him multiple times a week. That plus the pool cleaning money? And free lunch?

“Oh, you don’t go out at all? I don’t see why not, could probably get a man in no time–” Haechan ignores the wage offer and pushes to note the singlehood he had been noticing for the past three weeks. “and the pay is fine.”

“Ah, well, the dating pool isn’t so great in this neck of the woods.” You scratch the back of your neck when you say it. “That aside, I'll have her in day care on the days you can’t be here, but it really would be a big help. Thank you for the offer, Donghyuck. And for the fence too.”

He watches you with a firm nod, shoving his hands into the pockets of his basketball shorts, still entirely shirtless in front of you.

“And the pool.” You add quietly after a moment.

“I think you’d be surprised about the dating pool.” He smiles as he pushes the subject back to what you had previously said, hoping you believe those words before continuing. “So, when do you want me to start?”

“Is tomorrow too soon? You’re okay to set up here with your online classes?”

“Tomorrow is perfect.” He smiles.

“I’m sure she would be so happy knowing she won’t be going to daycare–” You clap, feeling a bit less awkward despite the boldness of the man in front of you. You’re sure he’s just teasing you for knowing you checked him out. “I know I am.”

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

It’s a little too perfect, actually.

After that first day of watching your child and making a lazy attempt at “fixing your fence,” he’s settled in like it’s home. He wishes it was, with the lavish lifestyle in a house far too pretty compared to his own living space with piles upon piles of laundry he’s too lazy to pick up for himself.

It’s different for you though. Different when he’s here.

Truly, he feels like he’s living the life after a couple of weeks with decent pay and a comfy space to do his homework. He watches your child, which is arguably the hardest part of the job but she’s well behaved for him. In fact, she seems to have taken a shine to him.

He’s starting to be very intentional with taking far too long to work on your fence too, and still maintaining your pool. He’s trying to drag this out for as long as he can. Even if just to see if you still look at him when you come home the same way you did before recognizing him. You never do though. When his shirt is off and he’s wiping his forehead in the sun, you don’t look at him anymore.

Hell, he’s even considered breaking things in your home just to give himself more jobs to do. More things that make him feel needed, like a husband. More things that you thank him for fixing, even if it breaks again two days later.

And ah, the food in your fridge is always free reign to him, that large television in the living room too. God, sometimes he dreads going home, and by sometimes, he means all the time. Who in their right mind would ever fucking want to live outside of this lifestyle? He really can’t believe you’re single, nor can he believe that he has the opportunity to be in your home, close to you. It shouldn’t take too long now to convince you, right? That you don’t necessarily have to be single? That you need him around to live even more comfortably?

In short, Haechan is in his head about how he’s practically just roleplaying as your stay-at-home husband before having to go back to his shitty little apartment and remind himself that he’s just a fucking college student with no interest in the people on campus. And like, even with the way you come home from work, all groggy and exhausted on the days he’s there, you always thank him before giving him his pay. What he likes best about those nights is when you’re too exhausted to even pay him and you promise to do it next time.

In his mind, that’s you promising to see him again.

He could give less of a shit about the pay at this point, as long as he gets to be in this house, smelling your favorite candles and dish detergents, seeing you, being a semi-father to a child who deserves more love than the two of you combined can give…he’ll fucking do anything you want for free.

It’s difficult sometimes, like he really can’t help it. Some days wandering around this house and imagining how the two of you could have landed on buying it together. How the rooms would be organized if he were here from the start. Claiming his spot on your couch like any dad would. Playing dolls with your daughter, laughing with her, letting her paint his nails and put his hair in little pigtails. He even cleans your pool as if it were his own, meaning, he genuinely cleans it.

He has taken it upon himself to mow your lawn, confusing the yard workers that you apparently hired years ago. Did he accidentally fire them? Maybe, but any good husband would save you money, right? He checks your mail, waves to your neighbors and lets them make assumptions.

And every single fucking night it’s harder and harder to go back home.

Especially after a full day of playing dad then seeing you come back so tired. Turning off that switch in his head isn’t easy. He wants to greet you like the husband you don’t have. He wants to ease your hard days in so many ways. Tell you he’s proud of you, that you still look so pretty after an exhausting shift of whatever the fuck you do. He wants to serve you dinner, run you a bath, fix your hair, lay you down– oh, he’s fantasizing again. Unfortunately, he has to settle with seeing the relief on your face when he lets you know in a soft voice that he’s cooked dinner and he will heat it up for you before leaving, kiddo is in her room sleeping, no dishes in the sink, and laundry is folded and put away.

He loves the appreciation in your eyes, and sometimes even sees a glint of sadness. He can tell you wish you had this from a person who isn’t here for pay. Someone who loves you, and loves your child, and feels joy in making your life easier.

Fuck, if only you knew.

And you’d be lying if you tried to say Haechan isn’t a godsend to you on the days he babysits. Many times you find yourself wishing he’d just move in and do everything that you can’t do. You’d pay him well, give him a guest room, whatever. But it’s just…not viable to support a full time employee like that, nor is it fair to your daughter.

She needs a parent, not a paid college student who needs some extra cash. You have to be that parent, you have to make time for her and witness all of her joys in life. You have to protect her and never bring in faces of men who claim to want to be a father, only to run and break her heart more than your own.

For now, you settle with this godsend of a little shit you used to babysit. Still you can barely believe that’s the same person, but again…time changes things. And thankfully, the awkwardness of what you did has died down drastically.

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

Today, you’re more thankful for Haechan than you have been previously. After a heavy workload has been lifted off your back with the approval of this project, you need a night out. For the first time in years, you’re giving yourself a night out, all because you have someone you can trust to be here for your daughter.

He was so understanding when you called, happy to come over right then and there to put her to bed and mostly just house-sit for the night. Even without an end time for him, and even without asking for extra pay, he just…accepted with an understanding tone and that stupid breathy chuckle he gives to you when you ask for favors. “What? You need me there right now? I’m putting on my shoes.” He had said.

It’s the fact that now, as he sits on your couch looking at you in your chosen outfit– he seems a little off. Maybe it’s because you asked him where the best spots in town are because it’s been so long since you’ve gone out, or maybe he just feels awkward seeing so much skin on your body.

To be fair, he didn’t realize you were going out out. He thought that maybe you were gonna go stay with a friend to celebrate and have a drink or two.

In reality though, he’s just awestruck. Already you look great even after your busy days at work but…this is a different level. The way your tits look in that push-up bra and tiny ass top, when he’s used to seeing you head out in some sort of business casual outfit without an ounce of skin showing save for your ankles or wrists…jesus. He’s struggling more than usual to keep himself calm around you, hopping up on one leg when you walk away to try and adjust the chub in his pants, and releasing a small sigh before you’re looking at him again.

His skin feels like it’s on fire knowing you’re going out looking like that.

“You sure you're okay to sleep over? I figure it’ll be easier since I’m not sure when I’ll come home, or if I come home.” You smile with a wink, your stomach in knots over the two shots you’ve taken for the first time in years. “I can call my friends and tell them not to come if you’d rather focus on your studies.”

Haechan shakes his head, waving his hands in defense for you as if he didn’t just see the way your tits bounce and squish against your shirt with each move you make.

“No, no! Go on, have fun.” He says, encouraging you to go out despite hoping you come home with no luck of finding a man out there.

Just, look at you. Fuck, he’s staring again. He hates knowing that he could be one of the guys at whatever bar or club you’re landing on tonight. He could be the person that makes sure you don’t come home, getting to plant his face right there. He could be whatever you want him to be if you’re looking like that.

But no, he has to play husband again, which is normally something he’s all too excited to do. Tonight though, he feels like a fucking cuckold. After everything he does for you, after not mentioning how you’ve skipped a few of his payments, after slaving away for hours over your pool, your household chores, fixing and breaking that fucking dishwasher, cooking you dinner every single night he’s here just to make sure you have a meal when you get off of work…you imply you may not come home tonight?

And you’re dressed like that?

And you’re…

God, you just look so good right now. It pains him to know you didn’t dress like this for him, the only man who cares enough to make your life easy. He’s not mad at you, per se, but he’s pissed that you don’t see him as an option despite showing you time and time again that not only is he an option, but the right choice.

This is what you look like when you want to impress a man? This is how you act? How you talk? Fuck, god, fuck– maybe he’s just too deep in his one-sided roleplay but it really, really fucking feels like he’s watching his woman go off and look for someone else to fuck.

“Thank you, Donghyuck,” You smile, walking over to him with a saunter in your step and a gentle smile across your lips.

He’s never heard you speak his name so sensually, the way his cock twitches forces him to wince away from you. He’s never even seen you saunter before. Fucking hell, somehow it feels worse seeing you act like this after how many times he’s imagined it, all alone in his room.

A slow walk from you, with the strap of your shirt slipping off your shoulder, fat tits threatening to spill out, lifting the hem of your skirt, or dress, or whatever you’re wearing in his fantasy at that point. Your voice, so soft, so sexy. And you’re practically bringing his fantasy to life right now, except he knows you’re going to fucking walk away from him like this. Into the fucking arms of some random dude at a club.

Probably some loser he’s seen on campus too.

“It means a lot.” You add, popping a quick, platonic kiss to the top of his forehead.

Ah, lip gloss. That little kiss on him is enough to ignite him to the point of no return. He almost wants to skip the part of asking you not to go and straight up just beg that you pick him, that you choose him. It’s not just your home, or the luxuries that come with it. It’s you that he wants. You’re the fucking luxury and you’re just gonna go to some sticky-floored club and pretend he’s not clearly checking you the fuck out right now? Like he’s not about three seconds from dropping to his knees just to see you from the angle you deserve?!

“It’s no problem.” Haechan relents, dropping himself onto your couch instead and adjusting his body to sink deep into the cushions just to keep himself from arguing against everything he’s giving you permission to do right now.

Hah. Permission.

“Be safe.” He adds in an even more monotone voice. “I’ll be here when you get back.”

And god, he seethes in his thoughts after you close that door and hop into the car with your friends. You don’t look like a mother tonight, and he wonders if you’ll be upfront and forward with anyone you intend to hit on too. Probably not. He’s well aware of the men in this city, after all, he’s one of them.

It’s really not something he can control after seeing you like that either. Your child is already in bed and he’s just sitting here on your couch with a throbbing, fucking weeping cock thinking about you. What’s stopping him from taking care of it? You’re not here, after all.

You’re not fucking here. But everything about you is.

And that’s how he finds himself in your bedroom for the first time, barely making it a foot into the room before closing the door and dropping to the floor. The scent in your room is different. It’s feminine, gentle, like the energy is kissing him all over and sending goosebumps straight to the head of his cock. He couldn’t even pull it out, already holding his breath with his hand down his pants, vigorously trying to get what he wants so badly yet knowing that his hand will never compare to you.

And it’s here where he feels like a husband. Spilling against his pants with a silent, choked back sob as he stares forward at your bed, and the way you didn’t make it this morning. It’s messy, and he wants to be in that mess of sheets with you more than anything.

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

Haechan hates that he’s now forced to get used to your late night ventures. Every weekend now. Every. Fucking. Weekend. You ask if he’s willing to stay over so you can go unwind, and despite his better (or worse) judgment, he accepts. The only solace he finds in these ventures is knowing you consistently come back home right after usual closing times, and you’re mostly sober. Sometimes a bit whiny that you’re not lucking out, worrying that maybe you’re too old now, or maybe you’re just not as desirable. There have even been a few times where you’ve exposed your ex husband during your rants, giving Haechan little hints to follow as to why you’re single, and how he left you.

Still, he knows in your tipsy state that you usually wouldn’t talk about these things with him, but he’s all too happy to get the details once you come home. Mostly because it calms his rising rage at how you’re doing this to not only him, but yourself. It’s mostly because you’re technically coming home to him though.

And every single time, you go back to your bedroom to grab his payment even though it could wait until morning, considering he’s been sleeping in the guest room– all he can think about is how he’s been in your room. He’s gotten off countless times by now by the smell of your room alone, still barely able to even reach your bed to lay in it himself for a better experience. God, he’s probably memorized each little fray in your carpeted bedroom floor by now with how much he’s zoned out on it mid-jerk off session right there on his knees at your door.

He’s truly pathetic for you.

This time though…three in the morning has passed and normally you’d have been stumbling through the door an hour ago. Normally, he’d be fighting back the need to tell you that you’re beautiful, not too old, and entirely desirable. Normally, he would be fisting his cock again in your guest room before sleep, getting off on the idea that he can cum in a house that you live in, smothered by the sheets you meticulously picked out to match the walls of the room. Moaning for you, practically crying for you to let him do it all.

Have you really done it this time? Gone off with some man? Are you getting railed right now in some hotel, or car, or someone’s shitty man-cave? God, his mind is racing, both aroused at the fact that you must be horny to be constantly wanting to go out like this, but equally as devastated because like…he’s right here.

Who the fuck cares if you babysat him? He’s a man. No longer that child who sprayed cheese in your hair or dumped salt into the bag of sugar. He’s a fucking man, cooking you dinner when you work, parenting your child, cleaning your house, maintaining your pool and fence….He does everything for you, why the fuck don’t you see it?!

Click.

Haechan’s ears perk up instantly at the sound. He sits up on the couch from his depressed slump of scrolling through his phone, quickly fixing his hair and clearing his throat.

In you stumble, right into the little entryway table with a whisper-scream of “Shit, fuck–”

Haechan looks at your state before standing to his feet and rushing to you, helping you balance on your feet despite your footing not quite being grounded even with his help. You lean on him closely, letting out an alcohol scented sigh.

His nostrils flare as he holds his breath, feeling your tit press against his arm, smelling the drinks, the sweat, and the dulled perfume on you. Then, a hint of something else. Musk.

You’ve been with a man.

He holds back a gesture at the way you lean on him. Nothing more he could want at this moment but to hold you tightly and tell you that he’s got you, despite the panic in his stomach at the way he sniffs out another man. Out of lust, love, desperation, frustration. This is the closest you’ve been to him for this long. You feel clammy and cold, a clear indication that you drank far, far too much. Your tank top is sticking to you, your eyes are a bit glassy–

“You’re late.” He says shortly.

“Late?!” You raise your voice before looking at him with drowsy eyes, furrowing your brow. “I don’t have a curfe-”

“Shh–” He shushes you, helping you get to the living room. “She’s sleeping and you’re going to have her make a fuss about waking up.”

You giggle to yourself as he drops you onto the couch, now aware that yes, you are not a single college student anymore. You’re a single woman. A fucking mother.

You should’ve just gotten a hotel for the night and slept there to dream a little longer.

“Right.” You laugh, slouching, spreading out wide against the couch and trying to fix your gaze on him. “Why’re you still awake?”

Haechan fixes his eyes on you, swallowing around a lump in his throat. The way you’re slouching…seemingly forgetting that you’re wearing a skirt and basically flashing your panties at him. God, the things could do to you right now. The things he could get away with if he wanted to. He tries to shake those thoughts for now, and instead, inspects you from head to toe.

He’s never seen you look so relaxed. Chest raising and falling with each breath, hair a little messy, lipstick stains smeared on the outsides of your lip line. He chooses to ignore the faint swell against your neck indicating someone has been sucking on you. But, well, he can’t ignore it. Both his cock and heart aches at the very thought.

“You’ve been kissing?” Haechan tries to ask nonchalantly.

“A lot more than that–” You smile, feeling a flush cross your cheeks before the disappointment hits you square in the gut.

Haechan watches your face fall, and he mimics it by falling onto the couch and sitting by your head…you know, allowing you to lay your head on him if you want to. You’d probably not notice his arousal anyway, given your state.

“Oh?” He asks gently, the disappointment now showing plainly on not just your face, but his own.

“Thought I was gonna go home with him, turns out he decided to be done after a blowjob in the parking lot.”

Oh, the way his blood boils. Not for the fact that you were used or rejected, but for the fact that you found someone that you were interested in and genuinely intended to leave your home life in his hands for however fucking long. Really? Just gonna leave him here all alone? Like he couldn’t do better for you?

“It’s for the better–” Haechan says as he shivers with irritation, struggling to keep his facade up. It’s definitely not what you wanted to hear, and definitely not what you’d have expected to hear from a college guy at all either.

“This happened last time too, except he didn’t even get me to the parking lot.” You huff, unaware of how much you’re sharing right now.

He bites back the anger yet again, inhaling deeply before releasing a calming breath through his nose just to contain it. So…it has happened more than once?

“Why don’t you let me take you out someday?” He says suddenly, well aware that you’ll probably never remember he said it in the first place.

If anything, he’s testing the waters for his own sake. He’d hate himself forever if he didn’t at least take advantage of this moment a little bit.

“Then who will watch my daughter?” You respond in slurred speech, not even comprehending who it is that’s asking you this question right now. Not even thinking about your history with him, or the family ties.

He, on the other hand, is quite entertained by the way you don’t bring the history up like he expected. His cock twitches at it, bumping your head just a bit, not enough for you to notice apparently. Fuck, it would be so easy for him to pull it out right now, and just…tap your lips with it.

Maybe you’d even open your mouth for him.

“I’ll skip class on a Wednesday, we can go while she’s still in daycare.” He continues through an almost-moan, encouraging the conversation to stay positive.

“Donghyuck–” You slur before clearing your throat and sitting back up in a dizzy show of how drunk you are. “You know I can’t do that. It’s too weird.”

In all fairness, you know he has like…a thing for you. After all, why else would a college dude be spending his weekends here babysitting your kid? It’s not like you haven’t noticed the way he checks you out before you go out for the night. Why would he do all of this if he didn’t have some sort of attraction to you? Sure, you’re taking advantage of it as best as you can despite how you didn’t recognize him at first.

Despite how deep down, you very well know how attracted to him you are too.

“Only because you make it weird.” Haechan rolls his eyes as he looks at you, spreading his legs out to adjust his comfort, noting the way you glance down to his lap and see it. “I’m a grown man–” He starts, spreading his legs wider, pressing his cock against his pants to the point you can practically see the outline.”you know this.” He continues, trying to be bold now by reaching forward and moving a strand of your hair from your cheek.

“You’ve seen it.”

You freeze, suddenly feeling entirely too sober to be talking about this kind of thing with him. With Donghyuck. God, his mother would fucking kill you if she found out he’s in your house while you’re out trying to get fucked by whoever is willing to love you temporarily.

Haechan sees you thinking though, and continues to take the advantage now that he’s feeling brave. Now that you’ve seen the twitch in his pants and haven’t moved off the couch, or told him to go home.

“I saw you watching me when I was cleaning your pool, multiple times.” He whispers snidely. “You stopped when you realized who I am. Why?”

“Donghyu–…” You trail off. “You know this isn’t okay. What would people think of me? There are rules, and I will not go down this route with you.”

A rush of air hits your face and suddenly, warmth hits your cheek. You feel him so close, closer than ever before. It’s dizzying. Haechan is over you, hovering with one hand ghosting over your hip.

“You want to though, don’t you?” He gets even closer now, darting his eyes down at your chest and unable to pull them away. “Knowing how good I am with your daughter? How well I clean up? How strong I can be–”

You swallow hard. For a moment, you almost lean into him. You almost melt right then and there, the need for intimacy so heavy inside of you after being left high and dry, knowing that you’d accept it from just about anyone at this point. But– this is Donghyuck. You can’t.

You really, really, can’t.

The look of disappointment in his eyes kind of hurts when you’re pushing him away. That playful smirk falling faster than you think your sanity did the day your ex husband left you.

“This–” You pause, realizing all too well how he’s used your drunken state against you for this conversation. “This is your last paycheck.”

“I don’t think so.” The smirk is back now, except…it’s different. “You know I promised her a Barbie dream house next weekend.” He smiles fully now. “She’s a bit attached, you know, even called me dad by accident the other day.”

You’re shocked.

“She…what?”

“You know she’s attached to me already, don’t be selfish.” Haechan shrugs at you while rolling his eyes, leaning against the couch again and turning his head to look at you. You try to pretend that you don’t see his hand slightly groping himself. “Guess she misses having a father around. Can’t be too easy for her, especially with her mom going out every weekend trying to fuck guys who would run the second they learn about her.” He ticks his tongue now, as if he’s pitying you more than your daughter.

“Donghyuck, that’s not–”

“That’s not, what?”

“That’s not what I’m doing…” You lower your voice to a near whisper, upset that you couldn’t even enjoy the drunken state you came home in, now feeling entirely too sober, and a little sick in the stomach.

“Oh, so you haven’t gotten laid since I’ve been here–” He leans closer again now, trying to resume what he was going to do just moments ago. “They haven’t even touched you, have they?” His hands move to your thigh and presses down as if to hold you in place. “Why?”

“I try not to just sleep with anyone.” You lie, knowing you’d sleep with anyone just to feel wanted for once. And you’re trying to ignore his hands on you right now, trying desperately not to like it. It’s the first time a man has touched you in this house since your husband left you. As expected, you almost feel your knees buckle despite sitting comfortably. “I have to be careful, you know?”

“Mm, I know more than you think.” He leans into you, hovering yet again with his upper half over you as he whispers it. “Don’t need to be careful around me though.” He adds, this time trailing his voice right against your jaw, up to your ear. “You must be so frustrated.” He ghosts his lips there for a moment, waiting for you to push him away, or say something, anything, really.

“Why would I be frustrated?” You lend the smallest of whispers, feeling the goosebumps against your skin rising at the mere thought of giving in just this once.

“Not having anyone to please you.” He adds now, landing a very slight kiss right under your lobe. “Always being used for someone else’s pleasure, maybe?”

You almost nod, feeling weak in your state and thoughts swimming with what if’s, morals, and anxieties. You’re frozen in place despite knowing a simple push would create the distance you need to breathe.

“Your fingers will never be enough, will they?” He continues, essentially chaining you to this couch with his words alone. You can’t help the fight in your head, you need to feel wanted, and you want so badly to feel needed. “I bet you wish someone would love you for all that you are, not all that you have.”

It’s silent as you feel his lips press down again, this time moving his body over you almost entirely. You can feel the couch dip a bit as he places all of his weight on a knee, moving his other leg to stand between yours.

“You must need someone to fill that hole in you by now, right? That pussy of yours?” He continues, his tone a bit more snide now as you give in to his hold with shaky breaths.

And truthfully, Haechan has never let himself come on this strong towards someone before. Usually the wives are doing this to him. They’re trying to convince him, encourage him. He’s so fucking horny right now though, with that daze in your eye, your legs spread around his knee, blinking up at him like a cheating wife. As if you want to apologize, as if you need him to forgive you. Need him to make everything better.

“I heard you the other day, you know, talking to your mom–” He smiles, tilting his head to look into your eyes, seeing a small shine in them. “You want another, don’t you?” He continues, moving his lips now just over yours as he, now, presses you firmly against the couch. “You must hate knowing that I’m the only person who can do that for you.”

“God, Haechan.” You immediately buckle, not realizing how suddenly he’s not Donghyuck at this moment. He’s someone else. He’s Haechan.

“Why don’t you go for girls on campus?! Don’t you have parties to be attending on the weekends instead of being here, trying to parent my chil–”

“Lower that voice of yours,” He whispers, eyes now hooded as he looks at you. “You know she’s asleep.”

God, he’s right.

“Besides, why would I want them when I have you right here under me–” He tilts his head. “Looking so disappointed that you like it, too.”

Right then, your moral code shines into the front of your mind at the consideration of giving in.

A weight on one shoulder chanting, “No! What would people say?! What would people think?!”, and then little to no weight on the other shoulder, echoing in a sweet song of “Finally! Someone who will love you! Finally! Someone! Finally!!! Finally!”

You pause, not knowing at all what to do. Your body wants to push him away, even your mind and soul wants you to push him away. But you know deep down, you’d only push him away to see if he will try again. No man has ever tried for you like this, and you need more of it.

To feel desired after so long of neglecting this side of yourself, it’s enough to make a person lose their footing in reality. To give in to just about anyone willing to look at you the way he is right now. It’s the fact that you go out to try and find it, and even with this alone, Haechan has satisfied you more than any stranger promising to make you cum.

“I…don’t know what to say–” You stutter. “I don’t know what to do.”

“I do.” Haechan smiles, glancing at your lips before meeting your eye again. “Why not hand over the reins and relax for a–” His hand dips under your skirt, cupping your sensitive cunt in one hand alone. “Ah, I knew it.” Then, his other hand finds purchase on your chest, lifting your heavy breast in his hand with a blatant, hard squeeze.

After a sharp inhale you look away from him in shame, afraid to admit it despite the truth of it leaking through your panties and onto his palm.

“Wet.” He smiles, no longer looking at you but flicking his eyes back and forth from between your legs, and to your chest. Still, he fumbles around the wet spot, wanting so badly to lift these fingers to his mouth and taste. He’s fantasized about it, about how you’d taste, how warm it would be, what your pussy would feel like against his fingers–

And just as he’s pushing your panties to the side, pads of his fingers touching right where you need them with his eyes hooded and watching you closely, something snaps.

You push his hand away, only to feel him push back, holding you down with more force, gripping your tit tighter, sliding his fingers in before massaging the slit with a blatant moan on his lips. Then, you try again, shoving him back only to hear him chuckle and continue his antics until– you jump to your feet. It felt too good, too grounding to have him touching you like this. You nearly stumble back over the coffee table, but you manage to stand tall and firm despite the fact that even though your mind feels sober, your body is fucking wasted.

“Donghyuck.” You argue immediately, using his name the same way you did when he was a child. “Stop.”

He throws his hands up in defense, raising his brows in surprise.

“I–” He pauses, staring at you. “I thought you were enjoying it, my mistake.”

It’s the fact that you were. You were enjoying it too much, and there would have been no defending your actions if you had given in to the feeling.

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

Stupid. Stupid, stupid, fucking stupid. That’s what you are.

Your ex husband was right all along. Out of everything you’ve accomplished since your heart was shattered, ripped to shreds, stomped on, you’d think it would take a lot more to break you.

“You ask for too much.” Your ex husband had said once. “You can’t even stand to be alone for one day.” He had said a year or so later. Small digs on who you are and what you need sprinkled into small arguments, only to come more and more from the lips that you kissed and promised to kiss until you die. Until all of his words were to make you feel inadequate. Until everything he said to you stuck with you, forcing your confidence to bury itself six feet under.

Are you to blame? As it stands, maybe. Why else would you be allowing yourself to consider it? Consider Donghyuck, you mean. Never in your life would you have considered him of all people to be the one that you need.

Never in your life would you have thought he’d be interested in a woman like you, in a situation like yours, with a child. Why did that night with him stick in your head more than every single mean thing your ex husband said to you? Why did his words seem more believable?

Because you were drunk at the time? Wet, neglected, and drunk?

Then why is it that you’re sitting here on your day off with your beautiful, bright-eyed daughter rummaging through your purse for whatever catches her eye….and you’re thinking about him? About what he's doing right now, how he’s feeling, if he’s eaten.

Why is it that you’ve gone the entire week ignoring his texts, asking if you need him to come resume his job as babysitter? Why the fuck do you want to accept after how he took advantage of your state of mind? After he came onto you and tried to manipulate you?

Despite all of his words ringing true in the back of your head. That was a dirty tactic he pulled on you. Yet, still…you want him back, and god fucking dammit you could cry knowing your daughter called him “dad.” You hadn’t believed him at first, but after this week alone it slipped from her mouth several times.

“He’s not your dad, baby, that’s just Donghyuck.” You remember correcting her more than once, and all she responded to you with was a confused expression.

“Why not?” Is what her little voice gave back to you after her child-like brain decided it was fed up with you correcting her very right assumption of the guy who promised her the Barbie Dream House.

Why not?

Well, if you could have an adult conversation with a five year old it would be much easier to answer that. Because he sprayed cheese in your hair. Because you were seventeen and his babysitter when he was twelve years old. Because you ogled him without recognizing him as your pool boy. Because of a lot of things.

“Uncle Donghyuck.” You finally corrected her again.

She shook her head, and continued doing and saying as her little mind pleased. It made you miss having a father around for her though. You think she needs it more than you do.

And that fucking Barbie Dream house is what brings Haechan back.

Right at your doorstep today, with a gentle knock to the door and a timid smile on his face. He doesn’t even look at you when you open the door, instead he crouches down in front of you with the big, flashy box. He ignores you, tilting himself to look past you and straight at your daughter.

You hold your breath when she runs to Haechan, arms spread open and laughter shrieking in your ears. Your heart aches so much at this moment.

Given your work schedule, you’d never gotten to see them interact much. He always came over as she was eating her breakfast, and you always came home after she was put to bed. You guess it’s fair that they have a bond now. She doesn’t even run at you like she does for Haechan. In fact, the only time she ever does is when she had a bad day at daycare or had a tummy ache.

She runs to you when she needs you, but she runs to Haechan like she wants to. Like she genuinely is attached to him, and his kind smile, and his eyes, and probably that warm embrace that you’ve never let yourself experience.

You watch them, not allowing yourself to melt at the moment because you did not invite him over, nor did you give consent to bring that fucking doll house here. But you can’t say no now, as she clings to his leg when he stands up and looks at you with an almost irritated glint in his eye.

His eyes trail all over you briefly too, as if checking for any new spots or marks that a man could have put on you. You feel seen, dipping your head to not meet his eye and scratching your neck as if to hide a spot there. There isn’t a mark, it’s just…fear? nervousness? anxiety?

And then he hauls the box in for her without saying a word to you. You watch him hard now that his back is turned. His voice sounds so loving when he speaks to your child as if she’s an equal. Plopping down on your living room floor with her and opening the large box.

He Ooo’s and Aahhh’s with her as he pulls each piece out, connecting the walls, the doors, handing her little things to help him with. And both of them are so focused on the task at hand to create a safe space for all of her abused barbie dolls that… you feel invisible.

For the first time ever in front of them both, you feel like you are nothing but a ghost. That he is the single parent. As if you’re forgotten, less loved, not wanted, not even needed.

There’s a bubbling in your gut when you tear up, reminding yourself that what Haechan did that night was probably just, well, he’s a man. Men aim to fuck at all times usually, and you guess you should have expected it at one point from him because, again, you’re aware that he’s attracted to you. Even more aware now.

But the way you feel right now outshines that. He’s ignoring you to keep your child happy. She is ignoring you because it seems Haechan does a better job at it than you do.

And, well, he’s not holding you down, whispering things in your ear, letting out frustrated little sighs at your drunken or drowsy words now. So, you say nothing. All you can do is go to the kitchen and prepare a snack, trying to force the tears to stay inside of you with quiet sniffles, hoping you can join their little picture perfect moment so that you can be helpful too.

Your heart swells when they both look at you as you present a plate of snacks. You have to hold back tears again at the way their eyes shine, thanking you for the snacks. Haechan’s eyes stay on you a bit longer though, as if saying “See? See what you’re making her go without?”

You do see it.

But…it can’t be him. As much as you wish it could be, you just can’t. There has to be another man out there just like him, one that doesn’t have a history with you that would cause whispers and questions. There has to be.

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

That moment you witnessed seems to have solidified Haechan’s place in your home. Whether it be for babysitting or simply so your child can see him when she’s asking for him (which is often.) It’s kind of an issue, actually, because now the choice isn’t yours anymore and it appears Haechan knows that.

You hate that you’re forced to see him for what he is now. How he proves himself over and over again to be the man you need. The issue is that you still don’t want it to be him. The bigger issue is that he’s breaking down your walls, doing little things for you, looking at you with those dark eyes– your resolve cracks and reminds you every time he’s here that maybe it could work. Maybe you’ll give him a chance. Maybe you won’t have to go out anymore looking to fill a void that no one else fits into.

It’s the way that now, you can’t help but to compare him to your ex husband. The man who you loved for so long, who you genuinely thought you’d spend your life with happily and safely. Now, compared to Haechan, your ex seems like…nothing. Like a little crack in your resolve. He was older than you by just two years, took care of you for so long, impregnated you, and slowly but surely throughout all that time grew to resent you too.

You still don’t know why, but perhaps it’s just because you were growing into your own. You were becoming more independent, though he never had the capability to realize just how much you depended on him during the very time he left you.

“I just don’t want to do this anymore.” Your ex had said to you on that fateful morning.

Your belly was big as you tried to waddle up to him when he said that. You can’t help but think back now and wonder how pathetic you must have seemed when he yanked his arm from your grip, especially due to the difficulty of your pregnancy already. You were sick through most of it, only having a few good days here or there where that pregnancy glow would make your ex husband second-guess himself.

The slam of the door after that was more exhausting than the months of pregnancy you’d gone through. It felt loud, so loud you could hear it vibrate throughout your whole body. You recall falling to the floor and carefully holding your stomach. It’s like all of the heartbreak pooled there. The loss of your husband three weeks before he got to meet the child he was supposed to love. Her little heart must have been breaking inside of you too.

Double the pain.

And then you were mending yourself on your own. Going into labor early from stress, your family helped take care of you more than her. You were needier. You were broken.

And never, fucking ever, did you think you’d find yourself sitting comfortable in your lavish home realizing that your ex-husband didn’t deserve all of that pain from you. He left you for that girl, and not two months later did she leave him.

Never did you think you’d find yourself thinking about Haechan as a replacement either. Well, not a replacement, but like, maybe just…he’s the idea of a perfect dad if you pay attention to how your child talks about him. How they act together. How she cries for him before bed when he’s not there, asking you why you don’t read to her the way Haechan does. Why don't you sing to her the way he does? Why don't you use the same voices for her dolls? Why you don’t cut her food like he does, why you don’t do this or that.

That’s what makes it click the most you think. The fact that Haechan has given her something you never can. The love of a father. It doesn’t even feel like he’s babysitting at this point, he’s parenting, teaching her lessons, bandaging small boo-boos, fixing her hair,…cooking dinner, cleaning…existing here like he belongs.

Haechan has done more for your daughter than your ex husband ever could have, more than you could have done for her too, you think.

Even now, as you come home night after night and see him, you struggle to see him as anyone that isn’t who your daughter needs. Maybe who you need.

His summer semester is coming to an end too, and it’s hard to see him as a college student now. He really does coursework and everything that needs to be done at your home all within a single work day? With no complaints at all? Lately, you’ve noticed that he’s been more focused on studying when he babysits too, but still your daughter listens to him better than she listens to you.

Yet, still, it’s like you’re avoiding each other as you go through the motions, but you notice him more. You feel more discomfort because of it, mostly because you know your resolve about this is breaking. There’s a fear inside of you that revolves around him.

What if you missed your chance?

What if it does end up being a mistake if he still wants you?

You don’t know what to do, but you know you want him.

Some nights, Haechan does sleep over due to exhaustion and you don’t even ask him to leave because you know he’s not doing it to try anything. The avoidance is loud. Lately, you come home from work and there he is, sitting up with his laptop on his lap but sound asleep, softly snoring. Each time, you remind yourself of how he’s sacrificing his study time to babysit. You know your child can be distracting and needy when she wants something too, but he doesn’t complain even a little bit. The least you could have done was bring him a blanket, which you did. And you woke the next morning to find him curled up on the same couch, laptop toppled over onto the floor.

Small, gentle acts of kindness towards each other but never face to face. You’ve woken to fresh coffee countless times, made exactly the way you like it because you know he’s watched you make it yourself. You’ve come home to re-stocked items, like milk and eggs, laundry detergent, and even toothpaste. It’s nice, and a small indication that he doesn’t resent you. Even through face-to-face avoidance on your part.

Tonight seemed different though, compared to all of the other nights when you can’t go out. You walked through the door to the smell of dinner and your child still awake, sing-songing at you the moment you walked in.

“Dad said I can stay up late!”

You quirk a brow, her calling him that now becoming a regular occurrence to the point it goes through one ear and out the other for you. You recall discussing her bed time though, with absolutely no exceptions.

“Did he now?” You hug her before taking off your cardigan, walking with her to the kitchen where you find Haechan, placing down a small plate on the table with cartoon characters on it, right in front of two bigger plates with bigger portions of delicious looking food placed neatly on it.

Your heart swells, but your anxiety grows twice as big alongside it. This.

This is what you’ve wanted for so long. This is what you never thought you could find. So, why is it that you still have push-back in your mind? Despite knowing that Haechan has proven himself time and time again, you want to argue?!

Perhaps it’s because you like the way he tries. Maybe you’re not ready to lose that feeling of being chased in some way, of being begged to let him stay. Maybe it’s because you begged your husband, desperate for him to keep you, but he left anyway. It feels like Haechan gives you power over yourself, over your love-life, over everything, really.

And if you were to actually accept his advances, even just a dinner on your table, what if he stops? What if he gets bored once he gets what he wants? After all, he’s still young, you can’t truly imagine he wants to do this forever.

Not with you, and not with your daughter either.

“What’s all this? Isn’t it a bit late for her to have dinner?” You question him instantly, anxiety bubbling up out of assumption alone.

“We had a small snack a few hours ago.” Haechan reassures you. “I finished my exams and had a burst of energy to celebrate, besides, it’s a Friday–” He goes to pull out a chair for you. “You don’t need to be up early either. A late dinner every now and then never hurt anybody.”

The way this is the first time the two of you have had a face-to-face conversation since…that night. His voice calms you, and that’s scary.

You huff, happy because you could easily melt into this chair and pretend you’re having a family dinner, like you always wanted, like you never rejected a touch from him that you desperately wanted. You could just play along and pretend Haechan is everything you need. Except, it wouldn’t even be pretending at this point. The whole idea of him has changed. But, again, that anxiety. You still have that little voice holding you back, no matter what you want, or what you need, you fear it’ll be ripped from you again if you were to let yourself be weak for another person.

“I’m really tired, Donghyuck.” You explain, walking past the kitchen and towards your bedroom. “Thanks for dinner but I’m not too hungry and I just want to lay down.”

And with that, he watches you leave. No real appreciation, no congratulations on him finishing his exams, not even a kiss to your child’s forehead. Is he still expected to be the one to put her to sleep?

Why is he even here? Why did he do all of this?

His patience is running dry.

So, he eats with your child as your plate goes cold and he leaves it there. If you can’t even handle a dinner at the table with the person who cooked it, you can deal with your own fucking plate. Throw away your own fucking food, wash your own fucking dish. And if you can’t tuck your child into bed, he’ll do it, but you can shove that fake ass exhaustion right up your ass for all he cares.

He knows you’re not exhausted. He’s seen you when you are. You’re just being an asshole to him at this point, trying to appear like you’re perfectly happy with the life you live when your drunken rants prove otherwise. You treat him like everything he does has an ulterior motive. Which, yeah, maybe it does, but he was genuinely excited to have someone celebrate the end of this semester with him. Maybe assuming you’d indulge him went too far. For the first time, he wasn’t doing it to impress you.

By the time Haechan gets your daughter to bed, all tucked in with a little tune to fall asleep to, he closes her door and just stands there in the silence on the other side of it.

You must really enjoy being a single mother, huh? This is why too. He always questioned it. You’re so attractive, so well-adjusted. You work hard, your daughter is a sunshine in this world, and you’ve not managed to find anyone to love you yet? He thought he was lucky to be the one getting to spend time with you.

Turns out, you refuse to let anyone in despite Haechan knowing, fucking seeing straight through you. You want something from someone. You need it, yearn for it, even. But it’s almost laughable at the way you refuse it.

Excuses, excuses, excuses.

It’s the fucking audacity you have taking advantage of him. You’ve practically led him on. You lend him everything he wants in life. That’s it. You lend it. From flaunting yourself before you go to bars, to exposing all the marks you allow other men to leave on you. Letting him stay in this house, father your child, cook, clean, mend, fix, heal.

From being a faux-father to being minimized to a college student that you used to babysit. He’s offered you relief in so many ways including sexual, and all you fucking do is avoid, deny, fucking reject him. You still go out to bars, later and later you’ll come home with new swells against your skin, but always looking so empty and disappointed. Sometimes he thinks you try to make him jealous. Sometimes, he thinks you want him to try again.

Sometimes, he thinks you get off on the fact that he keeps trying.

And he has tried. Albeit more gently lately, but he has. Small, lingering touches when he hands you your coat to help you get out the door and to work quicker. Starting your car for you before you leave. Fuck, he even opens the goddamn door for you. Anything to make you feel appreciated, respected, and fucking wanted.

The silence is loud in his ears due to the sheer irritation as he drops his head, staring at his feet and knowing it’ll only take a few strides to reach your bedroom. A room he still craves to be in.

He’s raided those drawers by now, because of course he has. Soiling your panties, your sheets, anything that still smells like you when you’re gone for the day, all so he can act normal upon seeing you when you come home. He’s laid in your bed by now too, wondering what it would feel like to have your weight beside him. He fantasized about anything and everything he possibly could in there.

And he’s always warmer. Always cums the hardest with weak, muffled moans as he stuffs your pillows into his mouth to keep quiet. All before cleaning every trace of himself there, closing the door, and wishing he was allowed to exist in there with you.

Right now will be the first time Haechan enters your room to your knowledge, and it sucks for him because he has essentially trained himself to get hard every time he opens this fucking door. Still, he composes himself, and it’s a bit of a shock if you’re being honest. You thought he’d go home after this, you were kind of hoping he would after you made it so awkward.

You felt guilty the second you saw his expression fall to your rejection of eating dinner like a big fucking happy family. You want it so bad, you want him so bad.

When you left the kitchen, you immediately went to your room and hopped in the shower, well aware that he wouldn’t follow you. You thought hard while the hot water made attempts to wash away your feelings. Would it have been so bad to just eat with him? With your daughter? With both of them? The way his eyes fell, it burned your heart a little bit.

Still, no answers came to you because you know part of you just wants to see what else he will do for you. Despite the history with him, and despite knowing his entire family would question and scoff at you for it…Is it really so wrong? To want to give him a chance just to see if he’ll leave you too?

Just to see if it’ll hurt when he does it too?

Inviting him to your home almost every day of the week isn’t wrong, right? Forgetting to pay him all those times before, hoping to see him again and get that confidence boost, that wasn’t wrong. Letting your daughter attach herself to him when you swore he wasn’t permanent, no longer having the energy to correct her use of “dad” towards him… none of that is wrong.

It’s all Haechan. He’s the one in the wrong for willingly following along, not you. Right?

And as you’re sitting on your bed in your towel, zoning out and staring at your floor, Haechan swings your bedroom door open without a single knock, mindfully closes it, and immediately goes off on you.

Somehow, you really expected him to accept your rejection but your heart swells that he didn’t. You don’t think he ever will, and you’re exhausting yourself hoping he’ll prove you wrong.

He’s shown you enough by now. This is what breaks down that wall inside of you, isn’t it?

“What am I doing wrong?” He shoots his first question out in a desperate whisper shout, eyes searing into you before continuing without a single breath. “Because I do everything for her, and i do everything for you, does that really make you so fucking uncomfortable?”

“D–” You try to respond, feeling your skin prickle at the sheer irritation in his expression.

He’s fighting for you.

“Isn’t that what you want?!”

“After everything I do–” He throws his hands up now, running his fingers through his hair as if you make him feel like he wants to rip it out. “After trying to make your life easy while making mine harder, for what? You to not eat the fucking food I made? For you to go to the bar all the time just to come back disappointed like I’m not right here waiting for you to come back?”

“What ar-”

“Don’t ask me any stupid fucking questions, Just answer me.” He drops his hands, stepping up to you, placing both hands on either side of your hips, doing his best not to react to your near-naked body. “Why?”

You lean back, trying to create more distance to try and give him an answer that you don’t even know yourself, but he just keeps closing in. Not letting you escape this time. You’ve never seen him so riled up before, it’s…

Well…

“Because I came onto you? Because I tried to do what no one else will do for you?” His voice shakes when he says it, and you can feel the heat radiating from him. Is he…about to cry?

Only now, seeing him so close with an entirely sober brain do you realize an answer. Maybe not to his question of why, but to the same question you’ve been asking yourself. It’s because of that look in his eye. You’ve never been able to put a word to it, but now with him demanding you explain yourself so closely, you see it.

He’s desperate.

Arguably as desperate as you’ve felt to fill the void. Except, he’s trying to do that for you and you won’t let him out of what? Fucking fear? Hell, at this point the history means close to nothing when it comes to all the new memories he’s made in this home, even without you. The history of babysitting him, the history of your ex husband leaving you. It doesn’t matter.

You think hard, so hard that you feel your eyes burn as you stare up at him. Glancing without intention to his jaw when he clenches it, to his neck when he swallows his words, to his lips, his eyes, the hair falling in his face…and you just–

You reach up, running a soothing hand through his hair to get it out of his face. Then you see those same desperate eyes somehow grow more desperate as he lowers them, leaning into the touch, as if you’ve been starving him the same way you’ve been starved for years. He falls silent too, cutting himself off mid-question just to feel you touch him for the first time.

“I don’t know.” You say, which seems like a better answer than having an excuse. What can you say otherwise? That it’s because it shouldn’t be him? That you’re afraid he’ll realize he’s not ready to settle? To be a dad? He’ll ask why, and it’ll be the same answer you gave on that drunken night. An answer that you no longer care about.

You babysat him when he was a child, but you were still a child too.

You were still a child, and time changes things.

Your ex husband left you, and you’re afraid he will too, especially because he’s so much younger? Who cares?

Your answer seems to fly right past his head though, because he’s still leaning to feel your fingers in his hair, and he’s looking at you as if nothing you say will matter unless you make it hold some weight to him.

“Donghyuck–” You pause, scratching right at his nape, uncaring of how you can feel your towel loosening on your body. “You haven’t done anything wrong.”

Somehow, his name on your lips is what he needed to hear. The tone of it, the rasp in your voice, your fingers in his hair. Actions speak louder than anything the two of you could say right now, and he can’t help it. Nothing can stop him, not even you at this point.

He hasn’t done anything wrong you say? It’s because he fucking knows what you need.

You inhale deeply, holding your breath when you feel your back hit your mattress, his warm hands instantly taking advantage of your freshly-showered state and tugging at the towel just slightly to let it fall open. You hear a slight breath from him at that moment, an inhale. There, he climbs onto the bed, nudging himself between your legs and trapping you there under him, both hands holding your arms down.

Like he’s afraid you’ll reject him again.

“You’re going to let me take care of you now.” He demands, though to him it sounds more like a plea solely due to the fact that he’s so fucking turned on it’s unreal. That feeling of when your fingers were in his hair? Seeing your naked body? Unshaved pussy? Being in this fucking room with you? It throws him into overdrive, especially with the way you just lay there blinking up at him in surprise. The anger melting away only amplifies it more.

How could you do this to him? Genuinely, how could you have let him fucking suffer for you like this?

Still, you blink up as if you’re a deer caught in headlights and it makes his heart thump against his ribcage. Your eyes are so bright, that glint of sadness he had seen so many times isn’t there right now. And there’s so much adrenaline inside of him, like he needs to move fast before you change your mind again. You’ve not let him do this for some fucking reason or another and now you’re just laying here for him.

There, with your entire body on display, and you appear to be docile. Fucking obedient? Like he always knew you would be if you’d just drop the fucking act?! You were meant for him and him alone, and he’s going to show you why.

In all honesty, you’re tired of denying yourself by now. From the moment you saw him that day cleaning your pool for the first time, you’ve wanted him on some level. It wasn’t an emotional attachment, but a hope, a fantasy for you. And when you recognized him, you were more impressed with him than embarrassed. You tried not to let your eyes wander out of guilt, out of feeling like a pervert.

And then, that day when he came onto you, he was just a man to you. Your faux guilt kept you from letting him, and your hope to be chased kept you from it too. As if you’ve never pleasured yourself to the thought of him, shamefully in this very bed. As if you’ve never called out his name with a silent breath. If you keep going at this point, you’ll lose him before ever knowing what he could really be for you.

This is his last ditch effort to beat you at your own game, and you’re ready to lose.

So, now, you let yourself get lost in him. In his eyes and the way he pleads and makes his demands. He probably doesn’t recognize his strength against you right now, or how much it’s turning you on. With the way he has both hands on your wrists, probably bruising them, and there’s nothing you could do even if you wanted to. His weight holding you down feels better than you imagined.

After so long, with so many failed hookups where you’ve told them of your daughter and all they’ve done in return is get their orgasm then leave…Haechan. He wants to take care of you?

He wants to…give you what you need?

Fuck, you know he can. That’s the fucked up part. He’s proved it so many times to you in so many ways. You’ve watched him, the way he moves and acts around you. He’s exactly what you need.You pushed him to this point, where his sanity is on the brink of crashing. Taking it away from him again feels wrong, because it’s exactly what you want.

And when he presses his leg between yours, he knows.

“Again?” He comments, now releasing your wrist from one hand and running it down, able to slip his fingers right into the slick of your bare pussy. “You’re wet.”

You still just blink up at him with an intake of breath at the pleasure, thoughts running left and right on what to do, finally realizing you don’t want to do a damn thing. He’d do it all if you let him. Clean your house, be a father, fix all of the breaks, make you wet.

And you just feel him, the way his fingers play around with what he does to you. You can practically feel his confidence rise at the way you spread your legs a bit more, as if to give him more access. When you look at him, his expression remains harsh, but slowly he moves himself down, lips brushing over one of your nipples while keeping eye contact.

Still that irritated look, like he’s mad you haven’t let him do this before now.

“How many times are you going to pretend like I’m not the one who gets you wet?” He asks before rubbing circles around your clit, tongue flicking in the same way around your nipple. “Like I don’t have a right to take care of you?”

Your breath is still caught in your throat, trying to be careful about what you say right now despite knowing you can’t speak. You focus on what he’s doing instead, losing yourself to something you’ve not felt in far, far too long.

He’s right. He’s gotten you wet more than once by now. More than he knows.

And goddamn, he knew your tits could bounce, but the way they move without the support of a bra, the plush, soft feeling of your nipple growing erect in his mouth, all for him to bite and pull at. He does it too, listening to the little seething sound of pain from you when he pulls all the way back with your nipple between his teeth. Only to let it fall from his mouth and break eye contact with you to see the jiggle as it falls.

His cock twitches, at everything that you are right now, feeling more pleasure through seeing you like this alone compared to fucking his own fist on your bedroom floor. He notes how your legs squeeze him more at the nipple stimulation than his fingers too, memorizing the way your labia falls open between them. He smirks, flicking his tongue more, quicker.

There. There it is.

A low rumble in your chest falls from your lips. Soft, a moan. A very small, delicate sound.

“You like this?” Haechan asks, looking up at you, letting his tongue fall from his mouth again and flicking the erect nub. “When I play with your tits?”

You nod, throwing an arm over your face in embarrassment that this is actually happening. You’re letting him. Already you feel yourself heat up more, even when he takes his fingers away from your clit and instead, uses them to flick your other nipple.

And he does this for a few minutes. Paying special attention to your tits, going back and forth with his fingers and tongue to each bud, trying so hard to not stop just to shove his cock between them and use them the way he’s always wanted. He focuses on drawing out more and more little sounds from you instead, slurping his own saliva from your painfully erect nipples, pulling back, blowing cold air, then warming it up again with his lips. All while simultaneously groping, flicking, and pinching with his other hand.

“Jesus, Haechan–” You moan quietly, chest rising and falling as he squeezes and licks against you.

That’s right, say his name. Let him fucking know he’s doing what you like. Haechan thinks, feeling his cock weep in his pants as he does it. Wondering just how sensitive you are to be reacting like this to simple nipple stimulation. God, he’s wanted to suck on these for so long, and now you’re letting him. They’re so big, so plush. He wants to fucking cover them with his mouth, he wants to bury his face in them, kiss them all over them.

And if they were to get bigger? He moans at the thought, remembering that conversation you had with your mom. You want another. He bets they’d swell up–Oh, fuck yeah. They’d probably hurt to rub against your shirt. God, fuck, he can’t control his thoughts right now.

Finally.

Fucking finally, he has you and he’s not going to let you run away again.

He doesn’t fucking care if it’s forward. He wants what he wants, you want what you want. That want just so happens to line up. Besides, he’s already proved himself to you, he knows it. If you’re letting him do this, maybe you’d let him stay like this.

“Did they get bigger?” He moans briefly as he swaps to your other nipple again. “So full, so heavy, were they leaking all over you?”

You listen to him, trying not to feel the pit in your stomach bubble with even more arousal at his blatant and dirty words, feeling your clit throb at the stimulation your tits are getting right now.

“Makes my dick fucking throb just thinking about it. Fuck–”

“Let me give you another,” He mumbles now, almost mindlessly before looking up at you with an intense gaze as he bites down, indicating that he’s not mindless about it at all.

“Swell you up, make you glow–”

Oh.

Why is that– why are you dripping?

He hears that moan you let out. Different from the others, almost desperate.

“Mm, yeah.” He encourages it, now allowing his hand to travel back down to witness how much wetter you’ve gotten at those words. So messy, so perfect. “Knew you’d want it raw.”

You can’t help the nod, as it comes before you even process his words solely because you feel his fingers slip inside of you. You haven’t been this wet in so, so long. You want to feel it. To be full again, of anything. Of him.

“Ye-” You start, interrupting yourself with a bite of your lip and your eyes rolling back.

“That’s right mama,” He coos, tilting his fingers up and amplifying the pressure inside of you. “Gonna let me take good care of this pussy, yeah?” He adds, lifting from your tits and ghosting his lips over yours.

He watches you closely, that daze in your eye. God, you look so horny right now. There’s nothing more he wants than to see this time and time again. To let you wake up every morning with his warm cum inside of you, to see your belly swell with his child, to see your tits grow until they hurt.

He’d take care of you. He’d take good fucking care of you.

“Say something.” Haechan whispers against your lips, darting his tongue out against your lips, angling his fingers up and making you moan. “Say you want me to give it to you raw.”

You open your mouth, feeling his tongue lick and swallow up that moan you just gave him before you try to compose yourself. You can’t help it, you’re so, so sensitive right now and you can’t help but find it incredibly sexy to be here, laid bare, while he’s still fully clothed.

Like he really is doing this for you. He’s not trying to get his own orgasm and leave. You’re weak and those words of “let me give you another” shines in your head. Weak, you’re weak. You should be thinking about condoms, you should be thinking about the consequences of this.

But you’re not.

You do like it raw.

“Haechan–” You stutter as you try to grasp the reality of his words, feeling his fingers repeatedly hit right where you need it. “I’m…not protected.”

He moans. Loudly, before huffing out an irritated groan.

“You must really want it then.” He narrows his eyes at you. “Going out all the time trying to get fucked–”

He plunges his fingers in again, deep, and holds them there as he pulls back to look at you. To really look at you, then he glares.

“You’d really let just some fucking dude give you a baby?”

You repeatedly shake your head.

“No!” You retort, thrusting your hips up. “I just–”

“Mhm,” He pulls his fingers out now, sliding himself down so fast that you can barely comprehend him sucking your clit into his mouth before pulling back in a moan at the taste of you. “If mama wants another, daddy will give her one.” He says now, as if to pacify you.

As if to give you everything.

And you’d argue, really, you would. You want another child so bad, but this is– it’s too soon. You haven’t even established a relationship with him yet. Boundaries haven’t been discussed. His college plan– but fuck it’s not entirely your fault that you’re like, super turned on by the idea of it. To the thought of being so filled with cum that there’s no possible way you couldn’t end up pregnant. An indication that, no matter what, no man at a club could fulfill the arousal for you even if they cared to do it.

You’d never have let them actually fuck you raw.

Haechan though…how can you keep telling him no?

How could you reject him again when you want it so badly?

Fuck now, think later.

“Yeah–” You say against your better judgement, hands reaching down to his hair so you can grind up against his mouth, lost to the arousal as you mimic what he referred to himself as. “Daddy?”

You feel his mouth fall slack at that, as if you’re accepting him in full now. You feel your clit hit nothing in his open mouth, but it throbs harder.

He knew you were slightly into him for letting him do this at all, but now, you’re truly accepting it. Like you know he’ll fucking do it, like you want him to fucking do it.

“That’s right,” He moans against your clit as he licks at it, barely able to comprehend your voice calling him that but clinging to it all the same. “Gonna let daddy do it all for you.”

Yeah. You are. You’re gonna let him do it. All of it.

And then, the room is enveloped in quiet moans, more from Haechan than from you due to your breath being stuck in your throat. His tongue, licking every part of your sensitive cunt, his hands reaching back up to your tits, fondling, pinching, painfully tugging at them as he moans louder, louder, louder for you to want him.

He presses his hips up and against your mattress as he tastes you, so deeply it hurts his cock to neglect it like this. Each rub feels raw, twitching and pulsing to be let out, to be inside of you, on you, against you. Filling you up with his cum, plugging it in as a promise that you can’t leave him even if you wanted to.

He’s going to fucking do exactly what he said he would.

And only when you feel his tongue lap against your hole do you finally release your breath, “Daddy” coming out in a choked back sob. It breaks him, his body going into overdrive as he pulls back and just– stares at you with wild eyes.

You stare back up at him, knowing that calling him that means something more than a cringe little roleplay kink. It means something deeper to him. He wants to be a dad, a real one.

“Oh yeah?” He finally says, hands going straight to his button and zipper.

You can’t help it, biting your lower lip as you blink up, watching his shoulders move, the veins on his arms protruding as he rushes to pull it out and– oh. You moan at it, the way his heavy, slicked up, cock falls out, dark, needy.

“Daddy–” You urge him on, knowing that it’s driving him absolutely insane.

“Mhm?” He shuffles himself off the bed, letting his pants drop as he lifts his shirt off of him and fucking glares at your tits. “You want daddy’s cock?” He adds now, shooting his eyes up to you as both of his hands land on your legs.

Your mind goes blank when you feel him slide his hands around to the back of your thighs, pushing your legs forward, curling you in on yourself, forcing your pussy to be out and on display for him.

And you watch him, the way he stares down at it. It’s embarrassing to be so seen right now, not having expected to get fucked open by anyone tonight, let alone him. You probably should have shaved or something, or like, not gotten out of the habit in the first place. But he moans at it, mouth falling open at the fact that you are entirely a fucking woman.

A fucking mother.

The prettiest pussy he’s ever fucking seen let alone tasted.

And he moans, breaking the silence, forgetting only for a moment how long he’s been wanting this. It boosts your confidence more than you’ve ever felt. His reaction to this is more than your ex husband’s reaction to you when you were pristine and borderline pornstar quality.

Haechan doesn’t see you as used and neglected, he just sees you. And this. This is the pussy he wants. This is what he wants to put his baby in.

When he flicks his eyes back to you, with that same open mouthed expression, it knocks the breath out of you. There’s so much love in his eyes, or maybe lust, you don’t care. You think you’re matching that expression for him too, because it’s like he can’t hold back anymore. He can’t just sit and look at you anymore.

He just can’t.

And you feel it, his thick head pushing past the tightened, pulsing hole and not stopping. He pushes in slowly, painfully slow, to the point you’re both looking at each other with a slack jaw. Finally. The pain of it, the pleasure, the fucking need you’ve been trying to fulfill.

That look on your face drives him wild too, he knows he has you by now. You like it, you love the way he slides in and makes damn sure you feel it. Every second of the slide pries you open, and he wants to remember this moment forever. He wants you to fucking remember too.

Wants you to know that no one will ever fit inside of you so perfectly, so deeply.

When he finally bottoms out, he leans forward to keep himself buried deep as he ghosts his lips over yours. He feels the way you try to kiss him, but he pulls back with a confident smirk.

“When was the last time you’ve felt a cock so deep in you?” He whispers hotly, knowing you need not answer. Knowing you won’t answer, not with the way you’re instantly lifting your head and kissing him.

Your pussy pulses around him when you lick into his mouth, the first real kiss sending his heart soaring. He twitches inside of you with each squeeze, and kisses you harder, deeper. And somehow, it brings tears to your eyes.

The way he kisses, the way he makes you feel him. Fuck, the way he makes you feel whole, so wanted, like you’re amazing to him. In more ways than just a body to fuck, but he’s stuck around despite all of your avoidance and rejections. You hope you’re making it worth it.

Fuck, you need to feel worth it to him.

“You’d better not fucking pull out.” You groan through a breath, his lips still kissing you through your words as he finally pulls his hips back, fucking in once.

Hard.

Honestly, could you have said anything else at this moment? He’s trying to make this last, he needs it to last. If you keep fucking talking, saying everything he’s ever wanted to hear–��

“Fuck,” He moans, his hands moving up to your cheeks as he licks into your mouth. “You can’t–” He continues, fucking in again, moving your body up with each thrust do to the sheer force of him trying to plunge in as deep as he can. “You can’t fucking say that to me right now.”

You’re seeing stars though, unable to say anything else as your eyes roll back at the way the head of his cock practically kisses your cervix with each push into you. He’s so rough, so desperate for it.

You don’t think he expected you to respond either, with the way he keeps his lips on yours, his body pressed so closely that having your legs to your chest means nothing to him now. Mating press be damned, he’s lost his mind to the feeling, not the aesthetic of being a fucking dad.

Your legs wrap around him instead, and he’s all too happy to feel it. Your legs hug him the same way your arms do, the same way your pussy does, and he’s fucking in love with you.

He braces one hand back against your leg, holding it against his hips as he continues to fuck forward, still at the same pace. Deep and with purpose. Every few seconds the bursts of pleasure run through him, making him shiver and moan into your mouth. Little grunts, near whimpers for you to let him give you the world.

More than this. More than fucking, more than taking care of you, more than anything he could ever possibly give you. He’ll find a way.

And then, you’re clenching hard, matching his near-whimpers except moaning in full pants, babbling and drooling cries against his mouth.

“Mama–” Haechan soothes, continuing his pace as he tilts his head back to get a good look at that lost gaze in your eyes. “You’re crying?”

You nod with a laugh, tears rolling down the same way the wet of your cunt slips down your ass. You’ve never felt so good, so fucking full. And for some reason, that does him in. Making it last be damned, he genuinely thinks he’s won you over. He can make it last next time, he can do more next time, he can–

He leans back all the way now, onto his knees as your legs try to hug him back to you, and his eyes go straight back to those tits. The way he made a promise. The way they bounce, slick with his sweat from pressing against you.

“Fuck, you’re so pretty.” He grunts in a breath, now quickening his pace and snapping his hips. Pulling out all the way briefly to plunge into your again. “Can’t get any deeper–” He continues, flicking his eyes from your face, to your tits, to that beautiful pussy of yours swallowing him up.

Now his eyes roll back, hands going back to your thighs to push you back into position. No way in hell can he last, not at a pace like this, inside of a woman like you.

“Don’t pull out.” You repeat again in a breath, seeing his face and the way he focuses solely on you. You know he’s going to cum, and you want him to. You want to feel it, every single fucking drop of it.

“Yeah?” He nods his head with laser-focus on your pussy now, staring down as he points tight, short thrusts inside of you. “Momma wants my cum? Hm?”

Oh, he’s fucking gone.

“She likes it?” He continues to talk himself up. “Likes being so fucking full of it? Yeah?”

Goddamn, fuck, he’s insane.

“Yes, daddy–” You whisper-shout, fingers shooting to your clit, other hand raising to your mouth to silence the moans as to not be too loud.

“Fuck, yeah you do.” He lets out a near growl, his voice low and rumbled as he slaps your hand away, pressing hard on your clit with his thumb as he buries himself in you once more and stiffening his abs. “That’s right.”

And instantly upon feeling him pulse, that first spurt of cum painting your insides, you lose yourself with him. Your fingers drop from your mouth and you release a pornographic moan for him, rutting yourself against him, as if to fuck it deeper into you.

It only prolongs the orgasm though, for both of you.

Haechan is silent, trying to keep his eyes open through the pleasure as you pulse and squirt around him, his thumb pressing so hard into your clit, his cock cumming so deep, filling you up so well– He wants to see it. Wants to watch you fall apart for him. Wants to witness the way you let him do this.

And he holds himself there, so hard and so full of pleasure for you. Keeping himself practically impaled against your cervix until your body falls slack. Still, he fucks it into you, holding you in place with a softer moan now. No longer guttural or deep from his chest. His breathing is rough, a soft, near feminine moan leaves his lips as he falls forward onto you.

You wince along with him at the sensitivity, panting, a sweating tangle of a mess the two of you have become. And it’s the fact that it’s the first time you’ve ever gotten off at the same time as someone else. You feel…soft.

Your hands find their way to his hair as his face squished against your tits while he regains breath, not daring to move his hips because your pussy is too warm to leave right now. You brush the sweat-slicked hair out of his eyes, running your fingers all the way back to his nap, and then slowly down his back to rub and scratch.

He shivers at the feeling, humming the same feminine-tone he had released previously. And all he can do is hear your heart thumping against your chest, even through these soft tits of a pillow he’s lying against.

Haechan never wants to move again, not from this spot, ever.

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

“You know I’m in love with you, right?” Haechan mentions briefly after a long moment of silence, looking up at you with his wet hair.

Deep in the night, your food still cold and on the table, you’ve found yourself freshly showered and on your living room couch with Haechan’s head on your lap. He made sure to have stayed long enough inside of you to implant…something if it was going to happen. So he didn’t argue a shower, and you didn’t argue letting him join you either.

He had washed you, gently running his hands between your legs with what you can only describe as the softest, most alluring face a man has ever given you. Like he won the lottery, or found the answer to eternal life or something. You repaid him by letting him admire your tits again while you jerked him off, but that’s besides the point.

“Like, I’m not going to leave. I hope you know that.” He adds with a soft groan to your hands still in his hair. His new favorite thing.

You look down at him, hand moving to his cheek as the words hit you in the chest.

There’s anxiety along with happiness, at all of the boundaries and serious conversations that will need to be had now, but still, you feel like you’re glowing when he looks at you.

He didn’t even have to say it, and arguably you probably don’t need to say it back either. You think he sees it in you. Even if he didn’t, you think he’d take anything you give to him and cling to it. After all, it only took one time for you to break entirely for him.

“Are you now?” You smile with a chuckle, looking back to the tv and pretending to watch it. “Well, that’s good. Otherwise I’d be making you go get a plan B or something.”

His eyes narrow at you.

“Like hell I’d let you, even if I didn’t love you.” He groans. “But I do, so don’t ever say that shit again.”

You chuckle, feeling the calm in your home that once felt so chaotic. It’s quiet now, both inside and outside of your head.

“Congratulations, by the way.”

He looks at you with question, quirking a brow.

“For finishing your finals, I mean.” You smile, going back to petting through his hair and feeling like you’re on top of the world, despite what you assume to become half of your world lying his head on top of you.

“Oh, right.” He smiles, now turning his head to watch the tv. “I probably failed them.”

You don’t believe that, but even if he did, you think you could be what he needs too. He wouldn’t have to work if he didn’t want to.

If he’s really in love with you, all he’d have to do is…not leave.

“Are you sure you want to be having these conversations with me? You can just call it a hook-up.” You finally say, hoping he means it, knowing it breaks your heart a bit to give him an out. “I don’t want you to feel like I’m going to trap you here just because I’m a little smitten too.”

Haechan glares, blinking up at you.

“I literally just tried to put a baby in you.”

That’s fair.

“And you’re not going to run off? Get cold feet?”

“Can you stop doubting me and just let me do what I want for once?” He argues playfully. “Do you even know how much that barbie fucking dream house costed me? I couldn’t run even if, for some stupid ass reason, wanted to. I love her too.”

Silence for a moment.

“Maybe even more than I love you.”

You really, really, want to believe him.

So, you do.

3K notes · View notes

xiuriii · 2 months ago

Text

Looking For You; A Haechan Fic

Synopsis; Y/N, newly hired graphic designer for NCU, meets Donghyuck, NCU's president's notorious playboy son, during a night out in celebration. Six weeks after a heated night of passion, Y/N finds herself in a hard situation when her period is late and she's met with a positive pregnancy test. After coming to a dead end on finding the handsome stranger that went by 'Haechan', she anxiously goes through the beginning of her pregnancy with the support of her closest friend Renjun. That is, until she meets this nortious 'Haechan' at a company Christmas Party. Unaware that he is the presidents son, she corners him the elevator and tells him their situation, assuring him that he doesn't have to be involved but she wants him to put in writing of him relinquishing his rights. Haechan proposes the idea that they enter into a contractional arrangement. One where he gets to show his father that he is taking life seriously and settling down, and Y/N gets financial support. Y/N agrees to his terms eventually after Haechan has some choice words with her (i'm so sorry guys he's a major dick in the beginning) but not before giving him her terms of him actively involving himself in the pregnancy, not just financial support. The nine months of pregnancy is an up and down battle for Y/N and Haechan. What is there to expect when one person is brought into the relationship before he's ready and another is actively trying to hold what little control she has on her life together?

genre; preg!reader, chaebol!Haechan, major dick haechan but i promise he gets better guys, angst, fluff, some suggestive themes, slice of life, appearance of dream and aespa members, minor pregnancy complications, some childhood trauma, it gets so sweet by the ending, GUYS ITS NOT PROOF READ

Word Count; 22,477 (wooooww i didnt hit my 25k mark but DAYUM, my longest to date)

“No, nonono. What?” you stared down at the two blue lines staring back at you. How could this happen? I mean, you KNOW how it can happen but like, how? Why now? You had the perfect five step plan. First, graduate college. Check. You had just gone through four grueling years getting your bachelors degree in Graphic Designing. That led you to step two, getting a job at a big company that you were interning at. Check. You started with NCU at the end of your third year, staying with them as an intern and proving your capabilities to earn a solid position among their team. You figured the first two steps would be the hardest to complete out of the five. How wrong you were.

Step three through five goes as follows: start dating someone nice, romantic, and handsome. Someone who would take care of you but still allow you to take care of them. Someone who wasn’t ashamed to be seen with you. Who loved you for you and not an idea they wanted you to portray. You’d move onto the next step of getting engaged. Professing your undying and unchanging love for each other. Through sickness and health as they say. Your life would blossom as you take the next step of moving in together, getting married. You’d navigate coexisting in each other's spaces and learning stuff about each other you’d wouldn’t know otherwise. You’d start your family first by adopting a puppy together. Realising that you guys could love something outside of the bubble that is you and them. Lastly, the big and final step, creating life together. You had always dreamed of being a mother. You wanted to feel what that unconditional love felt like and in return be able to give it too.

You looked back down at the test resting in your hands. You sighed as you rubbed your hand over your stomach. Something so small has already started to impact your life. Your heart raced and you felt a lump rise up your throat. Your eyes burned. Are these happy tears or sad tears? You had no idea, but what you did know is that you needed someone. You sat the pregnancy test down on your bathroom counter before heading to your room and grabbing your phone off your night stand. You clicked what was probably the only number you had in your phone and waited as it connected.

“Renjun? Can you come over please? I need you,” you spoke quietly as a sob broke free from the constraints of your chest.

6 weeks earlier;

“Congratulations Y/N for securing the bag!” Karina cheered as a few other girl friends joined in, clinking glasses together as you guys shot back the sting of tequila lime shots. You squeezed your eyes shut, the burn making its way down your throat before hitting straight to your stomach. You sucked in your breath.

“Aww thank you,” you pouted, feeling overwhelmed by their love and support. “I wouldn’t be able to do it without you guys! You helped me prove myself and for that I’m forever grateful,” You leaned forward and gave Winter and Karina a big hug, giggling as they tried to pry your arms off them. They had convinced you to go out with them tonight. You were typically the homebody of the group, much preferring to stay at home and have a glass of wine than to go out to a bar with booming music that seemed to rattle your chest. But you can admit, it felt nice. You let your body relax, swaying back and forth as the music beats through your body. You were lost in the rhythm until you felt a pair of hands land on your hips, grasping you lightly but firm enough for you to notice that they were there.

You felt a breath on your neck before a velvety voice rang in your ears, so soft you were surprised you could hear it over the music. “I couldn’t help but notice you over here. Hey, pretty girl. Can I have this dance?” you chuckled as you slowly rotated in his arms to face him and wow was he breathtaking. You paused briefly, facing him, to admire his face. It looked like the gods had specifically spent their time chisling out every angle, both sharp and round, to make sure it was perfect. His eyes locked with yours, warm and inviting, as a little smirk spread across his heart shaped lips. “You like what you see pretty?” he cooed at you. Your cheeks flushed before you flashed a flirtatious smile his way.

“Usually when people ask for a dance, it's to something… slower,” you wrapped your arms around his neck, clasping them against themselves. “But I'm not against this either,” you pressed your body against his, feeling the outline of his chest against yours. The smirk stayed on his face as his hands traveled down your sides. His fingertips dug into the exposed skin underneath the hem of your dress against the outside of your thighs before dragging up, slowly as if to memorize the way it felt beneath them. One hand rested on your lower back just above your ass while the other rested just below it, cupping and squeezing your ass every few seconds, kneading the soft flesh.

You closed your eyes and sighed, rolling your head to the side before opening them and looking at the man in front of you. His eyes were half lidded, starting at the junction where your neck met your exposed shoulder. They lingered on the thin strap of your tight red dress. He admired the way it hugged all your curves. The sides were cinched up, the strings dangled, tickling your thighs. He leaned forward, his breath lingered on the side of your neck before his lips connected with it.

It felt like electricity was shot through your veins. You inhaled a quick gasp as he chucked against your neck, it rumbled in his chest. He peppered a few more kisses across your neck before traveling to your exposed shoulder where he left a few more. You unclasped your hands and let one roam to the nape of his neck. Your fingers tug at the slightly messy hair do. He let out an exhale against your neck. The action sent goosebumps all up and down your arms and chest.

You pulled back from him slightly, glancing around you to see your friends engaged in their own fun, dancing and moving around. You looked back at the man in front of you. You smiled, slightly biting your lip before speaking. “You see, I like you,” he hummed as he eyed your lip caught between your teeth. “Why don’t you tell me your name and we can get out of here? Take the party back to your place maybe?” He looked up, meeting your eyes before flashing a dazzling smile that showed off his perfectly straight white teeth.

“You, pretty, can call me Haechan,” his hands rubbed down your arms before grasping your hands lightly. “And I would love to take you home.”

Present;

Renjun sat at the bar in your kitchen, staring down at the test that rested between his fingers. He had an unreadable expression on his face. I guess it’s something you can appreciate. If he was freaking out, you’re not sure if you’d be able to keep together what little composure you managed to put up after you got off the phone with him earlier. Your fingers nervously fiddled with the hem of your shorts, twisting the fabric between the finger tips.

“I have to call the doctor's office and set up an appointment. Junnie,” you called out to him as he looked at you, a small gentle smile on his face that told you you would be able to get through this. “Would you go with me? Or at least sit with me while I make the call?” you stopped messing with your shorts and moved to sit next to him at the bar.

He laid his hand on top of yours, grasping it slightly. “Of course Y/N. I’ll be here with you through it all,” he slid your phone towards you, unlocked it and set it in your hands. “Go ahead. I’m here with you.” you blinked away the tears threatening to fall from your eyes, nodding before grabbing the phone from him and looking up the nearest OBGYN.

You patiently got through the service menu before you were connected with the front desk. You explained to them the reason for your call, giving them your name and birthdate. You worked your way through the call, looking to Renjun for support. He squeezed your hand, grounding you, reminding you that everything is going to be okay. “Okay. Mhm. Yes, that sounds good to me. I’ll see you then. Thank you.” you slowly hung up the phone and let it rest in your hand on the counter. “I’ll see them in about three weeks. I don’t know why they would make me wait that long,” you grumbled as you set your phone down on the bar and rested your head in your hands.

You felt Renjun’s delicate fingers rub your shoulders, adding the perfect amount of pressure at just the right spots that helped you relax. You could already feel the pressure lifting from your head. “Hey, it’s going to be alright. They’ll take good care of you. Do you know when this happened?” he treated the question lightly and you could tell that. You rested your hand over his hand that laid on your shoulder and nodded. “Was everything consensual?” you eyes shot open at that as you whipped your head around to look at him.

“Yes! Oh my god. I understand your concern but it was completely in my control. I was the one that suggested we went back to his place. He was such a gentleman. He never did anything without me specifying what was and wasn’t okay,” your cheeks flushed at the memory.

Haechan had you sprawled on your back on his fluffy gray comforter. You were left in just your panties and him his dress pants. He teased his fingers along the hem of your lacy red thong. A low groan escaped his chest, “wore these just for me pretty? I'm honored but they won't be on for long. Do you want me to take them off or fuck you while they stay on?” He leaned forward, pressing a chast kiss to your temple as he finger teased your clit, not enough pressure to build you up but just enough to get you worked up.

“Off,” you spoke through an exhaled gasp. He made a noise of disapproval.

“What was that?” he chuckled against your chest, leaving wet patches down. You cupped his cheeks and brought his face up to yours. Tenderly you pressed your lips against his. His lips molded against your effortlessly, a perfect mesh of tenderness but full of intensity. He slowly licked your bottom lip and you complied, tilting your head and deepening the kiss. You pulled back from him, both yours and his pupils blown wide with anticipation.

You turned his head just enough so you would rest your lips against his ear. “I want you to take them off of me and fuck me Haechan. Please, I don’t think I can wait any longer.”

“Did you guys use protection? I know we both went through sex ed. It may have been shitty but there were at least some useful parts in it,” Renjun exhaled, his voice cutting through your distraction.

“Yes! We did! I promise. That’s why I don’t know how this could’ve happened,” there was a small pause in the conversation. It wasn’t awkward or anything like that. Renjun knew you well enough to know when you needed a second to think to yourself. Pulling out your phone you opened up various social media apps. “He said his name was Haechan so maybe I could find him on facebook or instagram? Oh! And I remember that he mentioned something about working for a company.” Renjun nodded, pulling out his own phone as well. You opened up Instagram, Twitter, Facebook, even reddit and craigslist but there was absolutely no social media presence for him.

You looked over at Renjun with a pleading look on your face, he shook his head. “I’m sorry Y/N, but he may have given you a fake name. That or he doesn’t believe in technology which is unheard of in this day and age,” you let a groan out as you laid your head down on the bar.

“I have to grab something to eat and get ready for work,” you said more so to yourself than to Renjun. He got up and started making you some toast and grabbing a glass to fill up with orange juice.

“I’ll make you breakfast, go ahead and get ready. I’m just going to make something light. This is what my sister ate when she was pregnant with my nephew. Apparently it helps to not eat anything greasy or heavy.” you got up from the stool at the bar and wrapped your arms around Renjuns waist, giving him a hug.

“I appreciate you so much, you have no idea. I would be lost without you Junnie,” he chuckled and patted your arm, motionion for you to go get ready. Everything you said was true. You really would be lost without him. He came into your life at such a dark and vulnerable moment, he was like the light that showed through the clouds on a stormy day. Your parents had just finalized their divorce your second year of middle school. Growing up, all you ever witnessed was your parents' fight. You honestly couldn't even tell if there was ever a point in your life that they truly loved each other.

I guess you could say you always kinda blamed yourself for the fall in their marriage. You could tell from photos before you were born that they truly looked in love. They had full photo albums dedicated to their travels in their early twenties. That must've stopped when you were born because you could never remember a time you guys went out as a family for any sort of event or vacation.

Holidays were always intense. It was always the one time where your parents never fought but you could tell in their body language that they would rather be anywhere else than together with you. It took some late night calls back and forth between you and Renjun and various reassurances that the fault lied with your parents, not you.

Your parents' relationship always lingered in the back of your mind whenever you thought about your own relationships in life, both platonic and romantic. You had only ever been in one serious romantic relationship and that was with a boy named Mark in your second year of college. He was as sweet as they came but he was busy. He was an aspiring musician, and his love for it was so intense, it was hard for him to spare some of his time for you. You never took it personally but knew that you wanted to be in the type of relationship that you never felt like a burden or a second choice. The breakup was mutual. You explained your feelings and he understood why you decided to end it. He had admitted that he realised a few weeks before that he wasn't ready for a serious relationship either.

Standing in front of the mirror in only your bra and panties, you stared at your body. Your eyes linger on your stomach, watching the way it expands with every breath. Slowly you turned to the side and rubbed your hands over the flat surface, imagining the life that had started to bud. It’s funny, there's practically nothing there but you can feel it. You can feel the way the path of your future is changing and although you're scared, the tiniest bit of curiosity peeks through. All the possibilities of your future with a little one starts to find its way into the cracks of your mind.

You shake your head, pushing back the thoughts. You shouldn’t feel so excited about something so scary and unknown, yet as your eyes stay focused on your stomach, you can’t help but feel a small smile grace your lips.

“Hey!,” your coworker Karina popped her head up and over the divider between your cubicle, eyes wide with a bright smile plastered on her face. Your heart jumped straight up to your throat, tears immediately pricking your eyes and spilling over. You sobbed. “Woah! Y/N, what's wrong? Are you okay?” she rushed around the divider and stepped into your box of unstable emotions. She grabbed a few tissues from your partial empty tissue box that sat catty corner to your monitor. Her rushed hands knocked it over as she grabbed a few and dabbed your eyes.

“No, no you're okay Rina!” you spoke out between gasps as you grabbed the tissues from her hands and blew your nose. “It’s not your fault. My emotions have been crazy lately. Blame it on Aunt Flow,” you chuckled, tossing the used tissues into the trash can at your feet. Karina stared at you, her eyes narrowing slightly as her fingers tapped a rhythm on your desk, almost as if she could see straight through your lie. And honestly, maybe she could. You’ve never been a strong liar. She clicked her tongue against her teeth, but nevertheless dropped the topic.

“Okay,” she dragged the word out in a sing-song tone. “I just finished my work for the day,” she checked the time on her phone. “Are you close to being done? They just announced the date for this year's Christmas party and I need to get a new outfit!” she shimmed her shoulders a little bit, you chuckled.

“Yeah, I just have to submit this draft and pack up,” you clicked around on your screen, finalizing the last edit before emailing the draft to your supervisor. With the year coming to a wrap, NCU’s workload has been almost double the usual amount. Your department was tasked with designing the magazine for this years ‘Seasonal Wrap Up’. It’s basically a summary of the events that the company has hosted throughout the year. Your spread, however, was focused on the future of the company. You had conducted a few interviews with various project managers ranging from your department all the way up to the President's office. Let’s just say, you got your fair share of gossip that you had to try your best not to make obvious through your writing. “I need a gossip sesh girl,” you turned your head, observing your surroundings before leaning in closer to Karina to whisper. “I have news on the president's son.”

“You’re kidding!” you shushed her quickly, a few people around you turning their hands from their computers and staring. You shyly waved your hand hoping to dismiss their glances, grabbed her hand, letting out a laugh as you dragged her towards the elevator. Once you were both in the elevator she turned to face you, giving you a look that screamed ‘you’re so spilling your guts when you get out of here’.

Once you both made your way into the first boutique, Karina bee lined towards one of the racks with seasonal dresses ranging from classy blacks to the cliche Mrs. Clause dresses. You came up next to her, flicking through the various dresses. “Okay,” you started immediately gaining her attention as she momentarily stopped her browsing. “So I heard from Giselle that she overheard arguing from the president's office. Apparently, it was so loud most of the people in the office stopped working. I’m talking so quietly you could hear the person next to you breathing.”

Her mouth was hung open in disbelief. “Well? What were they talking about? Barely anyone has even seen his face.”

“She said that they heard the president yelling about how he needs to take his dealings with the business with the company seriously. He was all like ‘Donghyuck, you need to know that your future isn't just about the next party you can go to or the women you can hook up with!’ It was bad.” Karina laughed at your busted impression of the president. “What’s weird is that she said he came out of the president's office without a care in the world. Like there wasn’t a shred of emotion on his face,” you shook your head, flipping through the dresses until you came across a light sweater dress.

It was beautiful, a nice dark red. It looked comfortable too. Your eyes glanced over the intricate design of the material, there were small glistens of gold embedded into it. It would be perfect to wear, it’s loose enough that it wouldn’t squeeze across your stomach. Besides the emotional outbursts and the occasional food eversons the past three almost four weeks, you’ve started to get bloated. Tomorrow is your confirmation appointment, and although the past few weeks have dragged on, you were nervous. There was still no trace of this ‘Haechan’ guy. You’d almost be convinced that he was merely a fragment of your imagination if not for the little bean growing inside you.

“-his is the one!” you snapped out of your thoughts when Karina held up something from the rack. It was a gorgeous bright red dress, a faux leather material. “It would look gorg with a pair of red pumps and some silver accessories!” You smiled as she held the dress up to her body, twisting back and forth. You agreed, she would look absolutely stunning in it.

You stood at the doctor’s office desk, hands trembling slightly as you told the receptionist your first and last name. “Here you go Miss Y/L/N, this is some paperwork that needs to be filled out before we call you back. It’s just a brief medical history,” you nodded and thanked her before grabbing the clipboard from her and taking a seat next to Renjun in the waiting room.

“I’m so nervous right now,” you exhaled as you filled out the paperwork to the best of your abilities. Renjun patted your thigh, the action relaxing you slightly. “Thank you, again, for coming here with me. I really needed moral support.”

“Anytime Y/N. I’m here for you,” he smiled at you. A small gentle smile that helped calm the fire in your stomach. After what felt like hours, a nurse opened up the door to the waiting area and called your name. You shakily got up onto your legs, brushing your hands off on your thighs. “Do you need me to go back there with you?” you shook your head.

“No, they’re going to have me strip and I don't want to traumatize you,” you gave him a chuckle, patting his shoulder as he nodded and watched you make your way to the door with the nurse. Before walking back there with her you turned around to look at him. “I’ll message you if I need anything.”

After the door shut behind you the nurse spoke, “Is the daddy staying in the lobby?” she chuckled. You felt a little awkward. Is that something a nurse would say? Not every woman comes in with a daddy for her baby.

“Um..” you stared, cringing at how awkward it sounded. “He’s just a close friend of mine, he's not the father.” The nurse was quiet. You hoped it wasn’t in silent judging and more out of embarrassment. The walk wasn’t long to the doctor's office. Once inside the nurse took some of your vitals.

“So we’re here for a check up?”

“It’s my first appointment so I think it may be more just confirming what my pregnancy test said,” you chuckled awkwardly. The nurse hummed, nodding as she typed away on the computer.

“And when was your last period?” you pulled out your phone to check the calendar.

“Umm, the last day of it was around October 4th I think. I conceived around the 13th I believe,” you tried to best to give her as much information as possible. You’d rather awkwardly ramble then give two word answers that would get you guys nowhere.

“Alright. I put your information into the computer. We’ll go get you settled for a urine test, and then after that we’ll proceed with the scan,” you followed her out of the room and down towards the bathroom. The nurse handed you a wet towelette pouch and a cup. “You’ll want to wipe with the towelette first and pee a little into the toilet before the cup. You’ll set your cup in the cabinet in the bathroom.” you nodded at the nurse and walked to the bathroom to settle your business.

You found yourself back into the doctor's office after completing the urine test. Before leaving the room, the nurse handed you a cloth and explained that you needed to strip down and wait on the exam table for the dr to come in. As you sat on the table, you kicked your legs back and forth and waited until you heard a knock at the door. The doctor walked in shortly after. “Good evening Miss Y/L/N. My name is Dr. Kim. I hear we’re here for a confirmation exam?” you nodded. She sat down on the stool and rolled over to your bedside, putting on some latex blue gloves. “If you can just go ahead, lay back and relax, we’ll lay your legs on the stands here so that you can relax easier. I’ll be using a transducer,” she held up a wand-like object that was wrapped in a sleeve. “All it is, is a scanner of sorts that I will insert into you vaginally. With it being so early in your pregnancy, this will give us an accurate reading for the gestational age of the baby.”

“Oh, um okay.” She put a generous layer of some jelly like lube on the transducer before positioning herself in between your legs.

“Alright Miss Y/N, this shouldn't hurt but please let me know if it gets too uncomfortable. To your right is the screen that we’ll see the little bean on,” Dr. Kim smiled at you before slowly inserting the transducer into you. You inhaled quickly, the cold of the lube shocking you slightly. It wasn’t painful at all. If anything, like the doctor said, it was mildly uncomfortable. You looked to the screen where it showed a mix of black and grey. You felt a light tug as she moved it around. And just like that, a white speck popped up on the screen.

“And there it is. There's your little jelly bean!” you stared at the screen amazed as the little white blob flickered. She clicked around a bit on the screen highlighting spots before measuring the length of the tiny thing inside you. “That flickering you’re seeing is the heart beat. This early in the pregnancy we try not to record the sound. Instead what we'll do is measure the flickering. That will give us the heart rate,” you saw the diagrams pop up on the screen. “The BMP looks to be 176. A nice and healthy scan,” she smiled to herself before clicking around on the screen some more.

“Is there any way you can tell me about how far along I am? From my last period and the time I believed I conceived, it would be around ten weeks.”

“Absolutely! Judging the size of the fetus I would say about ten weeks three days. Of course this could change slightly. The gestational age is subjective. Your due date would be around July eleventh.” you nodded your head, thanking her. She pulled the wand out of you and handed you some wipes to wipe off the lube left over. “The scans are printing out now. In the meantime, I'm going to send you down stairs to the first floor to get a blood test run. It’s just to confirm the health of you and baby.”

Your face paled at the thought of giving blood. As if sensing your uneasiness, the doctor handed you your scans, distracting your thoughts. You stared down at photos laying in your hands, your finger tracing over the white blob. It seemed unreal. This little thing has been the cause of all your emotional bursts. You laughed, tears pricking your eyes. Speaking of emotional bursts.

“Ah, yeah that's very common. Your emotions will be out of whack for this first trimester. Have you been experiencing any morning sickness?” you shook your head, wiping your eyes with your sleeves.

“Not really. I’ve had a little nausea but nothing like that. I haven't thrown up, it’s just the gross feeling of needing to,” you laughed, setting the sonograms down beside you.

“I’ve got you scheduled for the end of February. You’ll be around twenty weeks and that is when we do the anatomy scan. We’ll also get you scheduled for a glucose test right before then,” she threw away her gloves and walked towards the curtain in the room. “I’ll leave you here to get dressed. Just come out here when you’re dressed and I’ll get you sent down to the first floor with your appointment reminder cards.” As soon as she left the room, you redressed yourself and made your way out to the lobby.

When you made it to the lobby, Renjun was already up to his feet running towards you. “Hey, how’d it go? Is everything okay?” you could see the concern on his face as he held you shoulders gently so that you’d face him. You smiled and nodded.

“Yeah, everything is perfect. I’m about ten weeks and three days. They’re sending me down to the first floor to get blood taken for testing,” you exhaled slightly. “Could you be there to hold my hand?” you know it sounded pathic. You felt pathic. You have never been a fan of needles, even in your adolescents. You remembered back to when you were younger, going to the doctors for flu shots, how you would kick and scream to fight the nurses off. They’d have to bring extra hands to keep you at bay.

“Of course, Y/N. As long as you don’t take any of my fingers off,” he moved his hands down to lace your fingers together. Renjun had always been this affectionate with you, even back in middle school. It was a big difference from how you’d watch him interact with his other friends. If you were being honest, you appreciated it. You’d always been timid and he’s held you with such a gentle touch the entire time you have known him.

Both of you made your way down the elevator, hitting the first floor before the queasiness started to settle in your stomach. Every step towards the office they described to you made you feel like your feet were made of lead. “Damnit,” you curse and Renjun snapped his head towards you, eyes full of concern. “If I don’t push through this now, the rest of the pregnancy is only going to get worse.” you tried to give yourself a half assed pep talk. It didn’t really work.

“Hi! Y/N?” a lady with bright eyes and a smile that sparkled greeted you. You nodded, opting to do that instead of speaking for fear of throwing up all over the poor lady. “Come this way. You can take a seat right there.” you followed her hands over and took a seat in a light blue chair, it had one singular armrest on the right side.

“Is there any way my friend here can hold my hand? I’m not the biggest fan of needles and I really don’t want to be difficult for you,” you let out an awkward excuse for a laugh.

“Oh absolutely! Come on over here. You can hold her left hand, I'll be drawing from the right side.” Renjun made his way to your left before sitting down in the guest chair and lightly grabbing your hand. His fingers gave you a gentle squeeze, his thumb rubbing over your knuckles soothingly. The nurse put on some gloves and gathered her equipment, you quickly averted your eyes and looked at Renjun’s eyes. He gave you a smile and some words of encouragement. “Alright, you will just feel a small pinch. I’ll go as quickly as I can.” She tied a rubber band around your upper arm and rubbed the inside of your elbow with her fingers.

You closed your eyes and squeezed Renjun’s hand tightly in preparation. You felt the pinch of the needle into your right arm. You didn’t dare to open your eyes to see the progress, so you spoke. “Renjun, how close are we to being done?”

“She’s already collected four vials. I think she only needs two more. It’s going so quickly, you’ll be done before you even know it.” His smooth voice calmed your nerves.

“And we’re done!” she put a cotton ball and bandaid over your arm before taking the rubber tie off. “You did great! It should only take a few days to run the tests. You can access your results through your online portal. If there are any concerns we’ll give you a call. Usually no calls from us means good news,” she laughed as she disposed of her gloves and sharps. “Take a few minutes to gather yourself, we don’t want you passing out!”

After a few minutes, Renjun helped you up and assisted you out of the building towards his car. Once seated in the passenger seat, you pulled out the sonograms and handed them to him. “This little white blob is the baby. Dr. Kim said that it’s heart beat is nice and strong at 176,” you had a bounce to your voice and Renjun noticed it.

“I’m glad you’re feeling better Y/N. Did she say when your next appointment is?” you nodded your head and pulled out the appointment cards they gave you at the front desk.

“My next one is at the middle and end of February. They’ll have me take my glucose test and the anatomy scan. How did that go for your sister? What is the anatomy test?” You tried your best not to overwhelm Renjun with questions. You were an only child so you didn’t grow up around many if any woman at all, let alone pregnancy.

“My sister said the glucose test sucked. I think it’s a test you take where you drink a really sugar heavy drink and they draw your blood for diabetes. As for the anatomy, I’m not sure what all they do, but I know you get to find out the gender then. I remember my sister being super excited about that.” you nodded your head, putting your sonograms back into your purse. Your phone chimed and you pulled it out. It was a message from Winter.

‘Hey! I just got my outfit for the Christmas Partyyyyy. It’s next tuesday. I already talked to Karina but we were going to meet up before the party and pregame. You in?’ you cringed at the thought. There’s no good way to decline the invitation without being suspicious.

“Hey Junnie, can I use you as an alibi so that I can turn down my coworkers' invitations to pregame before the Christmas Party next tuesday?” He turned down the radio to hear you more clearly.

“Go ahead, I don’t mind. What are you going to do at the Christmas Party?” his eyes stayed focused on the road as he made his way back to your apartment.

“I’m not sure actually. I just know from Karina and Winter that it’s a pretty big deal. Spirits are always high at the end of the year because everyone has finished their work before the new year starts,” he hummed.

“Okay, just be safe please. Call me if you need anything during it alright?” you smiled at him, leaning to turn the music up slightly.

“I will Junnie, I promise. You’re my emergency contact, you know.” His laugh rang out in the small confinements of the car, melting your heart.

You were feeling overwhelmed as you sat at one of the various tables in the ballroom of the venue the company rented out. They wasted no cost on it too, it was gorgeous. There were various Christmas trees adorned with cranberry garland and beautiful silver, gold, and red ornaments. The tables around you were grand, white tablecloths and seat covers adorned the surfaces. The centerpieces of each table ranged from golden candles, mistletoe, and white and red amaryllis.

It seemed like almost everyone employed at NCU was there. Only being in the company for roughly over a year, you only recognized those you worked in close quarters with. Karina and Winter were mingling with Yizhou and Giselle at the buffet table, all four of them giggling over drinks. They had asked you earlier if you wanted to join them, however the quickest lie you could come up with to avoid a drink was you being on new medication from your last doctor's appointment. You could argue that it's not technically a lie, a baby gives off the same symptoms as funky medication. You chuckled to yourself as you sipped your water, eyes glancing at your surroundings before spotting on someone familiar.

Your heart jumped to your throat, immediately speeding up as you recognized the silhouette of someone that has been particularly hard to find. You immediately pushed your chair back and jumped to your feet, you felt light headed at the sudden change in blood pressure. You balanced yourself at the table, eyes fixed at the man you’ve been tirelessly searching for the past month. He stood at the elevator pressing the button leisurely, one hand resting in his pocket.

You sped walked as fast as you could to try and catch him before he entered the elevator and the doors closed. He walked onto the platform and turned around, that's when your suspicions were correct. You flung your arm into the elevator cabin, blocking the door from closing at the last second. There, right in front of you was Haechan. He looked up from his phone, face blank of any emotion. He raised his eyebrow as if to ask what the hold up was. You stepped onto the platform quickly.

As soon as the doors closed you turned to face him. “You are an extremely hard man to find. I didn’t take you for someone who would give out a fake name, Haechan.” his eyes were bored as he glanced you up and down, eyes lingering on your curves. You hated how your face heated up, you still vividly remember how his hands felt on you. He plastered on a polite fake smile.

“Ah, I’m sorry. I typically remember the beautiful women I spend my nights with. Can I ask you your name pretty?” your eyebrow twitched at the familiar nickname. From his statement, you’re sure he’s used that exact same name for countless women he’s slept with.

You scoffed, shrugging your shoulders and crossing your arms as you stared him straight in the eyes. “It’s Y/N, though I doubt you’d remember. We met a few months ago at the bar. My name may not jog your memory but this will.” you reached into your purse and pulled out your sonograms and handed them to him. He looked down at them, confusion prominent on his face.

“What am I looking at?” he looked up from the photos and to you.

“The product of our night together, Haechan,” you said his name in a mocking tone. “You do not need to be involved in its life, but I would appreciate it if you could sign away your rights if that’s what you choose to do,” he stared back down at the sonograms. “Here,” you grabbed a pen and scribbled your number down on an old receipt and handed it to him. “Just..” you hesitated, “just please, get back to me in a week. That’s all I'm asking of you.” You didn’t give him any time to respond before you were out the elevator doors.

Haechan stood in the elevator as the doors closed, looking down at the swirl of black and white in front of him. How could this have even happened? He was always prepared when it came to the nights he spent limbs wrapped in whatever woman grabbed his interest first. He tried to think back to the night in question. Y/N, Y/N, the name was familiar. Ah, there it was. You were the cutie dancing by herself while her friends bundled up. He smirked to himself, holding one hand up to his lips while the other hand tucked the sonograms into his back pocket. You were the one to suggest you both go back to his place. And he remembers that all too well.

He had led you into the hotel room he rented for the night, you couldn’t keep your hands off of each other. How badly he wanted to rip off your tight red dress, but he held back. Usually he would’ve made this quick, but for some reason he wanted to take his time with you and savor every noise and reaction you’d give him. He had you pinned against the wall next to the hotel door, his hands rubbing up and down the outside of your thighs before he hooked his hands underneath them. “Jump,” he commanded and you obliged. He had you pinned, pelvis to pelvis. He groaned at the pressure you put on his dick. Your grinding against him only pushed him further over the edge. “You listen so well, pretty. If I told you to stop rubbing against me before I flip your pretty little ass over the sofa, would you listen?”

You stopped briefly, looked down at him from above, you fluttered your lashes before wiggling some more, making sure to drag your clothed core over him slower. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” You were going to drive him crazy. He’s never had to deal with such a bratty hook up, but damn did it pique his interest.

About the time that he made it to his car, his phone let up with an incoming call. His father. He held back a groan, already expecting an argument. He swiped right. “Hello, Father.”

“Where the hell are you Donghyuck?” immediately Haechan rolled his eyes, setting the phone on speaker and starting his vehicle. “I turned my back for one second and you disappeared. How am I supposed to get you connected with the company's shareholders if you leave to chase the next woman you see?”

“I did not leave to chase a woman, father,” Haechan took a second to compose himself. He knew that if he continued to argue, things would only escalate. That’s when an idea popped in his head. This would be perfect. He could get two birds with one stone as they say. “Father, I have someone to introduce to you. She’s very important to me. Can you have secretary Giselle clear your schedule for next Saturday?”

His father hesitated, apprehension lacing his next words. “Why am I only just now hearing about this very important woman Donghyuck?”

“Well,” Haechan threw on an embarrassed chuckle to really sell the bit, “she’s a little shy. I didn’t want to overwhelm her too early into our relationship. We’ve only been together a few months.” He really tried to recall the conversation he had with you earlier. He didn’t really try to listen to you if he was being honest. The little bomb you threw at him was pretty effective in grabbing his attention though. The conversion ended with his father shortly after and Haechan was left with his thoughts.

Though you seemed like a pain in his ass, you may be useful to him. Earlier that week, his father had given him an earful of disappointments. He gripped the steering wheel and clinched his teeth. He’s heard the same phrase for the last six months from his father. It’s practically haunting him in his dreams. ‘I would sooner die than pass my company to someone who will destroy my life's earnings in a few months.’ He can count on both hands the amount of times that has been said to him.

It’s not his fault he likes to have a warm bed at night. He knows his father has had his fair share of flings so why is it such a problem for him to have them too.

“You need to be mature and have a level head to take charge of a company. Your issue is, Donghyuck, that you play around too much. I’ve had to deal with countless women coming here and causing a fuss because you never returned their calls,” he would say. That is exactly why he’s been giving the name ‘Haechan’ out instead of his actual name. It’s less publicity that way when they try to contact him after.

That brings him back to you. How did you find him? He was at a company party, so that must mean you work there too. After parking in his apartment building's parking garage, he pulled his phone back out to dial his assistant. On the other end a soft voice answered, flustered at the late night call. “Jisung, I need you to look into something for me,” there was rustling on the other side before an answer.

“Right now sir? It’s almost midnight..” he trailed off, a slight whine to his voice. Haechan chuckled.

“Yes right now. I need you to make a report about one of our employees. Y/N is her name and I need it tomorrow morning.” Haechan twirled the number scrawled out messily on an old receipt for prenatals. How fitting.

This past week has been a mess. Your morning sickness seemed to double, though you couldn’t tell if it was because of the baby or because Haechan had yet to get back to you with his decision. You were kicking yourself in the ass for giving him your number instead of getting his. That way, in cases like this, you would be able to get a hold of him instead of waiting around for him to call you.

It was the weekend before New Years, most of your coworkers were out on vacation for the holidays. You were bundled at home sipping some hot chocolate. Normally you and Renjun would celebrate the holidays together, but with his new job for interior designing, he was booked for the jolly seasons.

You were flipping through the Hallmark channel trying to find something vaguely interesting, munching on a bag of your latest flamin hot craving whenever your phone popped up with a call from an unknown number. Your heart started beating when your hand shot out so fast to grab it that you spilled some of your chips onto your lap. You quickly swiped right. “Hello?”

“Hey pretty,” a smooth voice rang out on the other side. The nickname settles in your stomach, a little unease and a little warmth. “I have an answer for you. Can we meet?” you moved your chips to the table in front of you and threw the fluffy brown blanket off your lap.

“Yeah, I’m free. There’s a cafe near me that I go to often. How does that sound?” you gave him the address before hanging up. You went to your room and found something a little more presentable to wear. You grabbed a loose fitting band tee and some stretchy jeans. It’s almost getting to the point where you have to switch out your wardrobe. The bloating is starting to impact your comfort. You find it harder to breathe when your jeans cut into you, it also hits in just the right area to make you throw up now so that's fun. Before leaving out your apartment door you grabbed your heavy black padded coat, a beanie, and your red scarf, locking the door as you exited it.

It was maybe a ten minute walk down the street before the familiar cafe sign came into view. The storefront was decorated in their seasonal colors. Two eight foot trees stood on each side of the patio, prob presents thrown around. You smiled to yourself as you entered, making your way to the front counter. You were greeted with a flashing flirtatious smile by the resident barista, Jaemin. “Your usual Y/N?”

You shook your head. Typically you would order a large Breve with whip cream, caramel, and chocolate drizzle on top. Your mouth watered at the thought. “I would love to, but I’m cutting out heavy caffeine,” you pouted before rummaging in your purse to grab your wallet. “I’m just going to get a nice big hot chocolate,” Jaemin saluted you before moving to start your order. You glanced around the cafe, no sign of Haechan, so you settled on a table in the back corner. You figured this would be a sensitive conversation so it’s best to have it away from prying ears and eyes.

It was probably about fifteen minutes before the front door chimed with a new customer, you looked up and caught sight of the one you’ve been waiting for. Haechan. By then you had already finished your hot chocolate. You watched him go to the counter and order before locking eyes with you and coming towards you. He wore a well fitted suit, one hand in his pocket while his other hand pulled out the chair in front of you before taking a seat. “I’m glad you could meet me Y/N” his smooth voice rang out as he sat relaxed across from you.

“Yes, thank you, too. For meeting me as soon as you could. Have you decided what you wanted to do?” You wasted no time in asking him about the question that's been weighing on your mind for the past month. He just smiled at you, radiating arrogance.

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table and his face on his hands. “I have a preposition. And I think it would benefit both of us.” you nodded at him slowly, encouraging him to continue. You had no idea where he was going with this. “You see, my father has really been breathing down my neck about maturing,” he air quotated “ and settling down my life.”

This whole story was starting to sound familiar. A son lectured by his father about growing up. Then it clicked. You saw Haechan at your work party. A party specifically for people employed by NCU. You hesitated a second before speaking, “Are you.. Donghyuck? The president's son?”

“Bingo,” he winked at you. “It kinda hurts my pride that you don’t know me. Then again, Y/N, you’ve only just got officially hired on with us.” You stared at him, eyebrows furrowed. He must’ve done a background check on you or something.

“Okay, what’s your proposition?” you asked him slowly, your voice held apprehension. If you were being honest, you have no idea what to expect from him. You spent a month looking for him just to let him know that you were pregnant. What you really wanted was an answer to whether he wanted to be involved or not, but it seems like he has other plans.

“I need you to roleplay with me for a while,” immediately you went to object, but he held his finger up to stop you. “Bear with me now. I don’t mean that in a sexual way, pretty. I didn’t take you for such a naughty girl,” he teased. “Actually, that's a lie. I know how naughty you can be.” Your face flushed as you stammered. “I just want you to act with me. Like you’ve heard, I'm kinda in the dog house. I need you to play a doting girlfriend that I've been going out with for a few months.”

“I’m sorry, what am I getting out of this? Because to me, it sounds like I'm really only helping you,” you raised your hand slightly to call Jaemin over.

“I’m getting there pretty, be patient. After you convince my father that I'm a mature, level headed heir to the company, I'll sign my parental rights away to you and take care of you and the baby financially throughout your pregnancy. Once the baby is born we can go our separate ways,” you were flabbergasted, but before you could say anything Jaemin arrived at your table with a fresh cup of hot chocolate and a pastry.

“Oh, Jaemin, I didn’t order a pastry,” you went to hand it back to him but he waved it off. He glanced over at Haechan rather coldly.

“You seem to be having a hard day,” he looked back at you and smiled. “It’s on the house.” After he walked away you looked back at Haechan.

“I don’t need your money. I didn’t even know who you were when I met you at the bar. I’m not looking for a payout,” you tried to defend yourself, but he just waved his hand.

“Look, it’s going to be hard for a single mother,” he tried to be sympathetic but his voice didn’t come across that way. All he sounded to you was bored, like he had anywhere else to be. He sucked through his teeth. “Take it from me, I’m a man right? If I'm being honest, no man is going to want to be with a single mother and raise a kid that isn’t even theirs. Just accept my offer and then you’d at least have money to rely on, right?”

You looked down at your hands that twirled in your lap. You felt humiliated. You knew, deep down, that he was right. However, you weren't going to force Haechan to be in this baby’s life after it was born. You grew up in a home where both your parents resented you for being born and forced in their life. You could at least spare your baby one parent that will resent them, and give them every ounce of love you have in your body.

“I’ll agree to this on one condition,” Haechan nodded enthusiastically. “You have to attend every doctor appointment with me. That’s all. You may not want to be in this baby’s life but I want you to watch them grow. You never know, you could mature into the person your dad wants through this experience.” You could tell that he was no longer as ready to agree as he was before. He took a second to think to himself before putting on a charming smile.

“Yeah, totally. I can do that,” he started to stand up, leaving an untouched americano on the table. “I’ll keep in contact with you.” He started to leave before he stopped and turned his head to face you. “This saturday, you’re going to meet my father for Christmas. He doesn’t need to know about the pregnancy. We won’t be together long enough for him to know anyways.” With that he left you there to your thoughts.

Haechan had been messaging you all throughout the week, preparing you for today. Mornings have been rough, it seemed like all you were able to keep down was water, oranges, and saltine crackers.You sat in the bathroom on a stool as you hovered over the toilet dry heaving a breakfast you hardly ever got to touch. Tears were streaming down your face as you gripped the toilet seat. Your phone rang from the counter to your left, however you couldn’t reach it. It rang a few more times before it stopped.

You had just finished rinsing your mouth out before there was a knock at your front door. The second you got to the door and unlocked it, it immediately swung open to reveal a frustrated Haechan with a bag in his hand. He pushed his way in, running a hand through this hair before setting the bag in his hand down on your kitchen bar.

“Why didn’t you answer your phone? You have to hold up your side of the deal!” he exclaimed. The rise in his voice makes you take a step back to distance yourself from him, your anxiety spiking at his outburst. You think back to the countless arguments and fights your parents would get into. “You’re not skipping out on me are you?” he took a step towards you and you raised your hands up. As if sensing your discomfort he stopped, taking a step back to lean against your bar.

“I’m not skipping. I didn’t answer because I was throwing up. I’ve been doing it all morning, so I’m sorry I made you think otherwise.” You stepped around him, heading back towards your room. “I just need to get dressed and then we can go.”

“Wait, I brought something for you to wear.” He reached for the bag behind him and walked over to you, handing it to you. “I’m sorry for raising my voice at you,” he looked away, and you could see the conflict on his face. He didn’t really know why he was apologizing. The look on your face as you backed away from him earlier made him uncomfortable.

You nodded at him, acknowledging the apology but not sure how to respond. Once in your room you opened up the bag he gave you. Inside was a long tightly fitting red dress. From the looks of it you could tell that one, this was expensive, and two it was not going to hide the bump that had slowly been making its presence known. You slipped the garment on, viewing yourself in your body mirror. You chuckled, hands finding their way to cradle your stomach. Yeah, that's not hiding anything. You searched through your closet pulling out a fluffy white sweater and slipping it on over your head. You retouched up your lipstick before sliding on some black flats and leaving your room.

“What happened? Was the dress not good enough?” Haechan moved towards you, his hands hovering around your sweater. You took a step back from him and tugged at your sweater lifting it up to show the small bump of your lower belly.

“We're supposed to be inconspicuous right?” his eyes lingered down to your stomach, mouth parting slightly. You dropped your sweater back down, covering your stomach back up. “With a tight dress we wouldn’t get very far.” you moved around him, grabbing your purse off your coat rack and walking towards your refrigerator. You pulled out a zip lock baggie of orange slices and a cold water bottle. You closed the door and reached towards the top of your refrigerator on your tiptoes, swiping your hand back and forth at your box of saltine crackers with no luck.

“What is that for?” Haechan came up behind you and grabbed your crackers, laying them in the palm of your hand. You put all three objects into your purse, not without stealing a slice of orange to snack on.

“This is the only thing the baby likes right now,” you make your way to the front door and look over your shoulder back towards Haechan. “You coming?”

The ride to the restaurant was on the longer side. You pulled up to the front of the building, Haechan got out of the driver's side and handed his keys to the valet. He opened the passenger side door to let you out and took your hand, lacing it with his before leading you inside the grand entrance. Once inside he gave his name to the host that led both your and haechan to a back vip room. “Wow, this is intimidating.” you said as you looked around.

“Just follow my lead. Go with the flow,” He said smoothly before the host opened the doors to the private room. His hand rested on your lower back, guiding you into the room where the president sat at the table. He had a hard look on his face but the second his eyes met yours they lit up.

“Oh my! It is so nice to meet you! I was starting to believe you were a figment of my son's imagination,” his laugh came deep from his belly as he stood up to shake your hand. “Please, have a seat Y/N. I have a lot of questions.”

You sat down with a smile, Haechan followed sitting next to you as he held your hand on top of the table. “Well Mr. Lee, what would you like to know?”

“How did you two meet? All Donghyuck told me is that you guys have been dating for a few months,” he sipped his glass of wine, eyes boring into you over the rim. You swallowed thickly, racking your brain for what Haechan had been messaging you about of the week.

You threw on a shy smile, tucking a strain of hair behind your ear. “We actually met for the first time when I started interning here. I actually didn’t know who he was at first. I honestly didn’t even find out he was your son until after we started dating.” The waiter brought you a glass of water and the table an appetizer of some sort of fancy dip.

“She was absolutely stunning the first time I saw her. She was in this red dress. It was like I was drawn to her against my free will, though I wouldn’t trade it for anything else in the world.” Wow he was smooth. This must be how he got such a notorious reputation as a playboy.

“So you work at the company huh? What department?” You set down your glass of water and smiled.

“I’m actually on your graphic design team. I finished my internship with you about three months ago and was offered a full time position. I guess I made a good enough impression,” you bashfully swiped your hand back and forth. The conversation went smoothly during dinner, you tried your best to keep down the pasta you ordered. The image on the menu looked appetizing enough, however the baby didn’t seem to agree. You were holding back a gag as you excused yourself to the bathroom, both Haechan and his father watched you as you rushed to the bathroom. You heard the door open a few minutes later as you hovered over the toilet bowl.

“Hey, pretty. Are you okay?” you held your hand up to Haechan to stop him from coming any closer.

“No,” you gagged, “please give me a second.” you threw up what little pasta you had eaten earlier. Haechan came up behind you, ignoring your warning. He gathered your hair in his hands and held it out of your face. You sobbed. “I’m so sorry, this is so gross and embarrassing.”

He laughed, a loud one. “I mean, it’s gross, yeah, but.. It's normal I guess.” He tried so hard to comfort you. You hiccuped.

“You’ve been around plenty of pregnant women?” you tried to joke. His grip of your hair tightens slightly. Not in a way to hurt you or anything, more out of hesitation.

“Um.. my step mom actually,” he was quiet for a moment, just your hurls in the background before he continued. “She just had my little brother. She was a handful during the pregnancy.” you didn’t press the topic, you could tell from the way he vaguely spoke about her that it was probably a touchy subject. You remembered from Giselle, the president's secretary, that he was currently married to a woman who couldn’t be more than a few years older than Haechan. You reach forward and flush the toilet. He let go of your hair and handed you some napkins to wipe your face with.

“Thank you. And I'm sorry. I must’ve made your father upset," Haechan shook his head.

“No you’re fine. I told him they probably added dairy to your pasta. So if he asks, you’re lactose intolerant.” you chuckled as you washed your hands at the sink.

“I actually am lactose intolerant so it wouldn’t technically be a lie,” you finished drying your hands as haechan opened the door for you.

“Let’s go say bye, I’m taking you home.” you went to object, to tell him that you were fine before he continued. “Before you think that I’m doing this for you, I’m not. I have a date tonight.” and immediately the feeling that warmed your chest at what you thought was his thoughtfulness was crushed. You smiled a tightlipped smile as you nodded your head.

Mr. Lee was sad to see you go. He gave you a hug and made you promise to meet him again. The ride back to your apartment was dead silent. You didn’t know how to start the conversation and Haechan didn’t seem interested in one either. Before closing the door you remembered about your appointments in February. “Oh, I won't have my next appointment for the baby until after the New Year. February thirteenth and twenth.” He had his phone in his hand typing away. He didn’t answer. “You know what? I’ll just message you the dates.”

“Huh? Oh yeah sure. See you later.” As soon as you closed the passenger door he was gone. This was going to kill you. Your heart has been reacting to Haechan all night. First he’s an ass but then he backs off and he apologizes. Then he’s romantic, escorting you and taking care of you in the bathroom before ditching you for a date. You scoffed as you pulled your phone out and gave Renjun a call. You had so much to get him caught up on.

The New Years went without a hitch. It was already mid January and you were coming up on sixteen weeks pregnant. Your belly had officially started to poke out. It no longer looked like you were bloated. It was getting harder and harder to hide it. Eventually the weather would start to warm up and you wouldn’t be able to hide behind the fluffy sweaters. You were officially out of the first trimester and your morning sickness had officially subsided. You would say it has been fantastic, except it hasn’t. Your workload doubled so now instead of throwing up because of the baby, you were throwing up because of work.

You had just made it home after a long shift at the company, when you started feeling it. There was a dull cramp in your lower belly. You had felt it a little earlier in the day but it went away as you continued to drink water. It almost felt like poop cramps so you decided to try and use the bathroom but as soon as you pulled down your pants to sit, you let out a scream. There was blood in your panties. You were panicking, not knowing what to do, you grabbed your phone. You found Haechan’s number in your most recent calls and dialed it. It rang a few times before going to voicemail. “Come on Haechan please pick up.”

You dialed it again, no call. Tears burned your eyes and your nose started to run. You grabbed a wad of toilet paper and shoved it in your panties before pulling it up and calling Haechan one final time. After six rings he finally answered, out of breath. “What,” he snapped. You were stunned.

“Why didn’t you answer when I called the first time?” your voice was shaking as you made your way to your front door to grab your purse.

“I was preoccupied. What the hell do you want right now?” you were crying now. His words just added more stress to your already messy mind. The cramp in your stomach feels worse.

“I-” you started to hyperventilate. “I need to go to the hospital. Now. Please. Haechan, something is wrong. I’m cramping and bleeding and I don’t know what to do. I-” Haechan interrupted you with a huff.

“Y/N, calm down. Everything is going to be fine. You’re overreacting.” His dismissal just made you pissed. “Go lay down and drink some water. It’ll pass.”

“Don’t tell me to calm down Donghyuck. You made a deal with me. I have done everything you have asked of me without so much as complaining. I’m going to the hospital now and your ass better be there or else your father will be there instead,” you were seething. Hot, angry tears poured down your face. Haechan started to object before you hung the phone up. You found Renjun’s number and dialed. He immediately picked up and you hurriedly told him.

“Okay, don’t panic. I’ll be there in five minutes.” Renjun lived a good fifteen minutes away. You told him to be careful. “Please, don’t worry about me Y/N. Just think about the baby, okay? See you when I get there.” true to his word Renjun was there in five minutes. You quickly hopped into his car as he sped back onto the highway. You were at the hospital in no time. Renjun assisted you into the building where you met the nurse at the front desk.

As you were explaining your situation to her, Haechan came strolling in. He looked unaffected. His hair was a mess and his shirt was haphazardly buttoned up. Now you realized what he meant by preoccupied. You gritted your teeth and rolled your eyes. “Alright Miss Y/N, we’re going to take you back into this room over here and run some tests,” she turned to Renjun. “Dad? Would you like to join?”

Haechan was ticked. Who the hell was this dude? He had his arms around your waist and held your hands. He doesn’t know why but it rubbed him the wrong way. Before he could stop himself he stepped towards you, putting himself between you and Renjun and pushing his hands off of you. “Yes, I’ll go back there with her. I’m the baby’s father.” There was no way he was going to let another man go back there with you. With HIS baby. He didn’t know why he was feeling so upset over this.

“It’s okay Renjun. I’ll let you know how it goes,” he looked at you, concerned but nevertheless nodded and watched you walk back with Haechan. Once in the office the nurse checked your vitals as you explained to her your concerns. The doctor came in shortly after the nurse left. She greeted you, and helped you relax back on the exam table. You were fiddling your hands together, picking at your nails.

“Alright Miss Y/N, let's check on baby okay? The gel will be cold so bare with me,” She squirted some gel on the scanner as well as some on your stomach. You jumped at the sudden cold chill and reached your hand out to grip Haechans’. He looked at you shocked before holding it firmly. “Okay, the baby's vitals are looking great. Your uterus looks good as well,” the doctor messed with something on her screen before a sound started to echo in the room. You gasped, locking eyes with Haechan before looking back at the doctor.

“Is that the heartbeat?” your eyes started to tear up as the doctor nodded. You stared at the screen. The baby wasn’t a gummy bear anymore, it was more defined. You could see its legs moving as it bounced around. “It’s so crazy. It’s moving around so much but I can’t feel anything.”

“That is completely normal. Most women start to feel movement around this time, so it won’t be much longer!” She reassured you. Haechan stared at the screen as well, watching the baby inside of you bounce around. He wasn’t sure how to feel. It was a mix of disbelief and amazement. He didn’t doubt you were pregnant, not with how your belly was showing, but now with clear evidence in front of him, he couldn’t believe it.

“Do you know what caused the bleeding?” Haechan’s voice shocked you. If not for his hand gripping yours still, you would have forgotten that he was there. His voice almost sounded concerned. You were still upset at him for the way he reacted to you earlier, so you huffed. He eyes locked with your briefly as he raised his eyebrow, confused at your reaction.

“It is most likely due to stress. My recommendation would be to take the rest of the week off from work, and limit your work load moving forward,” Haechan nodded as he listened to her, almost as if the instructions were for himself. “I’m going to put this down in your notes. Your next appointment is in three weeks. We’ll do your glucose test and the following week we’ll do your anatomy! Let’s hope I don’t see you before Miss Y/N, okay?” you nodded earnestly.

“I will rest like crazy Dr. Kim!” you held your fist up. You followed her out the room and into the waiting room where you were met with a frazzled Renjun. He came up to you quickly, grabbing one of your hands while the other hand touched your stomach lightly.

“How’s my little jellybean doing?” he asked, looking from your belly to your eyes. You were about to answer when Haechan’s hands grabbed your waist and gently pulled you back towards him, meeting his chest.

“OUR baby,” he emphasized, “is okay. She just needs to take it easy.” he grabbed the purse from your shoulder and slung it onto his shoulder. “Thank you for bringing her here, but I’ll be driving her back.” he put his hand on your shoulder to guide you.

“Thank you Renjun. I’ll call you when I get home okay?” you pulled from Haechan’s arms to give Renjun a hug. You turned back around and Haechan was staring at you with his mouth open like he couldn’t believe you just hugged another man in front of him. Once you both made it out the building doors and to his car he opened the passenger door for you, closing it as you took a seat.

Once he sat in the driver's seat and started the car, he spoke. “So who was that guy?”

“Renjun? He’s a friend. What’s it to you? He at least answered on my first call.” you couldn’t help but throw a jab at him, still upset.

“Just a friend huh? He sure had his hands all over you,” he mumbled.

“What is your deal? You’re acting like you're jealous.” he scoffed as if that idea was absurd.

“I am not jealous. I just didn’t like it.” you turned your whole body to face him now.

“Well, that’s not what it looked like,” you leaned back, crossing your arms across your chest and looking out the window. That’s when you noticed it. You guys weren’t heading back to your apartment. “Where are we going? This isn’t the way back to my place.”

“You’re going to stay with me until the baby is here.” he said it so surely, as though you and him had agreed on this already.

“What? We did not agree on this. Why would I stay with you? All of my belongings are at my apartment already.” he shook his head, no longer hearing your objections.

“I’ll hire a moving company when we get home. I want you to stay with me, that way if anything like this happens again, I’ll be the first person to know.” His eyes stayed fixed on the road.

“You’re acting as if you weren’t the FIRST person I called. I even called you three times before you even answered. And what were you doing?” you snapped at him. You had enough of his entitled attitude.

“I’m sorry Y/N. I didn’t realize that it was as serious as you were saying. Please forgive me, It won’t happen again.” He put the car in park, turning to look at you. “Please, just stay with me until the baby is born. That way I can be here for you.” you sighed. You know, deep down, that it made sense. It would be easier if you were with someone in case anything ever happened. You briefly thought back to a few weeks ago when you were stuck on the toilet because the baby put too much wait on your lower back and you couldn’t get off the toilet because of the pain. You were stuck there for a good fifteen minutes before the pain subsided and you were able to get up.

“Just until the baby is here,” you reluctantly agreed. Haechan smiled at you with this whole body. For some reason, he didn’t like you being so upset with him.

“I promise I’ll make it up to you Y/N! Now let's get inside and I’ll show you to your room.” He got out of the car and held open the passenger door for you. You follow him into his house. It was absolutely gorgeous. The front of the house had a circle drive with a fountain, its front bushes looked well kept with budding flowers and clovers. As soon as you stepped foot into the front door, you were shocked. For a young single man you expected more of a bachelor pad, however it was spotless. It was pretty minimalistic in terms of furniture and decoration. It looked lonely.

Haechan led you upstairs and to the left, he pointed at the first door to your right. “This will be your room.” He opened the door to a decently sized bedroom. To the left against a navy blue accent wall was a queen sized bed adorned in cream colored sheets with a matching navy blue duvet. On each side of the bed was built in bookcases with an assortment of different books, ranging from educational to nonfiction. Haechan pointed to the right side of the room where there were two doors. “The one to the left is your ensuite bathroom, and the right is a walk-in closet. Feel free to redecorate however you like. I want you to feel as comfortable as possible while you’re here.” he left you to your thoughts, assuring you that all your belongings would be arriving in the morning.

Even though his words were welcoming, you were still feeling apprehensive about the whole ordeal. On one hand, you were very grateful to Haechan for even wanting to be as involved as he is starting to be, but on the other, it would be so much easier for him just to sign his rights away and you two never meet again. Although you weren’t getting much in return for helping him out with his father, you couldn’t help but feel bad for him. That night you two spent together almost four months ago still sat so heavily in your mind. You were both tipsy, yeah, but you were nowhere near black out to forget the time you spent with him and how he opened up to you. You wonder if he remembers anything you two talked about. Maybe, he’s that vulnerable with every hook up. That thought made you sick to your stomach.

You laid your head on Haechan’s chest as he rubbed circles on your bare shoulder, he kissed the top of your head. You listen to the slow beating of his heart, lulling you to sleep. “I’ve got to get up and go, I may end up falling asleep to your heartbeat if not,” you chuckled. He shifted beneath you, moving to where you laid on top of him, your legs resting on either side of his hips.

“Aw, don’t do that pretty. Tell me,” he stroked your hair, “why were you at the bar today?” you hummed with your eyes closed.

“I was celebrating,” you rested one hand on his side while the other embraced the arm petting your hair. It all felt so intimate, something you probably shouldn’t be doing with a hook up.

“Celebrating what?”

“A promotion. I officially got hired onto the company I was interning for.” he made a wow sound accompanied with a chuckle. His hand moved from your head down to your sides, caressing them.

“Company huh. I technically work for one.” he said, staring above you at the ceiling of the hotel room.

“Technically? What does that mean?” you lifted your head, chin resting on his sternum as you stared at him. He looked lost in thought, and for a second you thought you asked something you shouldn’t have, but then he answered.

“Someday I’ll run the company. But right now, i'm not ready,” you figured now was when you should stop asking, his grip on your sides tightened before they moved down to caress your ass. You jumped before his hands were pushing your hips down to grind on him. You were shocked to feel him hard already. You both had just finished maybe thirty minutes ago and were basking in the afterglow. “Sorry, I just want to forget about it. Can I?” he nudged you closer to him, lining himself up with you. You nodded, kissing his neck but he hesitated. “Hmm?”

“Yes, you can Haechan.”

Oh my god. That was it. The first time you both used protection. You know that for certain because you were the one that put it on him. You flushed at the memory. But that second time? After he was being vulnerable, you were both caught up in the moment that neither one of you remembered. You chuckled dryly, your chest aching. Maybe that was his sad excuse at pillow talk. He plays the sad kicked puppy to get laid again. Well it worked. He made you feel special, so he got what he wanted in the end. You tossed your purse on the chair at the foot of the bed and crawled in, maybe sleep will get rid of this unsettled feeling in your chest.

You woke up to a god awful smell and practically flew out of the bed and into the bathroom, throwing up stomach acid into the toilet. You wiped your mouth before leaving the bedroom with your shirt over your nose. You found Haechan in the kitchen, apron on, as he cooked over the stove. “What are you doing?” he turned his head quickly, smiling at you before it fell from his face.

“Is it that bad? I thought I was a good cook,” he pouted. You shook your head.

“No, I'm sure you are but the smell. The egg smells awful.” you gagged as if on cue. He quickly shut the stove off, turned the fan on above, and opened the window above the sink. He took a cutting board and wafted the smell towards the window.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know,” he scratched the back of his neck. “I made some back and pancakes though!” He tried to be optimistic. You giggled, pulling your shirt down from your nose.

“It’s fine, thank you.” He brought over the plates with pancakes and bacon, setting them on the table in front of you.

“What do you like on your pancakes? I put chocolate chips on them.” He moved to the refrigerator, grabbing out butter and milk. “I have syrup,” he grabbed it down from the shelf above the stove.

“Do you have peanut butter? My dad used to mix butter, peanut butter, and syrup together to put on his pancakes. It was so good,” he brought over what you requested, giving you a weird look. “Come on, you have to try it first before you hate on it.” You mixed together your concoction before spreading it on your pancake. You cut off a piece and offered it to Haechan. You expected him to grab it with his fork but he leaned over, mouth wide open, and took it.

“Wow,” his eyes widened and he nodded his head as he tasted it. “It’s not bad. I usually just eat it with syrup. Is this a pregnancy craving thing?” you shook your head and chuckled.

“Nope,” you popped the p as you took a bite. “I just like it. I haven’t gotten weird cravings yet. Wait,” you thought for a second. “Um, actually I’ve been craving meat and dirt. My blood tests came back a few weeks ago and I’m anemic so that could explain it.”

“Do I need to get you anything? I’ll have the housekeeper come and stock the refrigerator with more meat.”

“I don’t need anything. I’m on supplements to help,” you both sat and ate awkwardly at the table. “Do you know when the movers will be here with my stuff? I need my laptop to do some work. I also need to email my supervisor about my situation. I trust that he can keep my pregnancy a secret.” he nodded and finished up his food before taking both your plates and cups to the sink to wash them. Once he was done he checked the time on his phone.

“They should actually be here any minute. Why don’t you go sit in the living room and relax. I’ll help the movers with your stuff.” You got up and made your way out of the kitchen and into the grand living room. It had tall ceilings, gray panels lined the walls, and in the middle of the room was a large dark brown leather sectional. Laying on the couch was a throw blanket so you grabbed it, wrapping it around yourself before sitting down. Pregnancy has made you so cold all the time. You grabbed the tv remote off of the coffee table and flipped through channels before Haechan came into the room with a cup of steaming hot chocolate. You took it from him with a thank you.

The next three hours flew as you drifted in and out of a nap on Haechan’s couch. He was busy redirecting the movers with your belongings so you didn’t have to worry about anything. Before you knew it Haechan was scooting you over on the couch. He slowly laid your head down on his lap as gently as possible, as not to wake you. He switched the channel to a show he had been watching and let it play while his hand absentmindedly stroked your hair. If he was being honest, he wasn’t paying attention to the show he put on, his mind was too jumbled with thoughts. He doesn’t know why he was so adamant on you staying with him except that he was scared. He kept beating himself up over how shitty he was to you over the phone when you called him crying. He didn’t want to hear you upset and scared like that again. He figured this would be the best option, that way he could watch over you the entire pregnancy.

You shifted on his lap, drawing him out of his thoughts. You had turned to your side, one arm resting on your stomach while the other wrapped around his leg, gripping his thighs. His skin burned hot under your touch. His eyes zeroed in on how your hand rested against your swollen tummy. He slowly reached his hand out, laying it on top of yours. He just can’t wrap his head around the fact that you're growing something that's half you and him inside of you. When you first told him about the baby, all he thought about was how perfect the timing was. But now, he really doesn’t know what he’s feeling. He just knows that this little thing growing inside of you is going to impact his life in every way possible, and he's not so sure he hates that idea completely.

“Oh my god, oh my god,” you stopped what you were doing, which happened to be leaning down to put your shoes on. Lately your stomach has started to get in the way of day to day activities. It wasn’t anything serious, it was just like you were carrying around a solid bowling ball in your stomach. Haechan came bolting around the corner, out of the kitchen and spilling the glass of water he had gotten for you. For the last three weeks that you have been living with him, he’s been glued to your side. You weren’t going to lie, it was really nice.

“What? What’s wrong? Are you okay?” He quickly set down the glass of water for you, and rushed to your side.

“The baby just moved. I felt it,” you looked up at him with wide eyes and a big smile on your face. You lifted your shirt up, showing your belly to him. “It was so strong too. It felt like my shirt moved.” You could still feel a little swirl inside of you. It felt like someone was making waves under the water with their hands. “Quick! Give me your hand!�� you grabbed his hand, and laid it on your lower belly. “Wait for it.”

“I don’t feel anything,” there was a hint of disappointment in his voice. He started to pull his hand away but you kept it firmly to your stomach. The warmth of his palm against your stomach made you feel tingly. Even though he's been doting on you and making sure to help you with everything you needed, you’ve been feeling lonely. Your back hurts at night, your bed is always cold, and you never feel like you get warm enough. It would be so nice to have someone lay with you at night, at least until you fall asleep. Pregnancy insomnia has been kicking your ass. “Ah, I don’t think it likes me-” before he could finish there was a strong kick to his palm. His mouth dropped open.

“Keep talking! I think it likes the sound of your voice!” you urged him to keep going. He kneeled down in front of you and moved his head closer to your stomach, resting his cheek against it.

“Hey,..” he hesitated like he didn't know what to say. “It’s uh, it’s your daddy. Do you like the sound of my voice?” your heart sped up at Haechan calling himself daddy. The last time he said it was at the hospital a few weeks ago but the way he said it now, it felt warm. He didn’t say to get on anyones nerves like last time, but for himself. “Ohh you do don’t you,” he chuckled against your stomach as the baby pushed against his cheek and palms.

“I’m sorry to interrupt your bonding through my skin,” you giggled, “but were going to be late for my appointment.”

“Ah, right. Bye bye baby,” he poked your belly before standing up and brushing off his knees. “Lessgo.” He grabbed your purse from your shoulder and opened the front door leading you guys to his car.

The drive to the doctors was quick. You were apprehensive about getting your blood drawn but at least you had an hour to prepare yourself. The nurse had you pick between five flavors, orange, lemon-lime, grape, lemonade, and fruit punch. You had decided to go with the orange flavor. You were given five minutes to drink it, and as true as the mommy blogs you read, it tasted like flat soda. Now, you weren't the biggest fan of flat soda but they at least gave you the drink cold. You chugged it in less than five minutes, the nurse looked surprised.

“Wow, a lot of women hate this test,” she laughed as she took the empty bottle from you and threw it in the trash. “In one hour we'll have a phlebotomist take your blood down the stairs.” She led you and Haechan out of the office and into the lounge room. You and Haechan took the elevator to the first floor and waited in the seats until your hour was up.

“Hey, Haechan?” he looked up from his phone, setting it down in his pocket. You twiddle your fingers together in your lap. Renjun was with you the last time that you had your blood drawn. You didn’t know if haechan would be okay sitting with you this time around. Noticing your hesitation, he scooted over to sit next to you, holding your hand.

“Is everything okay Y/N?” you nodded, taking a deep breath.

“I’m not the biggest fan of needles or having my blood drawn. Could you sit in the room with me and hold my hand?” you felt so shy asking it. He held your hand tighter.

“Of course Y/N.” he kept a hold of your hand, rubbing patterns on it as time passed. Soon you heard the nurse call out your name. You got up, followed closely behind by Haechan, his hand not letting go of yours. The second you sat in the chair, Haechan was right next to you. The nurse explained the process and it was basically the same as last time.

“Results come back pretty quickly for this test. It typically comes back in one to two days.” She patched you up with a pink bandaid, and sent you on your way.

“You handled that fine. I kinda expected you to pass out and I’d have to carry you back home,” Haechan teased you, his hand still interlocked with yours as he led you out to his car. “What do you want to eat? They told you not to eat this morning right?” you nodded, thinking hard about what sounded good. He swung your hands back and forth.

“Oh! Lets get some Korean BBQ!” he laughed, throwing his head back.

“I should’ve thought of that,” he glanced towards you, such a warm smile on his face. You smiled back at him as tears started to prick your eyes. Haechan’s smile immediately wiped off his face. “What? What’s wrong? Did I say something wrong?” you shook your head.

“No! No, not at all,” you wiped your eyes with your free hand. “It’s just,” you hiccuped, “I’m really emotional. Your smile, it just made me happy.” his smile returned on his face as he used his own hand to wipe at your eyes. His hand lingered at your jaw as he stared at your lips. He cleared his throat before looking away, continuing towards the car.

“So the key to your heart is Korean BBQ huh, that’s good to know.” He helped you into the car before finally letting go of your hand. The loss of the heat in your hand was immense, you sighed. You’ve practically been craving Haechan’s touch since you moved in with him. Maybe it was some sort of physiological pull or something that the baby was doing. Trying to get you closer to its daddy. You chuckled at the thought. Haechan has been so much more tolerable the last few weeks, that it feels like you’re looking at the man you went home with last October.

“Hey, I have kinda a sensitive question.” you asked him as soon as he sat down in the driver seat.

“Shoot,” he said as he turned the ignition. You took a second to try and gather your thoughts. It's been over four months since you guys met at the bar, he’s probably forgotten all about it.

“When we went home together after the bar, I was wondering if you treat all the girls you go home with like how you treated me,” Haechan looked at you a little shocked.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, like,” you stuttered a little bit. Embarrassed now that you were actually talking about it. “You were very sweet to me. After the first time we,” you blushed, face heating up.”did it,” you whispered. “I kinda expected you to kick me out, but instead you let me stay and we cuddled. You also asked me about myself, and talked about yourself. It just felt very intimate.” Haechan looked lost in thought. He thought back to the night you were talking about, specifically the part where you two cuddled and talked.

“Honestly? No, I don’t typically do that. I usually have them leave after the first time. I don’t know why, but with you, I wanted to spend some more time with you. I didn’t want the night to end just yet.” his hands gripped the steering wheel.

“I wanted to apologize. About that night. When we were talking. I feel like I made you talk about stuff you didn’t want to.”

“No it wasn’t anything like that. Everything I talked about with you that night was because I wanted you. You made me comfortable enough to. So don’t think you made me okay?” His words reassured you. You felt the weight lift off your shoulders a little bit. This pregnancy has made you feel so guilty over the little things in life. The other day you went out to get hot chocolate with Renjun and you cried when you stepped on a snail.

“That does make me feel a bit better,” you chuckled. “Oh, are you still able to make next week's appointment? It’s the anatomy scan.”

“Hmm, that’s when we find out the gender right? See i’m learning,” he had a small smile on his face as he kept his eyes focused on the road ahead.

“Yes but also we will find out if the baby is forming correctly,” you pulled out your phone to check the appointment times.

“Are you wanting a boy or girl?” you were shocked by his question. You didn’t expect him to ask, let alone sound curious while doing so.

You let his question sink in. On one hand you really didn’t have a preference, but at the same time you used to dream about having a little boy. “I think a little boy.”

“Oh yeah? What makes you want a boy?”

“I just always dreamed about being a boy mom. I grew up with only girls in the family, cousins, aunts, great aunts, you know. I think it’s just the challenge of something new.” You tried to think hard about it. Maybe it’s because you grew up fighting with your mom, well you fought with both parents, but you were closer to your dad. You were just scared of having a girl and passing off all your bad traits to her and having the same type of relationship you had with your mother, with her.

“Well, either way, I think you’re going to be a fantastic mother to a boy or girl.” you watched the side of his face as he drove. You exclaimed every curve and mole that adorned his sun kissed cheeks. You rested your cheek against your palm, a soft smile laid on your lips. He’s become such a big part of your life, not just because he’s the father of your child, but because of how he’s stuck to his side of the deal.

“It’s going to be hard to keep our pregnancy from your dad isn’t it? He’s been messaging me, wanting to have dinner together again.” you felt guilty that you haven’t been able to uphold your side of said deal.

“Actually, I was wondering if you would be comfortable telling him?” he looked over at you, curiosity and a little bit of anxiety plastered on his face. He chewed at his lip as his eyes found the road again, waiting for your reply.

“Would you be okay with that? I thought you didn’t want to tell him because that would make it harder for you to distance yourself from us after the baby is born.” It hurt to say, but that was the deal. He supports you financially during the pregnancy, but in the end that’s what you both agreed to.

He thought for a long hard minute. You almost expected him to drop the topic, ignoring it all together, but he didn’t. “Yeah, that was the plan but,” his teeth were doing numbers on his bottom lip. “I want to be a part of this baby’s life after it’s born. And yours. I don’t think I can just forget about you or the baby after all of this. You’ve, you’ve become someone special to me Y/N,” he cheeks tinged pink. You grabbed a napkin out of your purse and leaned across the center counsel to dab at the blood on his lips.

“I want that too, Donghyuck,” it felt weird using his real name. You felt like now was the perfect moment, like he was him in this moment. Not the cocky persona he puts up to mask the hurt and loneliness. He grabbed the hand that dabbed at his lips gently, placing a kiss across your knuckles before resting your intertwined fingers atop the arm rest between you two. This was nice, you felt like this was a big step between you two, an important development.

With all the progress you and Donghyuck made during your conversation in the car a week ago, it felt like you both took five steps back. You couldn’t figure out how to talk to him, you were so nervous, always feeling butterflies around him. He, on the other hand, was losing his mind. All he wanted to do was just grab you and hold you, but it felt like you were avoiding him. Everytime he walked into the same room as you, you’d get up and leave. You’ve practically lived in your bedroom for the last week. He was grateful that today was your appointment, that way you were forced to talk to him.

“Here,” he handed you a bottle of orange juice. “I saw online that orange juice helps the baby move. The last thing we want is for it to be still while we're trying to find out if we’re having a boy or girl,” he chuckled, a soft glow to his smile as he looked down at you sitting on the entryway ottoman. He kneeled in front of you, slipping on your slippers for you. Your heart was beating like crazy, it felt way too hot in this room. It was like you were standing next to the sun. You would be concerned, but you knew it was because of how Donghyuck caressed your ankles, slowly massaging them.

“Thank you,” you spoke, barely audible. He looked up at you, eyes locking with yours before he reached his hand up to feel your forehead.

“Are you okay? Your face is red and you’re warm.” you shook your head.

“I’m fine,” you bit your lip. “We need to head out before we’re late.”

Once at the doctor’s, the check up with the nurse went quickly. She had laid you back agaisn’t the exam table and measured your stomach. “Looking perfect Miss Y/N! You’re measuring right on track. You got the results back from your glucose test correct? I just wanted to make sure your notes were put in the system correctly.” You nodded.

“Yes, everything came back normal.” she typed a bit on the computer before leaving. You looked over at Donghyuck who was scrolling on his phone. “I’m sorry about this morning,” he looked up at you, confusion on his face. “And for this whole last week. I’ve just felt so nervous around you.”

He scooted the guest chair closer to you, holding your hand in his. “Is it something I did or said? Was it the conversation we had about telling my father? Because we don’t have to if you don’t want to.” you were so smitten by his concern towards you.

“It’s really childish. I swear it’s nothing you did or said, it’s just,” he leaned forward as if hanging on every single word that came out of your mouth. “I really like you, and I just don’t know how to act around you.” He looked like his mind short circuited for a second before he smirked.

“So what, I make you so nervous that your mind goes mush? Like that?” you nodded. “Oh my god you’re so cute. This entire time I thought you were avoiding me because I upset you or something. But it's just because I'm that charming that I made you speechless.” you smacked his shoulder lightly. He laughed as he rubbed it like you had any real power behind your swing. “Ow, you wounded me.”

You were both interrupted by a knock at the door. Dr Kim walked in with a bright smile on her face. “Who's ready to see the baby!” She took a seat on the rolling stool and moved over to you. She pulled the scanner and lube out as you lifted up your shirt, tucking it underneath your bra to keep it fastened. “Alrighty, this will feel cold. Are you ready?” You locked eyes with Donghyuck, he smiled down from beside you, his hand rested against your upper arm. You nodded at the doctor.

She squirted the lube onto your bare stomach and smeared it with the scanner. With her free hand she pointed up at the screen in front of you and Donghyuck. “Here are the baby’s hands. Ten fingers!” she clicked around on the computer before moving on to the baby’s feet. “All ten toes as well. Good job Mama.” you could feel the baby kick at the probe, as well as see it bounce around the screen. “Do you guys want to know the gender now or wait until the end?”

“I want to wait until the end. What about you?” his eyes were fixed to the screen, a smile plastered on his face. He looked back at you.

“I don’t mind waiting. Do you want to take a bet?” you lifted an eyebrow at him. What did he mean by a bet? “A bet to see who's right on the gender. If I win and it’s a girl, I get to pick her name. If you win and it’s a boy, you get to pick his name. Does that sound fair?” you thought about it for a second, the doctor still clicking away on the screen and moving the scanner around.

“Alright, I’ll take those chances.” he laughed as you both looked up at the screen. The doctor explained some of the things you were seeing. She was checking the baby’s legs and measuring them as well as taking scans for the size of its head. After checking everything she needed to, she turned to face us.

“So mama thinks boy, daddy thinks girl?” both you and Donghyuck nodded before looking up at the screen. She moved the scanner around a bit before stopping. “Congratulations daddy, it’s a girl!” Donghyuck stood up and pulled his fist towards his side.

“Oooh I knew it! I was looking up how to tell and you were ticking off all the boxes for girls! Oh, I'm a genius.” you giggled at his antics. Although you were wanting a boy, you oddly felt excited to have a girl. All of the worries you had about her were still there, but with Donghyuck by your side, you felt like you could brave the fears. The doctor helped you clean up before handing you your sonograms from the visit.

“I wont see you again until you’re closer to thirty weeks. If you have any concerns during that time please don’t hesitate to call me okay?” You pulled your shirt back down over your stomach and said goodbye to the doctor.

“Hit me with it. What’s the name you picked? I’m so curious,” you grabbed his hand, swinging it back and forth. You tried your best to keep up with his pace, he ended up slowing down to match your speed. You get out of breath so easily now, it’s crazy. He put a finger up to his chin in mock thinking.

“Okay, okay, bare with me now. I think it’s really cute but it’s not traditional for a little girl,” you smiled and squeezed his hand in encouragement to keep talking. “I was thinking something like Woong. Just imagine, Woongie,” he called it out so affectionately and cutely you couldn’t help but break out in an even bigger smile.

“What made you want to go with that?” He looked down at you as he held the office's front door open for you to pass through.

“Well, when I first saw her on the sonograms you gave me last December, she looked like a little gummy bear. I’m kinda embarrassed to say this but I’ve been calling her Woong since then.” How fitting that he choose a name that can mean bear.

“Are you trying to project your feelings to make her a mini you?” he gasped, throwing his hand to his chest.

“Never,” he teased. “Do you have anything planned this evening?” you guys made it to the car and you answered as he helped you sit in the passenger seat.

“Not that I know of, why?” he stood by your door with a big grin.

“Because we’re going to go shopping for Princess Woongie. You haven’t gotten anything yet right?” you gushed at her name. You were definitely starting to adore the name the more Donghyuck said it.

“No, I wanted to wait until I knew what we were going to have first.” He closed the door before going around the car and getting in the driver's side.

“Well then, let’s go spoil her before she even arrives.”

Tonight was the night, you had enough of sleeping in a cold bed. You and Donghyuck had been coy back and forth, not quite sure what the other was comfortable with. You stood at your bedroom door, fuzzy socks covering your chilly toes. You had on your pink pajamas, the shorts just small enough that the waistband had to be rolled down under your belly and the shirt that used to fit comfortably rested mid stomach, exposing your twenty four week belly bump.

You tiptoed down the hallway until you stood in front of Donghyuck’s door. You knuckles hesitated against the ingrained wood to his bedroom. Before you could knock, the door swung open to a messy haired Donghyuck. He jumped back letting out a screech, clutching at his bare chest where his heart was. “Oh my god Y/N, what’s wrong? Is everything okay?” He looked between you and the baby bump. “Is it Woongie?” a mild panic flashed across his face. You shook your head, hands raising up to wave.

“No! She’s fine!” you told him. The worry melted off his face as he checked you over, making sure with his own two eyes that you and Woong weren’t hurt.

“What are you doing at my bedroom door then?” you stood there, unsure how you wanted to tell him that lately you’ve been feeling isolated. Not necessarily by him, but the further along you get in your pregnancy, the less you see people. You haven’t been back to the office for the last two months, you’ve been doing everything remotely, so that already takes out half of your social circle. Luckily with how busy Renjun is, he still makes time to see you at least once a week.

Your eyes travel the exposed skin across his chest and down to his waist. You’ve seen it before yeah, but not with a completely sober mind. Your mind goes back to the night you guys shared, you vividly remember how warm he was. You would give anything to curl against him. No time for hesitation now.

“Can I sleep here with you tonight?” his eyes widened and his mouth parted slightly. You looked up at him, probably the most pitiful look known to mankind was plastered across your face. Most women have a glow to them during pregnancy, you however, did not. The lack of sleep you’ve gotten in the last three months has dimmed your complexion and created dark circles under your eyes. You always heard the lack of sleep happens AFTER the baby, not before.

He stepped to the side, motioning you to enter. “I was just going to use the bathroom and grab a glass of water. Do you want one?” you nodded and he left the room, leaving you to look around. Donghyuck had a pretty large bed that sat tucked away in the far left corner against the wall. His bed frame was pretty minimalistic, the headboard was a plush bright red that just screamed Donghyuck. You noticed he had a lot of red accents around the room. You walked over to the side of the bed that wasn't against the wall and sat your phone down on the bedside table.

You slowly got onto his bed and crawled towards the side against the wall. Immediately you were engulfed by the citrusy smell of his daily cologne. You nestled yourself underneath his white covers, they were a thick material already warmed from him. Yeah, this was a good idea. You were already feeling the warmth seeping back into your body. Before too long, Donghyuck came back into the room carrying two glasses of water. “Here,” he said as he sat one glass down on his bedside table, next to your phone. You shuffled to rest your back against his head board, reaching out to grab the glass of water from his hand, sipping it. You watched as he checked something on your phone before he unplugged the charger to his phone, connecting your phone to the charger. You handed the water glass back to Donghyuck and he set it down next to his. “Do you want to talk about it?” He sat next to you against the headboard, his fingers playing with your.

“I’m not sure what I'm feeling if I'm being honest,” you laid your head back, staring at his ceiling. He sat quietly, allowing you time to gather your thoughts. “I just think I'm feeling very isolated from the people around me. I was thinking about it earlier but, I really only talk to you and on occasion Renjun when he’s able to make time for me. I haven’t talked to anyone from the company. Also, Woongie makes me cold,” you chuckled looking over to Donghyuck who was already looking at you, your heart jumped at the sudden eye contact.

“What do you mean? Have you talked to Dr. Kim?”

“Yes I have and It’s nothing serious. But, I just have a harder time getting myself warm. My fingers are cold, my feet are cold, I’m just overall cold,” As you said it he picked your intertwined hands up and blew warm air from his mouth. You giggled. “I remembered the last time we shared a bed that your body was hot.” He wiggled his eyebrows at the innuendo. “Stop! I didn’t mean it that way.”

“I’m just teasing you Y/N. You’re more than welcome to sleep in here with me from now on if you want.” He looked around the room, you couldn’t tell from the dim light, but he had a faint blush on his cheeks as he tried to formulate the next words in his mind carefully. “I know we’ve only talked about it briefly but,” he paused, his eyes darting around the room in thought. “I want to have a relationship with you. If you are willing. I know we didn’t really start this relationship that we have on an ideal foot, but I want to have an actual relationship with you. One that’s serious. I want to be in Woong’s life, not just as her daddy, but as her mommy’s partner.” your eyes started tearing up. You both desperately needed this conversation and you were happy he was giving it to you maturely.

“Yes. I want to as well. I want to have you by my side.” Donghyuck smiled at you so fondly, he slowly leaned towards you, his eyes memorizing your face before trailing down to your lips. You closed your eyes, leaning back into him. The moment your lips touch is like fire, heat spreads from your lips, through your body, and to your toes. Your hand was still in his and you squeezed it lightly as you tilted your head, deepening the kiss. Donghyuck’s other hand slowly rested on your cheek, his thumb caressed the side of your lips. It tugged at your bottom lip, slowly dragging it down and open so that he could slip his tongue into your mouth. You gasped, leaning into the palm of his hand as he continued, caressing your tongue with his. You felt light headed, and when you could take it anymore, you leaned back, breaking this kiss with only a strain of saliva to connect you.

Donghyuck gave you a sweet smile before shuffling down the headboard and lifting up the covers. He patted next to him, ushering you down as well to cuddle him. “Let’s get some rest. Tomorrow I want to call my father and set up lunch to tell him the news.” you laid your head firmly on his chest, your legs twisted with his, and his hand stroked your hair. You feel asleep to the thruming of his heartbeat that night.

True to his word, the next morning Donghyuck called his father. You briefly heard his conversation from the other room, and while you only heard bits and pieces, it seemed a bit strained. Donghyuck came back into the bedroom to find you still tucked under his blankets. He sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing your hair before he gave you a small kiss to your temple. “I know you’re awake Y/N,” he cooed in your ear. You pulled the blankets down a little bit to see him.

“I didn’t mean to overhear,” you started. “Is he upset?”

“Oh, I hadn’t told him yet. All I said was that I needed to meet him soon and that it was about you.” he pinched your cheek slightly before standing up from the bed and making his way over to his closet.

You sat up in bed a little too quickly, hissing as you held your back. Donghyuck’s head snapped quickly towards you but you brushed it off. “She's just pushing on my back too much,” you scooted towards the edge of the bed. “Is he upset?”

“Not at you. I think he thinks that I broke up with you or something. I don’t really have the best track record at relationships,” he winced. That came out so bad but you know what he means.

“I understand,” you stood up from the bed and waddled a bit as you made your way up behind him. You slowly wrapped your arms around his waist, belly stopping you from laying yourself flush against him. You laughed. You guessed the laugh woke up Woongie because she started to kick through you at Donghyuck’s back.

“Uh, Woongie,” he whined as he turned around to face you. He leaned down towards your stomach, laying his lips on the side before blowing a raspberry. Your entire abdomen shook as Woong did what you could only assume was flips. Donghyuck immediately gasped and apologized. “Oh daddy’s sorry. He didn’t mean to scare you,” he cooed and peppered kisses along your belly. You put your hands on his cheeks and slowly raised his head up, giving him a chaste kiss once he was fully standing.

“Do I need to wear something that hides the belly?” he shook his head quickly.

“No! The whole point of this meeting is to tell him about Woong. I have something I bought you while we were out buying stuff for her the first time.” You looked at him confused. You swore he was with you the entire time, so how did he sneak away to get you something? He rummaged in the top of his closet, pulling out a gift bag. “Here, go change into this and meet me down stairs by the front door. I’ll help you with your shoes.” After a quick kiss to the cheek, you made your way back towards your room.

Once inside you made quick work with the fancy gift wrapping. You pulled out what looked like an off white bodysuit, skeptical at the size of it. It looked three times too small. Inside the bag was also a yellow cardigan with sunflowers knitted into it. Once you slipped on what you thought was a bodysuit, you realized it was a long bodycon dress. It fits like a glove. Although the dress was tight, the material was light enough that it felt like you weren't wearing anything. You slowly made your way down starting where Donghyuck was waiting for you with a pair of orange sandals. He himself wore nice fitted black slacks and a loose off white button up that paired perfectly with your dress.

“I knew it would fit you,” he gave you a quick kiss to the cheek before escorting you down to his car. Once you both arrived at the restaurant, Donghyuck got out and led the way. He had a firm grip on your hand, leading you through the building and towards the back. You could only assume he visited these restaurants often enough to know where the vip rooms were. The president's eyes locked on Donghyuck first, his eyes furrowed as he didn’t know you trailing behind.

“Donghyuck, what is the meaning of this? I thought you were serious about Y/N. Are you here to tell me that you fucked it up with her-” his irritation was cut short as you stepped out from behind Donghyuck. The president’s eyes widened in shock as he took in your figure, your abdomen twice the size it was when you first met. “Uh-” Donghyuck interpreted him.

“We wanted to come share the news with you, Father. Y/N and I are expecting a little girl in July.” The shock melted off of his face and was replaced with a large smile that reached his eyes. He quickly moved towards you, arms extended wide and developed you into a hug. He stepped back from you, scanning you before pulling your left hand up to him.

“Donghyuck, I taught you better than this. Where is this woman's ring?” your eyes practically bugged out of your head, face immediately bursting into a deep red shade as you quickly look over to Donghyuck. He doesn’t have much of a reaction. Of course you’ve thought about marriage before. Both you and Donghyuck hadn’t necessarily started out on your five step life plan as you would’ve hoped you would, you guys would just have to navigate it as you go.

“That’s a conversation for another time Father. For now, I want us to focus on the pregnancy and make sure that it goes smoothly. I want them both to be healthy.” His father had a sparkle in his eye before he stepped away from you both and turned around, pinching at the bridge of his nose. He sat down in his seat and motioned for you both to join him. His eyes looked a bit red and that's when you realised he had teared up earlier.

“I’m proud of you Donghyuck,” Donghyuck looked shocked. It had been years since he last heard his father say that to him. He didn’t know how to respond. “This has been good for you,” he paused, eyes meeting yours. “She has been good for you.” He turned his entire body toward you. “Thank you Y/N for giving him a chance. I know he’s not the easiest person to be around. I suppose he gets that from me.” He chuckled awkwardly.

You didn’t know how to respond to him. Instead you let your hand find Donghyuck’s thigh under the table, giving it a reassuring squeeze. His hand laid over yours, his warmth enveloping your hand. The meal went comfortably. It was a change of pace to see Donghyuck and his father interact with each other in a more domesticated way than what you’ve heard countless times over the phone. They were both so awkward that it had you smiling, adoring the way they would pause in between conversations only to talk over each other.

The following weeks dragged on and on. The further you got along into the pregnancy the more exhausted you felt. Your ankles started to swell, you peed every hour on the hour, and you felt like a beached well half of the time. You just started your weekly check ups at your doctors office, the countdown to Woong’s due date was nearing. At your last appointment, you had just hit thirty six weeks, Dr Kim checked your cervix and informed you that Woong wasn’t head down. She had told you that if she didn’t flip before your next appointment, which was in two days, that you discuss your options.

You had dreamt of having a natural vaginal birth, you may or may not have done a deep dive on the web for birthing videos, but now it was seeming out of reach. The last two nights, almost the entire night, you had been in and out to sleep, only being awoken to what you assumed was just some braxton hicks contractions. It was hell, for both you and Donghyuck. He had hardly gotten any solid sleep, deciding to stay close enough to you should you need anything.

It was of those days where you were sprawled across the couch with your feet resting in Donghyuck’s lap, he made quick work with his fingers as he worked out the tension in the soles of your feet. You had another cramp in your stomach, only this time it was unbearable. You yelped out in pain, your arm reaching to cradle your lower stomach. “What?! What is it?” Donghyuck’s hands flew to your shoulder, helping you sit up. You shook your head, and pushed his arms off rather roughly.

“Sorry,” you said through gritted teeth, trying to control your breathing. “I can’t sit up. We need to go to the hospital now, it feels like she’s coming out now.” tears had already started to pool in your eyes and before you knew it, Donghyuck had grabbed your ‘to go’ hospital bag that had sat in the front room closet for the last month. He rushed back to you with your house slippers, sweat beading at his forehead. He slowly helped you up off of the couch, you checked behind you for a wet spot. “I don’t think my water broke so we have some time.” You slowly made your way down to the car, stopping briefly to catch your breath or if there was a particular rough contraction.

It felt like Donghyuck hit every bump the road had to offer whilst he sped to the hospital. You practically held yourself off the passenger seat due to the pressure that weighed down between your legs. He barely threw the car in park before he launched himself out of the driver's seat to assist you into the building. You had called the doctor's office to inform them that you were coming in with contracts. Renjun had sent you a message earlier that he would be at the hospital as soon as he was able to wrap up his work in case you needed anything from him. Donghyuck’s father had also called him briefly to keep him updated. By now tears had been spilling all over the place, your nose was running, and it wasn’t just because of the pain. Never in your life had you realised that you had so many people around you that cared.

The nurse escorted you as quickly as you were able to move to a room where she hooked up some monitors to your stomach to track the baby’s heartbeat and contractions. Donghyuck had helped you take off your pants so that the nurse could check your dilation. “I’ll give you a second for this contraction to pass before I check you, okay?” you briefly nodded as you closed your eyes tight, your fists clenched the bedspread beneath you. As soon as the contraction died down, the nurse inserted her fingers. You saw as she raised her eyebrows, her eyes darting around before she spoke. “Okay, we’ll be having the baby today! You are almost ten centimeters dilated. I’ll call the doctors in.” She quickly moved to your right side, inserting an IV into the back of your hand. You winced at the sudden pain.

You looked over at Donghyuck, confusion on both of your faces. What was going on? Before you knew it, the room was flooded with doctors. “What’s happening?” your voice came out frantic, the doctors around you moved the bed down and handed Donghyuck a pair of scrubs, hair net, and mask.

“I’m going to go through this quickly. We’re getting you rushed in for a c section. The baby has their legs down so we're on a time crunch before your water breaks. Please sign here, here, and here.” Your eyes were blurred with tears. This wasn’t what you wanted. Your hands shook as you handed the pen back to the doctor. They had already wheeled you out of the room and down the hall into another, leaving Donghyuck behind. You didn’t know what to focus on, you didn’t have Donghyuck next to you, your birth plan wasn’t going how you planned, and it felt like no one was telling you what was happening.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” a calming voice spoke next to you as a hand rested on your shoulder. A young lady stood next to your table, she grabbed your hand as the doctors around you instructed you to lay on your side. “They’re doing the spinal tap now. Just tuck your knees to your chest as far as you can.” you followed her instructions, squeezing her hand tightly.

“Where’s Donghyuck,” you sobbed. “I want him here with me.” the lady nodded her head in reassurance.

“He’ll be here quickly. They have him sanitizing before he arrives.” The doctors around you moved you back towards your back before slipping an oxygen mask over your face. Your eyes looked around the room, taking in the bright lights and the tarp that separated you from the other side where the doctors prepared their instruments.

“Hey, baby, how are you feeling?” Donghyuck moved quickly next to you as the lady passed your hand into his before backing up.

“I’m scared,” you must look pitiful with all this machinery hooked up to you, eyes and nose red from crying. You were shivering too.

“It’s going to go by so quickly, you won’t even know what’s happening.” He reassures you, his free hand moving the hair out of your face before leaving a kiss on your forehead. He sat by your ear, whispers of encouragement kept your thoughts from drifting. Dr. Kim said something before calling Donghyuck over to follow her as she walked towards an incubator.

“She’s a big one mama! Eight pounds!” your head moved around as you tried to get a glimpse of your baby. You couldn’t hear her cry. Your heart rate spiked, all you wanted was to have your baby with you now. That’s when you heard it, a boisterous cry. You laughed weakly, tears of relief ran down your face now as you relaxed your head back onto the table. Donghyuck walked over to you, watery eyes with a bundle of white blankets in his hands.

“Say hi to you mama Woongie,” he held her down to rest her cheek against yours. You rubbed your face against her as you sniffled and shivered. She was perfect. A perfect round head with chubby little cheeks. Donghyuck held her back to his chest while the doctors stitched you back up. They took Woong back from Donghyuck, undressing her from the blankets and laying her against your bare chest. You let out a sigh of relief, you hand cradling her small head, barely hair in sight. You chuckled. “She got that from me,” he rested his hand against yours that cradled her head.

The nurses moved your entire bed through the hospital hallways until you reached what you assumed would be your room while you stayed there. After a brief rundown of what your first twenty four hours of Woong’s life would be like, you and Donghyuck were left alone in your hospital room, Woong asleep on your chest. You were exhausted.

Donghyuck slowly moved one of the guest’s chairs over to the side of your bed, resting his chin in the palm of his hand while the other rested against your’s on Woong’s small frame. “You were incredible Y/N,” you smiled sweetly over to him. “You safely carried Woongi and both you and her were safe during the procedure. You did so well.”

“I only did so well because you were here supporting me. I don’t know what I would’ve done if you didn’t give me a chance when I first came to you.” he shook his head, looking at you with a resolved look on his face.

“You gave me the chance, not the other way around. You stuck with me when I was being an asshole. I’m glad you shook some sense into me. I can’t imagine a life different from this. A life without Woongie. Without you. You gave me a purpose in life,” his eyes trailed down towards the small figure that breathed softly on your chest. “Heh,” he chuckled. “I guess my father was right. I was so wrapped up in the mindset that my life needed to be filled with parties, events, and whatever woman I laid my eyes on. You changed my world Y/N. You showed me that what I was missing, deep down inside, wasn’t something I tried to find in flings or glasses of wine. It was you, it was her. I was looking for something, someone, to dedicate my life to. Someone that would better me. Not just for myself, but for the future of my legacy, my fathers legacy.” He slowly moved his hand to your jaw, caressing it gently as he leaned it and pressed a tender kiss to your lips. It was so warm, so full of love. He poured his thoughts and feelings into it. When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours. “I was looking for you.”

notes; ahhh omg never again am I going to work on a long ass fic AND and smau at the same time. That was hard af. This was 42 pages on docs....... jeeze. Please let me know what you think, I have a praise kink

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xiuriii · 2 months ago

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༝༚ brooklyn baby

in which, y/n choi, the youngest and only daughter of well-renowned ceo of seoul enterprises, choi daejun, and sister to her 3 older protective brothers, seungcheol, wonwoo, and vernon, finds herself eating with lee donghyuck, NCU’s class clown, at a convenience store at 3am.

college student! lee donghyuck x daughter of ceo! choi y/n

genre : humor, strangers to lovers, college au sort of/blessed rich daughter, rich daddy and protective brothers😍, i’ll tryyyy to do a slow burn but im bad at it😞🙏, fluff, and humor

warnings : vulgar language, sex jokes, death jokes, mean jokes & comments, me losing the plot lowk.

taglist : open !

status : slow updates bc i’m still writing another smau tew but this one is favored

started : 4/21/25

last updated : 4/29/25

notes : nawt me starting another smau while still writing the mark one😍 guys im sorrryyyy but this one has been on my mind so mayb ill actually update hehehe. i fear this was inspired by that tiktok movie “she slept they wept” guys it was actually eating bc why am i crying more than the family tuh. oki enjoyyyy!

y/n’s sugar babies | boys kissing make out heavy

01 : #inthat ncu basketball game

02 : giving choi vernon the eyes

03 : we love vern

04 : yes oppa!

05 : it’s on sight.

06 : we’re #inthat

07 : busted

08 :

09 :

10 :

tba

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xiuriii · 3 months ago

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i want u so bad

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xiuriii · 3 months ago

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synopsis. jaehyun’s wife has been away on ‘business’ on and off ever since they’ve moved into their new flat in seoul. additionally, your husband has been taking trips to hong kong and japan continuously since you moved from gyeonggi deeper into seoul. through your loneliness, you and jaehyun find each other. friendship. fondness. love. but can you really love each other, can you accept his pursuits of you, and both still be blameless? after all, your spouses did the exact same to you.

warnings. cheating (on both sides, kind of?), unhappy marriages, mentions of an allusions to sex, mentions of children and pregnancy, drinking, lots and lots of angst, somehow only one swear word!

word count. 17.1k

notes. i had analog trip jaeh in mind for this fic… just so you know… also let’s all pretend the ending doesn’t suck!

𝟏𝟗𝟔𝟎년 서울

𝐒𝐞𝐨𝐮𝐥, 𝟏𝟗𝟔𝟎

THE EARLY SUMMER HEAT simmered under the warm lights that lit the narrow hallway of the Hong and the Lee’s apartment building, clinging to your already dewy skin as you politely directed the movers this way and that, instructing them where to put your or your husband’s things. After he’d gotten his promotion, your husband had decided that it would be a good idea for you to move deeper into Seoul as the season changed. You’d agreed, of course, having nothing more to do in Seoul than you had in Gyeonggi.

Flashes of red and gold and green flitted through your vision as Mrs Lee’s paper lamps swung overhead, above one of the particularly tall movers’ heads as he lumbered past, your precious tableware in hand. It had been a wedding gift, passed down through your husband’s family; from his great grandmother, his grandmother, his mother, and finally to you.

Frowning at a stack of comic books placed carefully onto your dark, maple coffee table, you picked them up with caution. “This isn’t ours,” you told one of the movers as he passed by, placing them from your delicate hold into his strong one. “It must’ve gotten mixed up from next door.”

The mover—a man with a nametag that read Duri—nodded dutifully, striding out of the room to surely return it to the neighbours, who were moving in today as well.

A few doors down, an empty flat lay silent and barren, save for the thump of the ceiling fan and the few boxes laying around on the sitting room floor and in the master bedroom. A man walked through each and every one of these rooms, his curious, bespectacled gaze flitting across every corner before strolling into the kitchen, the most busy room in the flat at present. He wiped a stripe of sweat from his brow, frowning in irritation at the heat. The Jeongs were supposed to have moved at the beginning of winter, but his promotion had been postponed, and they were only permitted to move houses when the season turned.

Jaehyun stared, perplexed, at the collection of romance books that had been ceremoniously placed upon his kitchen counter, wrestling with the uncertainty of whether or not they were his wife’s. “These books aren’t ours,” he told one of the movers as he passed by, carrying a collection of his comic books. “They must be from next door.”

“Oh.” Duri sighed, having thought he was finally free of his load, before picking up the leather bound books, nodding. “Apologies, Mr Jeong.”

Jaehyun said nothing, turning back to the bland beige walls that surrounded him. He’d have to paint these, soon; the monotony of the entire flat bothered him, made something in him itch. He remembered the house he’d lived in—a wedding gift, from his parents, painted in bright whites and browns, a spacious place with roots deep in tradition and even deeper roots in the countryside. Now, he was here, in the city. Surrounded by the same four walls as everyone else in the building, left to decorate a blank canvas all by himself again.

“Mrs Kim!” he heard someone yell happily. It was the old landlady, Hong Dahye, probably calling on his new neighbour. Jaehyun had only seen both women in passing, though the former did not seem like his kind of person. Neither did the other landlady, Mrs Lee. “Look at this place! You’ve already made it so beautiful.”

You smiled timidly, waving your hand as if it was nothing. “Oh, it’s not that big of a deal, Mrs Hong. But, thank you. I appreciate the compliment.”

“Say, where’s your husband?” the old woman asked. With a kind, weathered face and a mane of curly white hair, your landlady was the picture of Korean elders round the country. “He should be helping his beautiful wife move!”

You shook your head. Mr Kim, your beloved husband, was nowhere to be seen, rather opting to move his things into his new office a few streets away. You didn’t take much offence to it—neither you nor your husband owned many things, and you’d hired a whole moving team to help you, so it was not nearly the struggle Mrs Hong was making it out to be.

You and your husband didn’t do every little thing together, but were still happily married; you did practically everything contrary to what tradition had you believe.

Both of you were in your twenties and had not yet had your own children, nor had you given up your work after you’d gotten married to him, and he was more than happy with these courses of action—he’d, in fact, insisted upon them, given the fact that he wished to climb higher up the social ladder before bringing children into this world. You understood, for the modern world was only going to get more complex and more expensive as time went by. For now, both of you stayed childfree and career-oriented.

The same could be said for the Jeongs next door. They hadn’t made the executive decision, rather it came naturally. Jaehyun and Mrs Park had simply been too busy to think of children, and the latter enjoyed her job far too much to give it up in the name of caring for her child.

You stepped out into the hallway after another moved passed through, gently removing your cardigan, letting the soft material fall limp in your arms. It was as charming as it was cramped, the building, you thought, bowing in apology as you bumped into a mover before stalking on, deeper down the hallway.

Jaehyun was leaned on the wall right next to his front door. A cigarette balanced between his thumb and forefinger, his free hand clicked a lighter on, lowering it to the little flame that had gathered before his plump lips. A plume of smoke gathered around his face as he exhaled deeply, blowing it upwards and into the hot summer air.

“Afternoon,” you greeted, smiling politely at the older man. He only seemed to notice you then, eyes widening before he bowed, cigarette in hand. “My name is Mrs Kim.”

He smiled softly. “Hi. My name’s Jeong Jaehyun; pleased to meet you, Mrs Kim.”

Jeong Jaehyun was an attractive man, you had to admit. Tall, tanned, and with a certain sly glint in his eye that you’d only be able to catch if you paid extra attention. Dark brown locks in a tousle of waves, and dusted pink lips stuck in a permanent pout, there was something about the way he looked at you that made you want to bolt in the other direction.

You returned his bow, coming to rest at the side beside his, both of you on either side of his front door. “Are you moving in today?”

“Mm. We were supposed to move in at the start of the winter, but had some complications to deal with before we could,” Jaehyun elaborated, taking another drag from his cigarette.

You frowned. “‘We’?”

“Oh, right.” The older man chuckled. “My wife and I. I’m married.”

You perked up. Another married couple, living right next door to you! How fine that would be. “That’s lovely! Where is she?”

“Work,” said Jaehyun. “She’s a receptionist for a car company, so moving’s up to me today. She enjoys her work, so you probably won’t see her around much.”

He must’ve seen you deflate with disappointment, because he laughed softly. “Don’t worry, I’m sure she’d enjoy meeting you. What about your husband? Shouldn’t he be helping you move?”

“He’s at work, as well,” you said. “He’s an employee at a very big transport company, so he’s usually very busy. But, it’s no worry,” you assured kindly. “We don’t have many belongings, so moving is no problem for me.”

Jaehyun hummed. He lifted the cigarette to his lips, glancing at you from under his black spectacles as he took a long drag. “Well, good luck with that,” he said, summer-warmed cheeks growing red under the hallway lights. “I should be getting back to my own moving, actually.”

Smiling, you took note of his way to end the conversation. A bit abrupt, not like most men you’d spoken to, though you took the hint. “So should I,” you agreed, bowing in adieu, before finally taking your leave, slipping back into the flat.

Jaehyun watched in polite curiosity as you went, paying little attention to how your steps seemed as light as your voice, how the sway of your hips contrasted the formality of your words. Then, with a final drag, a final decadent exhale, he retreated back into his flat, already thinking of the next chapter of his comic book.

Your boss had let you go home early on account of the overtime you’d worked throughout the week, so you went home on Friday, an hour earlier than you usually would. With your husband away on business for the week, you didn’t have much to do around the house besides read.

You flipped boredly through a women’s magazine, before stumbling upon a foreign recipe. Rice cakes. You’d had them before at your husband’s insistence, but had never attempted to make them yourself. Struck with the inspiration that came only to a bored woman on a hot day, you cut out the section of the paper containing the recipe, tucking it into your handbag as you slipped on your outside shoes.

The market was rather busy today, with several people clamouring around farmers’ mothers selling their sons’ fresh produce and fishermens’ wives selling their husbands’ fresh fish. You’d need to walk through the bustling scene to get to the supermarket, though the prospect of it didn’t seem too daunting. You weren’t entirely accustomed to Korean markets yet, but the chaos was something one easily got used to.

Several colours entered your field of vision as you made your way past the many stalls, wonderfully mismatched smells wafted through the air as you walked through the street. The calls and hollers of vendors momentarily stole your attention, echoing in your mind like the keens and croons of an opera singer in the great ambience of a concert hall.

Jaehyun was leaned against one of the many carts lining the city streets, exchanging polite conversation with one of the younger men in the crowd who was assisting his mother with her shopping. Another man who worked at the same law firm as Jaehyun, they were dressed in nearly identical crisp black suits. Several plastic bags hung limply from Jaehyun’s arms, indicating a busy day around the town for the man. With his wife away on business for the week, all the cooking and cleaning had been left to him; a feat he’d taken up happily.

He smiled when he saw you, the corners of his mouth turning up only the slightest bit in formal greeting.

“Hello, Mr Jeong.” You bowed, though not the full ninety degrees, before walking past, jostled on by an older woman who clearly moved with more purpose than you did. “Oh—!”

Jaehyun’s coworker gave him a curious glance, subconsciously loading his mother’s groceries into a bag she held open for him. “Who’s that?”

“My neighbour,” said Jaehyun, hands itching to reach into his back pocket for a smoke. “We moved in on the same day a few weeks ago.”

This happened quite a few times—yours and Jaehyun’s paths crossing. It wasn’t uncommon of you to walk past one another on your ways to and from work, or on the morning walks you took on your days off. You’d always walk past, nodding politely, before completely forgetting of one another the moment you weren’t in each other’s sight anymore.

It happened again while you were on your way home from work one evening, walking up the stairs with your cardigan shrugged loosely over your shoulders. Your ears perked up as a second set of steps joined you, and you turned to see your neighbour just a few steps behind you. As if by natural instinct, your face split into a smile—one which was returned happily by Jaehyun.

“How was work?” he asked, only picking up his pace so that he could be level with you.

“Oh, as interesting as a receptionist’s job can be,” you chuckled. “My most important chore today was making coffee for my boss. Yours?”

“Mm. Stressful.” Jaehyun shook his head, sighing. “There’s tons of drama at the firm; someone embezzled billions of wons that were supposed to go into the workers’ bonuses at the end of the year.”

You gasped softly. “Really? That’s horrible!”

Jaehyun chuckled. “What’s worse, it was my boss.”

Rounding the corner that lead to your flats, you and Jaehyun bid one another a hushed good night, locking open your front doors in harmony.

Stepping into your flat, you frowned to see that the door had been previously unlocked. You could’ve sworn that you’d locked it before you went to work that morning, and double-checked it before finally leaving. Gaze flitting over your home, you saw that everything was untouched; the paintings that adorned the four walls of your living room were not a centimetre off centre, the carpets and candles and paper lanterns were in each and every one of their designated places. Every single bit and bob was in its place.

…Save for the throw pillows on your couch, which had previously been delicately arranged into a perfect little pyramid, that now sat in disarray, as if someone had taken a seat and left the couch in a mess.

Stalking down the hall that lead to your bedroom, you saw that the bed had been unmade, as well. Something that you, ever the stickler for a clean home, did not make a habit of.

Your husband popped his head out of the en suite bathroom, running a comb through his slicked back hair. “My lovely wife,” he greeted, and you smiled. You’d forgotten that he’d returned from his trip a few hours ago, and would of course make himself at home once he got back. Pressing a chaste kiss to your cheek, he asked, “How was your day? Did anything interesting happen?”

“No, my love. Nothing of note,” you replied. “I’m sorry that I couldn’t greet you properly. If I’d have remembered that you’d be back today, I’d have prepared a homecoming feast for you!”

Mr Kim tutted. “Hush, that’s not necessary. We can go out tonight! I hear there’s a very good restaurant just down the street.” He patted your shoulders encouragingly when he didn’t receive an immediate response. “Come on, let’s treat ourselves, no? We never do.”

You nodded, slowly coming around to the idea. It wasn’t often that you and your husband ate out, much less together. “I don’t think that’s a bad idea, actually,” you said. “I just need to get ready; I’m in no position to go out looking like this!” you said, gesturing to your perfectly adequate outfit as if you were wearing rags.

“Ah, you women and your clothes,” he sighed, but didn’t protest. “I’ll be waiting by the door; don’t take too long, now!” he added, on his way to the bright red phone that hung on your kitchen wall.

You sat in the corner of the restaurant, in a booth rather secluded from the rest of the people inside. The lights were low, warm on your skin as you took your seats, evenly opening your menus as a waiter drifted by and took your orders. Lively music floated through the air, accompanying the sounds of several conversations, acting as a foreground to all the talk that threatened to take your attention off of your husband.

He wasn’t looking at you, his attention rather focused on the soju in front of him. He’d allowed for you to share a bottle, something that he did rarely. He didn’t like you drinking too much, so you never really asked, rather waited for him to offer. When he wasn’t focused on making himself seem presentable, you could see the stress flitting across his face—a frown marring his dark brows, his pink lips quirked downward in an unhappy fashion. You wondered whether you should enquire, whether you should ask your husband what bothered him so.

“My love,” you started. “What’s the matter? You’ve barely spoken a word the entire evening.” Because for Mr Kim, the entertainer, the observational comic, that was something highly out of the ordinary.

He hummed in a disintered sort of resignation, as if he couldn’t will himself to listen to you. “Mm? Oh, it’s nothing, my wife, really. Work has just been stressful these past months, and with the move…”

It’s just been even more difficult. You knew. Even for you, ever the quietly resilient soul, the change had been a force to reckon with. You didn’t even want to know how Mr Kim, who worked twice the hours you did, took it.

You reached across the table, taking his hand, turning his ring over in your hold. “Is there anything I could do to make it better, my love?”

He sighed softly, shaking his head. “No. There’s nothing you can do,” he said, and you felt the earlier hope you’d had for his mood to pick up vanish.

Before you could say more, a call of your name prompted you to pick up your head, opening your eyes to a scene outside of your booth. It was Jeong Jaehyun, with his wife hanging on his arm as if she were some prized trophy, his hand securely on her hip. If only your husband could hold you like that. For a fleeting moment you had the seething thought, before you got over your momentary ungratefulness and smiled at the sight of your neighbour.

“What a coincidence to see you here!” you said, offering him a polite smile. You could see your husband look up, though you missed the recognition flashing across his face as he glanced at the couple. “My husband and I decided we’d treat ourselves tonight, in honour of his return.”

“Funny you should say that,” Jaehyun said. “Mrs Park and I had the exact same idea. Didn’t we, dove?”

At that question, Jaehyun’s wife finally looked at you, eyes having been trained somewhere else, and nodded.

Dove. A fitting nickname for a woman so beautiful, you had to admit. With flowing black hair nearly reaching her slender hips, and a cherub-like visage, you clearly understood why Jaehyun had married her. Even looking through the eyes of a happily married woman, you could see Mrs Park’s appeal.

“Oh, certainly,” she replied, and her voice flowed like honey when she did. “I’ve just come back from a business trip to Japan, and my husband insisted that we eat out tonight to celebrate my return. A silly thing, really, but I accepted nonetheless.” At that, she bumped her hip with his, and he chuckled.

“W-well, why don’t you two come sit with us?” Scooching closer to you, your husband gestured at the booth space opposite you that he’d occupied until that moment, inviting your neighbours to join you. Your cheeks flushed at the sudden proximity, and you had to hold in a smile at how close your husband was sitting to you; closer than he’d been in a long time.

“You don’t mind, do you, dear?” he asked, turning to your for confirmation. When you shook your head, Jaehyun and his wife shared a look, before taking seats opposite you.

That’s how you ended up ordering for the table, each of you picking a dish and sharing it with one another. Yours and Jaehyun’s spouses got to talking, and that’s when you realised that they’d had more in common than you’d anticipated.

Where you thought you’d be able to bond with Mrs Park over books or films, she had long-lasting conversations with your husband about the current political state of the country, about cars, and other such things. You assumed, since both of them were working at car companies, that that’s what prompted the connection.

You had to admit, it was nice, not having to carry the conversation. And the joint orders were a change from your usual routine of separate plates, though you knew that was just because your husband didn’t like to share his food, and your taste was not his.

At some point during the night, Jaehyun’s gaze drifted to you, taking in your reserved posture. It was an almost cinematic comparison; your husband, bathed in the booth’s light as he passionately discussed complex political matters with Mrs Park, and you, half in the shadow, half in the light, smiling in a gloomy manner, offering limited additions where you could.

“I started reading Much Ado About Nothing.”

Snapping your head up to meet Jaehyun’s gaze, your mouth formed an enquisitive line in silent question.

“I saw a copy of it, that day the movers accidentally switched our books,” he elaborated. He spoke softly, in a way that made it certain only you could hear him. A shrug. “I was intrigued, and went out and bought a copy. It’s good. Funny.”

You blinked. Once. Twice. “Do you… usually read foreign books?”

He exhaled through his nose, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. Not a laugh, necessarily, but a sure show of amusement. “No, I don’t. In fact, I don’t read much at all, outside of comic books. But my curiosity got the best of me, and I bought a real book for once.”

“I’m sure comic books are real books,” you said, though you couldn’t help the warm feeling that bloomed in your chest. “Are you, er, enjoying it, so far?”

He nodded. “Very much. Romance books have never particularly interested me, but this one in particular is especially entertaining. I like the way the characters all interact; they’re all a bit ridiculous, in the best way.” He paused, then added, “I feel books should be a bit ridiculous, every now and then.”

Almost poetically, just as you were about to speak, the second orders of food came, and you were all roused from your respective conversations. The dinner continued in a amiable fashion, given the inherent common ground your age and relationships bade you. The night didn’t last long, however, for words murmured over shot glasses and through mouthfuls of each other’s food could only keep you in your seat for so long. You all had work in the morning, and couldn’t abandon routine on account of one nights’ spontaneity. Though, you had to admit that the change of scene was nice. You’d grown tired of packing away dinners and going to bed alone because your husband was away, or working late.

After a considerable amount of bickering, your husband and Jaehyun decided to split the bill between them, and you were on your way home for the second time that day. You bid each other good night, each of you retreating into your own flats as they sat next to each other, kicking off your shoes and sliding under your covers.

Unbeknownst to you as you happily retreated into your bed, dressed in the softest silk pyjama set, a gift sat on your bedside table, wrapped in expensive paper. A perfume, probably, that your husband had bought while he was in Japan. He always did that: bought you little things, souvenirs and gifts from places he’d travelled to. Handbags from Hong Kong, shoes from Singapore, and perfume from Japan.

Your boss’ office was an extremely uninteresting place. He had never had quite the decorative eye you had, so his walls lay bare, and every item was just a darker or lighter shade of the same colour. It was only your desk that brought some life into the place, with your few action figures and personal books stacked up on top of one another, and the several coloured pens that lay the desk full.

The room was brought alive by the familiar clicks and clacks of your typewriter as you typed up a document your boss had requested, as well as the frequent riiip! as you removed a paper from the typewriter, adding it to the stack you’d accumulated since the beginning of your shift.

When the phone rang, you glanced up at your boss, who seemed to be preoccupied with something else. He waved you off, indicating that you should get it. Standing up, you took the green device into your hold, keeping it to your ears. “Hwang Hyunjung’s office, how may I help you?”

“My wife,” came the voice of your husband. “I’m here at a mall in Tokyo, and I’m wondering which scent I should get for you. Floral, or fruity?”

You chuckled softly. “You know me well, my love.”

“Ah. Floral.”

No. Oriental. “Correct, my love. Is that all?”

“That’s all. I wouldn’t want to interrupt your important work. Bye-bye, now!”

“Goodbye, my love.”

Click.

“Who was that?” Mr Hwang asked as you took your seat again, going right back to typing up the document. “Your husband, I hope. It would be odd for anyone else to call you while you were at work.”

You exhaled, smiling. “Of course it was, Mr Hwang. No one else is that important to me.”

In an office surprisingly close to your own, Jaehyun was finishing up the last of the day’s work, having been occupied with a particularly harrowing case for the past month. After his boss’ money laundering was brought to light, he’d had to take over half of the workload that the old man had left behind, and the rest of the office were left to pick up the pieces.

One of Jaehyun’s coworkers, Sicheng, sighed, plopping down into the seat next to his as he entered the break room, eagerly clicking on a cigarette he balanced between his lips. “I feel like dissolving into a pool of tears.”

Jaehyun chuckled, though it was not without its thinly veiled hysteria. He was on the edge of insanity, but had to hold it together for the rest of the firm’s sakes. When you were a higher up in an institution like this, your own emotions didn’t matter in the least. “You’re not the only one, Win.”

Setting down the documents he’d collected from the rest of the lawyers, Jaehyun added, “I’m thinking of calling it a day. It’s…” Sighing, he lifted up his sleeve to reveal his watch—a gift from Mrs Park. “…It’s after nine. Too late to be able to get anything else done. Go tell the rest of the office; quitting time.”

Sicheng nodded dutifully, sighing a small sigh and squaring his shoulders, taking a drag of his cigarette before walking back to the offices to alert everyone that the day was over. Jaehyun collected his own blazer and briefcase, and soon enough, he was making his way down the stairs of the firm, several of his employees following. Dongyoung, one of his senior colleagues, had invited him to after-work drinks, but Jaehyun declined on account of a made-up headache.

As he made his way through the deserted city streets, his fingers itched to reach for a cigarette. His lips longed for something to wrap around, something to breathe in.

The light tips and taps of heels clicking against the ground caught his attention as he rounded the corner to the apartment building, and he saw you start to take the stairs one and a time, a cardigan hung loosely off your shoulders. He smiled slightly at the familiar sight, having grown used to seeing you on his way back home from work.

You only noticed him when he caught up to you, smiling in greeting at your neighbour. “Mr Jeong. What a coincidence seeing you here,” you joked, and he wanted to laugh at the way your lips curled into a self-satisfied smile at your own quip.

“Truly,” he said.

“For how long is your husband away this time, you said?”

Resisting a carnal urge to sigh, you placed down another card in front of you. “Two weeks, Mrs Hong, doing business in Shanghai.”

The old woman’s eyes widened, surprised both by the time you’d given her and the fact that you hadn’t celebrated your second win in a row. “Well, that’s an awfully long time to spend away from your wife, isn’t it? Doesn’t he miss you?”

You smiled. “Of course he does. But he calls me every day, before work to tell me good morning, and before bed to tell me good night. And he sends me gifts! Plenty of gifts.”

“Oh, don’t think I haven’t seen your new shoes, Mrs Kim!” your landlady jested, and you chuckled. “But that doesn’t take away from the fact that he’s away often. When will you ever get time to have children?”

You froze, caught off guard by the nature of the question. Even a month later, you hadn’t spoken to your husband of children. Of course you hadn’t—you were both too busy to even be intimate for pleasure, now you’d have to do so for purpose? The idea itself seemed foreign to you, foreign as the glyphs that stared back at you when you tried to read one of your husband’s books.

Smiling in discomfort, you shook your head. “That’s none of our concern these days, Mrs Hong. We have more important things to do than worry about babies. Times are changing, you know? Couples are waiting before they have them.”

You could tell the old woman wanted to say more, but she kept her mouth shut, simply sighing and continuing with the game as if she hadn’t already noticed you win.

Next door, Jaehyun was faced with a similar affliction; that affliction being his landlady probing about his personal life while absolutely destroying him at cards.

“So, where is your beautiful wife off to this time?” Mrs Lee asked, placing a card down. There was a vicious sort of curiosity in her eyes, and he knew she knew the effect it had on him.

“China, Mrs Lee,” Jaehyun sighed. “For two weeks.” She hadn’t said specifically where in China she’d be doing business, but Jaehyun trusted her enough to believe whatever she told him. After all, she was his dove. She never lied.

“How odd,” the old woman commented. “You know, back in my day, only the husband was allowed to work. His wife was to stay home and raise their children.” She quirked a brow. “Do you two have any children yet?”

This is not the kind of question you’d like to be asked just as you’re taking a sip of coffee. Jaehyun realised this as, when she posed her question, his brain seemed to have short-circuited, and so did his ability to swallow. Mrs Lee chuckled, thoroughly amused by the young man’s surprise.

“No,” Jaehyun said eventually, still half-choking. “Not yet.”

Children weren’t in the Jeongs five year plan, as far as the couple had discussed. Mrs Park eagerly wanted to work and make as much money as she can, while Jaehyun himself was more focused on climbing higher in the firm’s hierarchy. He’d always wanted children, and had been keen on them until he met his wife. She wanted to wait, she said, and he respected her decision. After all, who was he to demand such a thing as pregnancy of his wife when he merely had a bout of baby fever?

The man tried for a smile, setting down a card. “We’re waiting for a bit. Mrs Park wants to work for a bit longer, and I won’t deprive her of that pleasure.”

Self-consciously wiping at some of the coffee that had dribbled down his chin, Jaehyun wondered what his wife was currently doing. And, hearing the cackling laughter from next door, he was wondering if you’d been caught in the same predicament as him.

The day had been positively chaotic. After running through several meetings with the Chinese businessmen, Mr Kim was left to complete all the work that his colleagues couldn’t finish. It had been a tiring week, to say the least, and now he had another wild day to put behind him.

Bright lights shone overhead as Mr Kim made his way through the hallway leading to his hotel room, sighing with great fatigue. He fumbled for his keys, before the great crimson door opened on its own. His ears perked up at the sound, and he lightly pushed the door open, having a slight suspicion as to who was already in his room.

True to her words, Mrs Park was waiting for Mr Kim in the kitchen of his hotel suite, sitting with her legs coyly crossed over one another on top of the kitchen counter. She looked the picture of beauty, with her blue-black hair neatly done into a bun, and her face made up with the prettiest colours, her lips painted a daring red. You never wore red, too afraid to stand out and be seen. Mr Kim liked red.

“Hello, handsome,” she greeted, slinging her arms over his shoulders as he neared, scooping her up into his arms.

“Evening, beautiful,” he smiled, pressing a kiss to her lips, before pulling away with a smear of red staining his face. “Where shall we go tonight, hm? I feel like going out. Maybe we can go to that new restaurant down the street, share an order.”

Mrs Park rolled her eyes. “You always want to go out and share food. It’s ridiculous. Who’s paying for all of this?”

Mr Kim smiled. “Me. Always me, gorgeous.”

It had been going on for six months, the affair. They weren’t sure precisely when or how, but it blossomed long before they moved into the same apartment building. They’d met a year ago, working at the same car company, and could only make it as colleagues for six months before that grew into something more. Aside from surface level attraction, they claimed, they were drawn to one another not only because of similar interests, but because of like boredom with their respective spouses.

It wasn’t that they were bad, or abusive, or even all that uninteresting.

There was just something that Mr Kim and Mrs Park saw in each other that they couldn’t ever think to see in you or Jaehyun.

“When do you plan on telling her?” Mrs Park asked, hours after they’d gone out and enjoyed a passionate night in each other’s arms, now lain next to her secret lover as he rested next to her. He turned to her with a quirked brow. “Your wife, I mean.”

He sighed, the deep sigh of a man who did not wish to explain himself at present. “I don’t know. When do you plan on telling him? Your husband.”

She stilled, crossing her arms over her bare chest as she thought. “I don’t know.”

“Okay, okay. How about this? What was the most difficult thing to get used to when you moved to Korea?”

You frowned, brows creasing in thought. You chewed thoughtfully on your food, hands curling around your cup of tea. “Probably the people,” you decided, to which Jaehyun quirked a brow. “Koreans are very loud compared to the people in my home country.”

“I can’t relate,” he said, shaking his head. “I’ve been in America before, for work, and people are exactly the same there as they are here.” He chuckled. “I can only wonder how peaceful your country is.”

The tea house was busy, bustling with people moving in and out of the dark, comfortably decorated building. You and your neighbour sat on either side of a small table, legs crossed as you discussed a variety of things as they crossed your minds. It had been a chance encounter, with Jaehyun inviting you to sit down with him when he saw you come in to pick up an order you’d placed at home.

It had also been somewhat of an awkward encounter, considering that Jaehyun must’ve been the first man you spoke to alone since you’d gotten married. You wondered how his wife would feel if she knew of it, or how your own husband would feel if he knew of it. But they were both away, gone overseas on business, only to return in the near future.

You enjoyed his conversation, however. He was a rather engaging person to talk to, and someone who you could consider a friendly acquaintance. You didn’t have many of those, real friends even less.

You hummed, placing the rounded cup down onto the table. “Have you finished the book yet?” you asked, meekly posing the question as a nonchalant enquiry.

Jaehyun smiled easily. “I have, actually. It was one of the best books I’ve read in a while. Do you know of anything else like it?”

You shook your head. “I don’t think I’ve ever read a book quite like Much Ado. It’s one of a kind, I’m afraid.”

Your neighbour tsked, pouting in disappointment. “Cripes, I’d have loved to read another book like it. The inherent silliness of it all really is captivating. Now I suppose I’m left to entertain myself while I’m at the office.”

You raised a brow. “What, and not work?”

“Of course not,” he quipped, and he flashed a smile that would’ve made any other woman’s knees buckle. But not you. You had your own husband, whom you loved, and admired, and couldn’t wait to see again.

A beat of silence followed, with you suddenly growing conscious as to how wide your smile actually was. You tapered it, got your emotions under control. Here you were, grinning like a schoolgirl while in conversation with a man who wasn’t even a friend, much less something more.

Jaehyun himself seemed pensive, eyes glazing over under his obsidian-rimmed glasses. “Where does your husband work, again?” he asked, lifting his head to look in your eyes.

You paused, unsure of why exactly he was asking. “At a transport company that foresees cars for overseas businessmen when they travel. Why do you ask?”

He shook his head. “No reason. He… travels a lot, right?”

You nodded. “He’s in Shanghai this week.”

Jaehyun nodded slowly, seemingly taking in information that you were not privy to. “Your wife travels a lot as well, doesn’t she?” you asked, needlessly.

“Yes,” Jaehyun said softly. “She’s currently working in China.”

After that interaction, your meetings with Jaehyun grew scarce. It’s never as if they hadn’t been, of course. He was only your neighbour. You passed him a few times in the marketplace, though you seemed to miss him whenever you walked to work in the morning or walked home at night. Perhaps his hours had changed, you reasoned. You heard from plenty of your husband’s colleagues that their hours could change whenever their boss decided it should.

Speaking of, your husband was back from overseas, finally staying at home for the month. You got to see him when you woke up in the morning, and you got to fall asleep next to him each night. For a moment, it felt as if he were growing close to you again, but only then did you realise how far he’d grown from you.

He’d made himself scarce since he’d come home, keeping to his work when he was at home. He took his meals in your bedroom, where his desk was, and only switched his light off when you decided to go to bed. Each morning that you went to work, when he’d be getting ready to go as well, would only be able to offer you a distracted kiss on the cheek before running off, briefcase in hand.

Over the course of the next few weeks, you wondered when this rift had started to form. You were twenty four, now, Mr Kim twenty eight. You’d been married for three years, since you were twenty one and he was twenty five, and during all that time, you’d never felt more estranged from your own husband than now. He’d always shared stories with you when he came home from work, and always talked your ear off if he was overseas for the week. He kissed you dizzy whenever he got the chance, and, as indelicate as it may have sounded coming from your mouth, intimacy was a frequent activity you delighted in. You shared food, lay down in each other’s arms anywhere possible, and spent every waking moment together.

Now, you could barely get three words from his mouth when he was at home, and he only called when he wanted to buy you the same gifts you already had six of. His kisses were rare and chaste, and that in and of itself made any further intimacy impossible. His food was his own, his space was his own, and his time was his own. It was as if you were simply flatmates who happened to share a bed and a contract legally binding you together.

Yet, you didn’t say a word to let him know you’d caught on to his distance. Mostly because you didn’t know what to do with that information further. What would you do, if you told him, made it known that you could feel him disappearing from your life like sand falling through an open, eager hand? Would you confront him? Leave him? No, you couldn’t do that. There was too much at stake if you even tried.

So, what better could you do than let your thoughts run wild, let them consume your very being as each and every notion grew darker and darker and your hope grew smaller and smaller?

You studied the typewriter in front of you, looking at how your fingers trembled as they rested on the keys. The diamond on your wedding ring glinted tauntingly in the low light of your boss’ office, and Jaehyun’s voice rang through your head.

“Where does your husband work, again? He… travels a lot, right?”

“He’s in Shanghai this week. Your wife travels a lot as well, doesn’t she?”

“Yes. She’s currently working in China.”

The phone chord curled around your finger as you picked it up, holding it to your ear as you punched in the number of Mr Kim’s office. It was picked up on the third ring, the line humming to life.

“Mr Kim’s office, how may I help you?” asked the voice of your husband’s colleague and deskmate, Youngho.

“Oh, evening, Youngho-ssi,” you smiled, hands trembling. “Is— is my husband nearby, by any chance?”

On the other end of the line, Youngho frowned. Kim had left earlier than usual, saying he was on his way home, while his wife was clearly still at work. “No. He left about an hour ago, Mrs Kim.”

You chuckled, grip around the phone tightening. “Oh, right! Silly me. I forgot he was going home earlier to rest today. Thank you, regardless, Youngho. Good night.” You slammed the phone back into place before the older man could answer, and covered your mouth in an attempt to catch the words at the tip of your tongue; Mr Hwang was still at his desk a few metres away.

“May I go home?” you requested, not looking at your boss.

He didn’t look up from his papers, brows raised. “I don’t see why not. There’s nothing more you can do for me today.” He chuckled. “You’re relieved of your duty for today, Mrs Kim.”

You nodded, smiling stiffly as you slung your handbag over your shoulder, briskly walking out of the office.

𝟑시간 전

𝐓𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞 𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬 𝐚𝐠𝐨

Jaehyun yawned, stretching his arms far above his head. His spine released a cathartic crack! and he sighed in relief. It was nearing sundown, and he had a particularly productive day under the belt. Sicheng was only a few desks away, floating on the same cloud as his colleague.

Standing up, Jaehyun waltzed over to the office phone, and dialled Mrs Park’s office number. She picked up on the third ring, singing, “I hope this is my love calling~”

Jaehyun chuckled. “What’s got you in such a good mood?”

Mrs Park straightened in her seat. “N-nothing, dear. I’m just… excited to hear from you. It’s been such a long day, and it’s only going to get longer for me.”

“No, have they got you working overtime again?” he gasped.

Mrs Park sighed. “Unfortunately, yes. I can’t make it to dinner tonight. We’ll have to reschedule that booking you made.”

Jaehyun pouted, frowning in disbelief. It’s almost as if ever since she came back from China, her workload had tripled. Every other night she was working late, or having drinks with colleagues after her shift. Never did she have time for him. But, he said nothing. If his wife wanted to work, he’d let her work without complaints. After all, he wasn’t a dependent toddler. He was a grown man, twenty eight and counting!

“Alright, my love,” he said. “Will I at least see you tonight?”

“Of course, my husband,” she assured warmly.

“Okay. Remember to take breaks,” Jaehyun said. “Goodbye. I love you.”

“Goodbye, Jaehyun.”

𝟏시간 전

𝐎𝐧𝐞 𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐚𝐠𝐨

Frowning, Jaehyun’s impatience only grew with each second that passed as he waited for Mrs Park to pick up. It had been two hours since the last time they spoke, and he just wanted to let her know that he’d also be working late tonight, and that she shouldn’t lock the door when she got home.

“Where is she?” he muttered. He checked his watch. Only half past eight. Was she in the middle of a meeting, or an errand, or what?

After the tenth ring, the phone clicked, and the line hummed to life.

“Kia Motors, may I help you?” answered the voice of Mrs Park’s colleague, Park Sooyoung.

“Evening, Sooyoung-nim,” Jaehyun smiled. “Is my wife nearby? I spoke to her a few hours ago, and she said she’d be working overtime. I just have a message to relay to her.”

The woman hesitated, frowning at his sentiment. “Apologies, Jaehyun-ssi, but Mrs Park left two and a half hours ago. She asked to go home earlier today; I thought she’d tell you that.”

Silence.

Jaehyun’s eyes widened beneath his glasses, his breath growing shallow. His fingers, which had been drumming absently on his desk, were now balled into a fist that waited to meet the hard surface of a desk. “Oh.” He exhaled, inhaled, working on his jaw all the while. “Right. Sorry. I must’ve forgot. Thank you, anyway, Sooyoung-nim. Have a nice night.”

The line died abruptly before the younger woman could return his farewell.

You could hear voices next door.

After rushing home, you returned to find your flat empty. Bed made perfectly, couch untouched, and the food you’d prepared that morning gathering flies. Food you’d prepared for Mr Kim—your husband.

You wrung your hands, trying to figure out where he could be. Maybe he was just out with friends, colleagues, and didn’t feel it was important enough to mention to you. But Youngho had still been at the office, and as far as you knew, the two were thick as thieves. They always went out together. While you thought, and paced, you could faintly hear voices from the conjoined wall behind you. You hadn’t seen Jaehyun on your way home, so perhaps he’d returned home earlier. You couldn’t make out exactly who the voices were, but you could discern one female voice and another male voice. It had to be Jaehyun, or a brother, or a father, or…

…Maybe you were just imagining it. You’d been working longer hours these days, getting less sleep. And you were getting close to your monthlies. Perhaps you were just overworked and exhausted and hormonal and were imagining there being more than one voice. Maybe Mrs Park enjoyed having conversations with herself—a pastime you’d adopted as well.

Sighing, you steeled your nerves and marched to the front door of the Jeongs flat. Someone laughed, a woman, and you raised your hand to knock. When you did, the voices died out, and you could hear hurried footsteps to the door. The moment you saw Mrs Park, your heart fell to your stomach.

Messy hair, her lipstick smeared as if someone had tried to kiss it off of her. There was a glow about her, one that you hadn’t seen in yourself for almost a year.

“Sorry to bother you, Mrs Park.” Your voice came out weak, and you sounded far away in your own ears. “I just heard a commotion, and I wanted to know if you were alright.”

The older woman chuckled, nodding as she tucked a strand of black hair behind her ear. One of her earrings was missing, too, probably lost in the sheets of her bed.

“No worries, Mrs Kim,” she assured. The name Kim sounded too familiar in her mouth for your comfort. “It’s just me here.”

You nodded, giving her a warm smile before going back into your own flat, and you heard your door shut behind you, though you couldn’t remember closing it.

Steam fogged up the mirrors and windows in your bathroom, made your vision clouded and hot. Boiling water cascaded down your back, warming your spine, and you scrubbed at your skin until it was raw. The sound of the shower running was enough to drown out the pathetic sobs that racked your body, was enough to silence the hushed whispers that echoed from next door.

You weren’t sure who told you, but someone once said to you that when things get difficult in your personal life, work offers a type of asylum that no human could bid you. The following month, that was your experience.

Nights spent helping Mr Hwang at the office had become your new favourite thing to do, considering the fact that your husband always had to work late. You went to work as early as you were allowed to, before your husband woke up, and you came back only hours after he fell asleep.

You took your meals at work, took your calls at work, and bought groceries during your breaks and stored them in the office fridge until you got home. The only time you were doing something besides sleeping or bathing at home was when you made your husband lunch, placed it neatly in the fridge with a simple note.

내 사랑. My love.

As predicted, your husband didn’t notice the change, too caught up in his own life to really care. Perhaps he was under the impression that you were working harder because you wanted a promotion, unaware that it was impossible for you to be granted such a pleasure. Your neighbour was in a similar predicament, of which you wouldn’t know, because he hadn’t spoken to you since you sat down together at the tea house.

Almost as if spurred on by the mere thought of him in your pretty head, Jaehyun called you that night, at the office. You frowned when you answered, and heard his voice respond.

“Do you want to get coffee sometime?”

You paused, waiting for him to elaborate. When he didn’t, you asked, “Right now?”

“…Yes. Why not?”

Inclining your head, you weighed your options. You’d worked overtime the entire week now, and Mr Hwang was starting to get worried. You didn’t want to raise so much suspicion that he’d make a call home and ask your husband anything, so maybe working less hours tonight would do you good. Besides, it’s been a while since you actually went out somewhere that wasn’t work or the supermarket.

“Where?” you asked. You heard a sigh of relief on the other side, and found yourself smiling at his antics.

“How about that little diner down the street from your office?” Jaehyun suggested, and it was then that you remembered you only worked a few streets away from one another. “Their coffee is really good, and the seating is better than most diners in the area.”

You accepted, disconnecting the call and packing up your things, telling Mr Hwang that you’d be going home early. Well, technically on time, but that would count as early considering the hours you’d been working.

That’s how you got where you were now—sat across a crimson red booth from Jaehyun, stirring your cooling coffee as it warmed the gold-rimmed mint green cup it had been served in.

Jaehyun looked tired. Still handsome, you admitted. Of course you admitted it, because anyone could see it, even a married woman with a husband just as handsome. But there was something about the way he carried himself, about the circles starting to form under his eyes, about the near bird’s nest that was his hair, that made him look unspeakably tired, more so than any man his age should be. You didn’t know that he was thinking the same, wondering how someone as young as you could look so burnt out, as if your happiness was running thin, as if you needed a shoulder to cry on, arms to fall asleep in.

“I like your shoes,” he commented, bumping his foot with yours.

The action made you freeze, before you realised it was really just a harmful gesture. “Thanks,” you smiled. “My husband got them for me when he was in Singapore a few months ago. I’ve got a few more pairs in different colours.”

He hummed. “Do you know which store he got them from? You always look so put-together and chic wearing them. I want to buy a pair for my wife.”

“Mm, I’m not sure,” you said. “I’ll ask my husband. Do you know what size your wife wears?”

He scoffed softly. “Only a bad husband wouldn’t. She’s a size six.”

Nodding, you said, “I’ll ask him to pick up two pairs for me next time he goes, so that I could give your wife the second. It’s great that we’re the same size.”

A beat of silence followed, before you softly said, “I like your watch.”

Glancing at the shiny glass surface, Jaehyun nodded in thanks for the compliment. “Thank you. My wife got it for me when she was in Thailand.”

“Do you know which shop she bought it from?” you questioned, taking a sip of your coffee.

Jaehyun shook his head, taking a sip of his own coffee, savouring the bitterness as it seeped into his tastebuds. “M-mm,” he murmured. “But I’ll ask her, and let you know when she comes back to me.”

“It looks familiar, though,” you said, inclining your head. “I think I’ve seen it somewhere.”

Silence.

“My husband has a watch just like that.”

Jaehyun ducked his head, smiling brokenly.

“My wife has a pair of shoes just like yours.”

You sighed softly, falling back in your seat. For someone who’d been very good at being silent and serene for the past month, you were feeling very much like crying as hard as you did when you first knocked on Mrs Park’s door only to find that she’d been ‘alone’, and your husband was nowhere to be found.

Jaehyun glanced at you from beneath his lenses as the light reflected off of them, plump lips forming an unsure frown. Your brows were furrowed as if you were angry, though he could see the tears forming in your eyes, brimming with emotion. You looked so sad, so hurt, that he wanted nothing more than to reach across the table and take your hand. But, even when Jaehyun didn’t know much about you, he knew you were loyal to your husband, even when the bastard couldn’t even return that loyalty.

“I’ve had my suspicions for a while,” he admitted, finally breaking the silence.

“Since when?” you asked, resting your chin in the palm of your hand as you elbow touched the table. You harshly wiped at your eyes, hoping he hadn’t seen the tears gathering there.

“Since we had dinner together, about six months ago,” he said. “My wife doesn’t talk about cars with just anyone.”

“And my husband doesn’t talk about politics with just anyone,” you added.

Jaehyun smiled. He found himself chuckling, snorting bitterly at the idea of your spouses together. They didn’t even make a bad match, he had to admit. They worked in similar industries, always travelled, and clearly shared more common ground than any of you had thought. You couldn’t help your own morose grin, your head falling into your hands as you shook with silent laughter.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do,” you said eventually, trying to taper your laughter. “I seriously have no idea how to proceed with my life.”

Jaehyun shook his head, clamping a hand over his mouth to silence himself. “Neither do I,” came his muffled voice.

You laughed together for a few moments, in virtual silence, save for the deep breaths you took in between hysterical giggles.

Jaehyun removed his hand from his mouth then, running it through his hair as his eyes widened slowly. He shook his head for a second time, as if still processing the information. Your own attention had gone from the situation to something more present: your coffee. Your painted fingers swirled around the rim, sliding easily along the green porcelain as the man in front of you settled his gaze elsewhere.

The lights above you flickered, and you became aware of the other conversations floating through the air, accompanied by melodious music. You were just every other person in this diner, in your own little world, discussing your own little dilemmas, feeling as if your world would come crashing down at any moment—and no one else in the restaurant would know, or care, just like how you didn’t care about their conversations or the state of their lives.

“We won’t be like them,” he promised, speaking his words of honour into the deafening silence.

You stared at him wordlessly, fingers trembling. “I don’t think we will,” you agreed softly.

The early autumn breeze filtered through your half opened windows, nipping at your thinly covered skin. You rolled onto your side, your hip hitting something soft—a pillow, probably. Your arms ached from the book you held high above your face, tired eyes flitting over the words on the page. Jaehyun chuckled at the sight, seeing how you overexerted yourself with the way your arms shook.

“How’s the book?” he enquired, his own fingers moving deftly across a page as he scrawled down words upon words of melancholy rhapsody.

“Good. The love interest was just introduced,” you said.

Your neighbour quirked a brow. “How do you know it’s the love interest, then?”

“Because the protagonist has been describing his hair for three pages now.”

Jaehyun’s laugh echoed through your small living room, and you nearly shot up from your position to shush him. He gave you a look, rolling his eyes. “I’m just visiting my neighbour for coffee and a chat,” he protested. “If Mrs Hong or Mrs Lee hear me, that’s what they’ll think. They think far too highly of you to assume you’d have me over for obscene reasons.”

You sighed softly, though that was the truth. The average person’s mind was far quicker to draw the conclusion of infidelity when it came to a man hosting a woman in his home, rarely the other way around. You plopped back down onto the couch without another word, going back to your book.

“How’s the song coming along?” you questioned, turning to a page where the protagonist finally moved on to describe her love interest’s eyes.

Jaehyun shrugged. “Alright, I suppose. It’s no Frank Sinatra, but it’s coming along.”

You smiled. “No one besides Frank Sinatra is Frank Sinatra. Don’t beat yourself up about it, Jaehyun-ssi.”

He snorted, before going back to his writing.

“I finished that comic you gave me, by the way,” you added, turning another page. You turned your head, glancing at him from your spot on the couch. “It was good. A bit ridiculous, but I think comics should be ridiculous every now and then.”

“Funny you’d say that,” your neighbour said. “I happen to think so, too.”

Time had passed more quickly than you’d anticipated, and before you knew it, a month had passed since you’d had coffee with Jaehyun that night, since you’d both uttered the words “We won’t be like them.” You supposed it was only natural, then, that you gravitated toward each other after you’d made your promise to one another.

You tilted your head. “Are you hungry?”

Jaehyun looked up, thoughtful. “I could eat.”

“Well… coffee, a chat, and lunch doesn’t sound too suspect, does it?” you asked, already sitting up.

He shook his head, smiling. “I don’t think so, no. Although, I’m biased, given the fact that I’d never say no to free food.”

Only natural that you’d become friends, that you’d fallen back into your previously forgotten routine of running into each other on your way to work or in the marketplace, this time purposely walking together, meeting each other at the crossroads where your two universes met.

“Can you pass the kimchi?” Jaehyun asked, and you dutifully gave him the little bowl of pickled cabbage for him to use. “You know, I think you’ve finally perfected how to grill your meat,” he said, through a mouthful of rice.

You smiled, warmth blossoming in your chest. “Really? I thought maybe this time it wouldn’t come out as good as last, but I’m glad you like my cooking.”

Only natural that you’d find solace in each other, having found one another in identical loneliness…

…Right?

With the inky black sky hanging so high above you, you felt smaller than ever, wrapped in your too-big raincoat, dwarfed by your massive umbrella. Jaehyun was taking long, and you were starting to wonder whether he’d show up at all. Rain was lashing from the heavens, soaking passersby rushing to get home and forming little rivers wherever it fell.

You didn’t lose hope in him, rather leaning against the wall behind you, and waited on the sidewalk that connected your route to work with his. Soon enough, you heard the scuff of dress shoes on the wet pavement, and you looked up to see Jaehyun jogging toward you, holding his blazer over his head.

You quickly ushered him under the umbrella, but not without accidentally taking his eye out as you forgot just how tall he was. “Why didn’t you bring a raincoat?” you asked. “You’ll catch a cold only wearing your suit! The radio said there was ninety percent chance for rain today!”

“Aren’t I a little old to be having my radio on all the time?” Jaehyun sassed, and you had to keep your scoff to yourself. “It’s no matter, anyhow. You would’ve let me under your umbrella regardless, wouldn’t you?”

You didn’t say anything, rather fixing him with a playful glare.

Jaehyun fell into step next to you as you walked uphill, him walking on the outside while you stayed shielded from the cars on the inside. “I talked to my wife today,” he said. You shared a glance, and he continued, “She still doesn’t know that I know, or that you do, for that matter.”

You sighed, staying wilfully silent as you made your way up the street. You could see your apartment building nearby, and waited for the silence to reach Jaehyun so that you could walk on in peace. The older man noticed this, of course. It was hard not to, with the way you looked like you’d rather be listening to rocks falling onto a tin roof than him. So he stayed silent as well, shoving his hands into his pockets as he walked.

The steps leading up to your flats had been housing a steady stream of rainwater, leading Jaehyun to fall back and walk behind you. His hands twitched whenever you seemed like you were going to lose your balance, ready to catch you if you fell, but you never did.

The walk to your homes was filled with a palpable silence, neither of you saying so much as a word. You dug your keys out of your coat pocket, jamming them into the keyhole, turning them as quickly as you could. You weren’t sure if your husband was home yet, but judging from the fact that the door was locked, he’d be working another ‘late night’ tonight.

“I’m really sorry, you know.”

Eyes widening, you turned to the man next to you, giving Jaehyun a surprised glance. He sighed softly, unsure how to proceed.

“I know no one deserves what we got,” was what he settled on. “No one, no matter how uninteresting or unattractive they are, deserves to be cheated on. But I’m specifically sorry for you.” His eyes finally settling on yours, he added, “You don’t deserve to be treated the way your husband is treating you. You deserve better.”

Glancing up at him, you could only muster a weak smile. As much as you didn’t like discussing your spouses’ infidelity, you knew Jaehyun was going through the same things you were. You were the only other person who knew how he felt, what he thought.

“I know,” you said. “So do you.”

Over the course of the next few weeks, your visits with Jaehyun became more and more common. Your husband had left for Singapore, while Mrs Park was off in Europe visiting friends. Jaehyun couldn’t go on account of his work, and neither could you. So, the weeks that your spouses weren’t home were filled with light, friendly conversation that you’d never had before.

It became apparent to you early on in yours and Jaehyun’s friendship that your husband had deprived you of a world you loved every bit of, no matter its faults. He’d never allowed you more than a few words exchanged between his colleagues or his own friends, and that hadn’t gotten you the opportunity to make friends with anyone else, male or female.

Jeong Jaehyun made for stimulating conversation, and for a lovely travel partner. You found out more about him than you’d ever thought you would, and vice versa. You learnt that Jaehyun had wanted kids since he was sixteen, and Jaehyun learnt that you had a passion for painting. He wanted to go to an art museum at least once in his life, and you wanted to go to Paris before you turned thirty.

It was easier to talk to him, you assumed, because he was married as well, and because he was close by. You were both adults, married, albeit to cheaters, and weren’t held back by the societal norms of only needing to discuss certain things rather than whatever you pleased.

He had an odd liking for chicken and beer, and you were a better cook than you let on. He enjoyed Shakespeare in secret, and you appreciated the artwork of the comics he lent you. Your friendship was almost transactional, like that.

“I was thinking of inviting Mr Jeong over for coffee,” you told Mrs Hong, who was nursing her own cup at your dining table. “He’s had some time off these days—”

“Didn’t you hear?” the older woman interrupted. “He’s deathly sick! Came down with a terrible cold a few days ago. I think it’s because he’s been walking to work without an umbrella.”

You stopped, face contorting with worry. He hadn’t told you that he’d gotten sick, nor had you gotten the impression that he was. Then again, he’d made himself scarce this week; now you knew why.

“Oh, no,” you murmured, taking a seat opposite your landlady. “Has he shown any signs of getting better?”

Mrs Hong shook her head. “I brought him some food this morning, but he whined that all he wanted to eat was hotteok.” She chuckled. “He may be twenty eight, but he certainly behaves like a child when he’s sick.”

You hummed. Hotteok. You’d had it before, but you’d never attempted to make it. That would change today, it seemed.

𝟑시간 후

𝐓𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞 𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬 𝐩𝐚𝐬𝐬

It had been a challenge and a half, learning how to make hotteok. You’d taken one of your trusted housewives’ magazines and flipped through it until you found a recipe, and got to work. The first few were less than ideal, some burnt, some lumpy, some… hideously deformed, until you finally got the hang of it. You decided to make a syrup with it, just because Mrs Hong mentioned Jaehyun had wanted something sweet, as grateful as he was for her food.

You stacked them neatly onto a plate, both the pancakes and the syrup, making sure nothing spilled or sudated, before heading next door, knocking lightly on the Jeongs’ front door.

It swung open a moment later, revealing a disheveled Jaehyun. He was bundled in blankets, his hair a mess, and his nose rubbed red and raw. You nearly wanted to coo at the sight, but contained yourself for your dignity’s sake.

Your friend frowned, before breaking into a tired smile. “Afternoon, Mrs Kim,” he greeted, and you wondered how he even mustered up the energy to be jokey when he was on Death’s doorstep.

You held up the plate of pancakes, saying, “I made hotteok.”

Jaehyun’s red-rimmed eyes widened, and his face split into an astonished smile. He snatched it from your grasp, saying, “I’ve been craving these all day. How did you know?”

You shrugged. “I happened to make some this afternoon, and I thought you might like it. Call it a coincidence.”

“You’re late.”

“I told you, I was going to work overtime tonight.”

“I called your office, and your colleague said you’d gone home early.”

Sigh.

“Fine. Do you want to know where I’ve really been?”

“…Yes.”

Silence.

“Mrs Kim?” Your lip started to tremble, and you could feel the tears gathering in your eyes, waiting to roll down your cheeks in a steady flow of overwhelming emotion. “Mrs Kim?”

“I can’t do it,” you choked out. “I can’t do this.”

Jaehyun sighed softly, wrapping his arms around your shoulders. He rested his chin on your head, rubbing comforting circles on your clothed back. “This is just a rehearsal,” he chastised. “What are you going to do when you actually have to confront him, huh? You can’t just burst into tears.”

You sobbed, desperately wrapping your arms around his middle, your head resting in the crook of his neck. His hold was so gentle, softer than you’d ever felt before, as if you were made of glass, as if he was afraid of breaking you. “I’m sorry,” you cried. “I don’t know what I’m going to do when he’s actually standing in front of me. I don’t think I can even do it.”

“Nonsense,” he said. “You can do it.” Letting go of you, Jaehyun took your hands in his in a chaste gesture. “You just don’t have to do it right now. Come on.” He leaned back, giving you some space. “Let’s try with me, okay?”

You nodded. “Okay.”

Jaehyun cleared his throat. “You’ve been very distant lately.”

You sighed, trying to emulate Mrs Park’s sophisticated nonchalance. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“I think you know very well what I mean,” he said.

These rehearsals were odd, sometimes. You weren’t used to acting, much less having someone else act as your spouse and you as theirs, all for the sake of preparing yourselves for a confrontation that might never come. And, much less acting out these situations in a rented hotel room where nothing but conversations happened.

Jaehyun continued, “You’ve been closed off with me recently, and you never used to be. Something’s the matter, dove.”

Dove. It seemed it was a genuine mistake, given your friend’s apologetic expression, and yet, your heart ached nonetheless.

“Sorry,” he said, sheepish.

“It’s okay,” you assured, smiling sadly, before clearing your throat to continue. “Nothing’s the matter. How can it be, when we barely see each other?”

“That’s the problem I’m talking about. You’re avoiding me.”

“Perhaps I simply don’t want to see you every day.”

“But you never see me.”

“…I’ve been having an affair with Mr Kim from next door.”

“For how long?”

You shrugged as Mrs Park. “I don’t know. A year and a half? It’s hard to tell.”

“Do you love him?”

You bit your lip so hard it nearly started bleeding. “Well, I must. After all, there’s only so much physical attraction can do for you.”

Silence.

Jaehyun pursed his lips, opening his arms for you. “Oh, come here,” he said, gently taking you into his hold. Your body shook with sobs as he hummed comfortingly, keeping his arms wrapped around you as you cried into his shoulder.

Everything about this felt so overwhelming, so wrong. You felt filthy, speaking the words your spouses spoke to each other. How did they even make it through a day without collapsing with guilt? Did neither of them think that far, care that much? How was it that they could go behind your backs for nearly a year and a half, yet you felt guilty just accepting a hug from someone else’s husband?

“Shh, shh… it’s okay,” Jaehyun assured. “You’re going to be alright.”

You sniffled, disentangling yourself from his arms. Your posture was deflated, your expression dejected. You felt so tired, wanted nothing more than for all this to be gone. You enjoyed Jaehyun’s company, but you had a husband who you wanted to spend time with, who you wanted to love. It was just…

…Why couldn’t he see it that way? Why did he go anywhere but you for love?

When Jaehyun stared at you, taking in your heartbroken appearance, your tired, sunken eyes, your trembling lip, the tips of his fingers brushing yours, he realised you were never going to leave your husband.

When you opened your door to a brisk knock, smile ready for your friend, you were not expecting to see your landlady in his place, looking very much like she knew something that you didn’t.

“Mrs Kim!” she greeted, and you swore she put an extra emphasis on Kim before she rushed into your flat, a woven basket in hand. “How are you? How’s your husband? Is he well? I hope he is.”

As she whizzed past you, switching on your kettle and taking out cups and coffee powder as if she owned the place, you turned with a quizzical expression, a bit afraid to ask what’s got her so whipped up in a frenzy.

“I’m quite well,” you said. “I’m sure Mr Kim is, too. He’s in Singapore for work, but he hasn’t gotten the opportunity to call me these days.” He’d called you once, to brightly ask which shoes you wanted this time. That was a week ago.

“Oh, that’s lovely.” Mrs Hong smiled, nearly ripping open your fridge for the milk. “You know, I hear of a lot of women travelling with their husbands when they go to work overseas.”

You paused.

“And Singapore is so nice this time of year, or any time of year, really, that I think you should consider becoming one of those wives!” the old woman continued, none the wiser. “Your work here may seem important, but it’s so labourous, and I think you’d just love Singapore. Have I said it was lovely this time of year?”

“Mrs Hong,” you started, struggling to keep the hurt out of your voice, “do you want me gone?”

“What?” She clearly hadn’t expected that straightforward of a question. “No, no, you’re mistaken, Mrs Kim!” she laughed, rushing over to you and taking your shoulders. “No, I don’t want you gone. What a silly thought! I just…” She sighed, looking at you as if you were a lost lamb. “You are lonely here, I think, without your husband to keep you company. And… and I see that you’ve made friends with Mr Jeong from next door, but if you’re not careful—”

“I may fall prey to his charms and become unfaithful,” you guessed, nodding. Of course she did, because to women like Mrs Hong, men besides their husband were merely temptations put there to test them, rather than real, flawed human beings who just may not exist as sexual devices, waiting for you to stray.

You shook your head. “You don’t need to worry, Mrs Hong. Jaehyun-ssi is just a friend to me, and that’s all he ever will be. I love my husband very much, and he loves his wife just as much. There’s nothing to be concerned about.”

Mrs Hong sighed a great, relieved sigh, putting her hand over her heart. “Oh, you’re so strong!” she praised. “It’s good that you and Mr Jeong know not to grow too fond of one another. Goodness knows young people these days don’t have your kind of sense.”

Jaehyun was in love with you.

He wasn’t sure when exactly it happened. Or how, for that matter. It seemed that somewhere between making that pact with you and your last ‘confrontation’, his feelings for you turned from platonic fondness to ardent, passionate love. When he realised that you wouldn’t leave your husband on account of your weakened heart, it hurt him so much more than it should’ve. Why? Because he wanted to be married to you? Or simply because he’d been deprived of intimacy for so long that he was beginning to think like his wife, to go for who’s nearest?

And yet, even as Jaehyun contemplated the possibility of that being a reality, he knew it wasn’t just because he liked the way you looked. He liked everything about you. The way you looked, the way you spoke, the things you spoke of, the way you tried to brush off genuine, thought-out gestures and attempted to remain blasé, the way your hips swayed when you walked, the way you dressed, the way you laughed, the way you cooked, the way you read. Everything you did, Jaehyun found adorable.

He also wasn’t sure how to approach it. He knew that you loved him as well. He knew it. But he also knew that you’d been depriving yourself of so many things—enjoyment, revenge, a goddamn break—and would never, ever think to leave your husband. You were too afraid, because then you’d have to confront him about his affair, which could lead to him leaving you, which meant divorce. Divorce meant spending money that you didn’t have, dividing things that he would probably get the bulk of, all on account of him being a man, and you being a woman.

That’s also partly why he didn’t want to divorce Mrs Park. He didn’t love her the way he used to, clearly she didn’t, either, but he didn’t want to leave her out to dry just because of that. He was a lawyer; if they divorced, he could, and probably would, be able to leave her in the dust, penniless and pitiful. But he didn’t want to.

“We won’t be like them.” Those were the words Jaehyun uttered to you, those were the words you agreed on. You’d only be as bad as them if you left them in the name of revenge, if you started an affair of your own. But by God, it would’ve been a much easier promise to keep if you weren’t so… you.

And Jaehyun loved you.

Thoughts like this running through his mind, Jaehyun was preoccupied the whole day. He barely paid attention at work, rather letting the workload fall back onto his colleagues; he couldn’t eat, and as he was making dinner, he almost burnt the rice because his mind was in a much more important place. He didn’t even notice the door open until he heard the click of it shutting.

The first person that came to mind was you, and Jaehyun internally scolded himself for that. When he turned, he came face to face with the exact opposite.

His wife stood in front of the door, several shopping bags hanging from her slender frame, her suitcase trailing behind her. She was white as a ghost, her usually made up face a mess of mascara smudges and desolate eyes. Her hair seemed a mess, and Jaehyun wondered if this is what he usually looked like when he worked as long as she had.

“My love,” he greeted, pressing a chaste kiss to her cheek and relieving her of her load, taking the shopping bags and setting them down on the kitchen counter. “How was your flight? Not too bad, I hope.”

“No, it was fine,” she smiled, though there was something fickle about it. “Nothing of note.”

Jaehyun was reminded of how you looked before you burst into tears, the way you tried to bite your trembling lip in an attempt to stop an onslaught of hot, messy tears. His wife was doing that exact thing, now. Funny, how you seemed to have become the default. It always used to be her.

He hummed, unconvinced. “Is there something you want to tell me, dove?”

Despite the nickname slipping out earlier in the week, Jaehyun hadn’t called his wife by her special name in a long, long time. He knew it would prompt her to cave; she pitied him that much, at least.

“I…” She swallowed, and reached to grip onto the kitchen counter, as if steeling herself. With a turn, almost an anguished flourish, she settled her gaze on Jaehyun. “I’m pregnant.”

Okay. What the fuck?

Jaehyun’s eyes widened, and he was suddenly made very aware that nothing would’ve prepared him for those words coming from his wife’s mouth. And, what would’ve been a blessing in his life at any other moment, what would’ve made tears of joy spring to his eyes if she’d said it in any other universe, now made his insides churn, now made his mouth run dry with terror.

Mrs Park tried for a smile, opening her arms as she awaited for her husband to embrace her. “It’s a miracle, my darling,” she said, smiling nervously. “Aren’t you… aren’t you happy? We’re going to have a baby!”

Jaehyun, leaned against the dining table, arms crossed over his chest, said, “We haven’t slept together.” It took everything in him not to burst into tears and throw himself out of the nearest window.

She faltered. “Wh-what? No, don’t be ridiculous, honey,” she laughed, her tone becoming frantic now. “We did, just a few weeks ago!”

“You were on your monthlies then,” Jaehyun reminded her, “and that was two months ago. We haven’t slept together at a time where you could’ve fallen pregnant, I made sure of that, because you told me you didn’t want children yet, and you wouldn’t want them for a long while. That’s why we always planned around your fertility window.”

She scoffed, though he could see her starting to panic. “Stop it, Jaehyun. You’re lying. Don’t lie to me. We slept together, and now I’m pregnant. You’re going to be a father.”

He sighed softly. “I’m lying? My wife, look me in the eyes, and tell me, I’m the one who’s lying.”

“I just did!” she cried. “You’re going to be a father. We’re going to be parents, and that’s that.”

“Does he know?” Jaehyun asked.

“Does who know?”

“Your lover.”

Silence had never settled more quickly over two people. Mrs Park shook her head, her teary eyes widening in horror. “No,” she said. “No. I didn’t— I don’t—”

“It’s alright,” he sighed. “I’ve known for a while, now. I mean, all those overseas business trips with the workers from the other transport company? The watches we wear? The shoes you come home with? You don’t think I’ve noticed the similarities, the fact that they’re all identical?” He scoffed, shocked beyond words. “You must’ve thought you’d married an idiot.”

Click. Click. Click.

Smoke clouded Jaehyun’s face as he took a long drag from his cigarette, exhaling deeply, letting the smoke fill his nostrils, overpower his senses in any way they could.

Click. Click. Click.

He didn’t look up when you came down the steps of the apartment building. He guessed you were dressed in more casual clothing, as today was your day off. He then wondered why on Earth he knew that, and reminded himself that you knew him and his schedule just as well.

“Jaehyun-ssi.”

Your voice was soft, agreeable in the same way you were as a person. You reached for his arm, fingers curling around his bicep in your own unique way of greeting. He didn’t like the fact that he could feel your wedding ring digging into his skin, where his sat on his bedside table, long forgotten.

He tried for a smile, grasping your hand. You probably hoped the action was friendly rather than fond, and he couldn’t fault you for it. “Evening,” he said. “You out on a stroll?”

You chuckled. “About as much as you are.” You settled on the wall next to him, your touch leaving his skin cold and wanting for more. You crossed your arms over your chest, and Jaehyun indicated his cigarette. You glanced at it curiously, but accepted it and took an experimental drag.

Coughs racked your body as you immediately handed it back to Jaehyun, who was laughing lightly at the sight. “Sorry,” he said. “I forgot you don’t smoke.”

“And I don’t much feel like trying after that,” you wheezed.

Your friend scoffed. “Oh, come on, don’t be dramatic,” he chided. “It wasn’t that bad. You barely even took a proper drag!”

You shook your head, signalling to the older man that it had been that bad.

A silence enveloped the two of you, calm and welcome. Jaehyun’s cigarette lit a small, red light in front of his eyes, lighting up his face, his tanned skin, his dark hair. You stayed next to him, fingers tapping gently against your own arm, wedding ring burning against your skin. It burnt with the same intensity as your husband’s kisses, scorching you like hellfire. It was not the gentle, pleasurable warmth that you felt when your hands brushed Jaehyun’s, nowhere near as gentle or gladly received. Of course, Mr Kim was none the wiser. Didn’t even know that you’d slipped out of bed to go see someone else, didn’t even know that what he thought were kisses covering up his infidelity made your skin crawl with disgust.

It had been a hard week for Jaehyun to power through, especially without you to fall back on for company. His wife barely ever spoke to him unless they were discussing plans on how to proceed with their relationship, unless they were attempting to keep face in front of the elders’ keen eyes. Nor did you, on account of your husband finally returning from his travels. The man had been attached to your hip since he walked through that door, and it made Jaehyun sick because he knew. Knew what you didn’t. What he didn’t know, however, was that your husband’s presence had been as well-received by you as it had been by him.

“I’m moving into a new flat across town,” Jaehyun spoke into silence. He rubbed at his eyes, as if tired. “I leave at the end of the month.”

Your eyes widened, shocked. Hurt.

“Gongmi and I are getting a divorce,” he added. They hadn’t spoken further after she revealed that she was pregnant, had only agreed that it would be best for Jaehyun to move out, a feat he gladly took up. He shrugged. “Just decided it’s for the best.”

“Oh… Well, I’m happy you found the heart to do it,” you said, because you know you never could. Thinking of having to leave your husband, it made you so afraid. What would you do, if you didn’t have him?

Jaehyun chuckled with the same kind of bitterness as that day he realised Gongmi was cheating on him. As if your mere words caused him immense distress and anger just to hear. He wished you could leave your husband. He wished he could be with you. He wished you could be with him.

“Yeah. Me too. I wish you would, too, but I know you won’t ever leave your husband.”

As of late, you found yourself staring at Jaehyun’s face, analysing his every expression or word, every little laugh he gave, whether it was good or bad, every twitch of his nose, every quirk of his lips. It was the same thing you used to do if you had a crush on someone as a little girl. You’d look at them for hours on end, memorise every centimetre of their face, and hope they wouldn’t see.

You’d never looked at Kim Myeong like that.

Jaehyun looked hurt, even though you knew he was wearing an expression that tried to cover it up. He looked at you with the softest eyes, as if you held his heart in your hands like a prized possession. You sighed shakily, smiling.

“I didn’t think you’d fall in love with me.”

“I didn’t, either. I was only curious to know how it started. Now I know. Feelings can creep up just like that. I thought I was in control.”

The winter storms came early this year, ripping through the city like a vengeful deity wreaking havoc upon a civilisation who wronged him. The roads grew slick and slippery with ice, and people’s noses turned red from the cold. Layers upon layers were shrugged on to no avail, for the frost always found its way into one’s bones.

Jeong Jaehyun’s new apartment building had better central heating than the previous one had. When he stepped inside the meticulously decorated flat, he could shrug off at least two of the four layers he’d been wearing, could gather in front of his desk with a cup of coffee without needing to wrap himself in a blanket.

It had been two months since he last saw you, spoke to you. You’d returned home that night, wiping tears from your eyes. Jaehyun didn’t follow, too scared he might grasp your arm too hard, too scared his voice may crack with hidden emotion if he tried to utter your beautiful name.

He now sat at his desk, glowering at the bright green phone that hung on his wall, just sitting there and taunting him, egging him on, saying, Go on. Call her.

What would he even say to you? When you parted ways that night, you made your stance clear. You would never leave your husband, you wouldn’t even confront him about his affair.

Speaking of, Jaehyun’s divorce with Gongmi had been swift. Not a clean break, per se, but thanks to Jaehyun’s profession, it took half the time it would’ve if he hadn’t been a lawyer.

Sighing, Jaehyun wondered when she’d actually tell Myeong that she was pregnant. It wasn’t his business in the least to tell anyone, but it was eating away at him, day by day, with every second that passed.

He glanced at the telephone again, before lurching forward, punching in a familiar number.

“Hwang Hyunjung’s office, how may I help you?”

The sound of your voice was enough to stop Jaehyun’s heart in its tracks, picking up pulse as it began to beat erratically. On the other end, you frowned. “Hel—?”

“Hi,” he greeted, breathless.

“…Jaehyun. Why are you calling me at the office?” you enquired lightly. Despite the clipped words, your tone was pleasant, as if you were letting him in on a joke. “I’m working.”

“I just wanted to hear your voice,” he admitted.

God, he was pathetic. Spending his day off thinking of someone else’s wife, writing shoddy songs about her, all while not even being able to face her.

You smiled. “Oh. Then, hi, Jaehyun-ssi.” It had just occurred to you that you hadn’t greeted him properly. “How was your day?”

“It was alright,” he sighed. “I’ve finally finished moving in, and handed in the last of the paperwork to finalise the divorce. How… how have you been?”

Have you left him yet? is more what his question sounded like. You sighed softly, toying with the telephone chord between your fingers. “I’ve been well,” you said.

That was it. No, ‘This and this happened at work,’ no, ‘I finished this book yesterday,’ no, ‘I left my husband and I’m ready to admit that I’m in love with you.’

He exhaled, releasing a frustrated little moan. You were so young, only twenty four, and still you were more adult than Jaehyun had ever been, he thought.

Or were you, truly? you thought. He’d had the heart to leave his wife and move out, completely removing himself from a situation that wouldn’t have done him any good if he’d stayed longer. Perhaps you were afraid, rather than mature, staying with a man who didn’t love you when there was one who did.

Myeong didn’t love you. That, you had to remind yourself of whenever he kissed you, whenever he twirled the bottom of your dress in his fingers. He loved Park Gongmi, Jaehyun’s w— No. Not Jaehyun’s wife. Not anymore. Whenever he had the time, he went out to see her. He still worked late hours. He still went on business trips with her. Still kissed her behind closed doors, still promised to tell you about her sooner rather than later.

You sighed softly, your shoulders slumping. These thoughts, these thoughts running through your head. How would you proceed? You had to think about this logically, yet sometimes the urge to simply pack your bags and run away into Jeong Jaehyun’s arms gripped you like a vice.

“I’m going to Paris,” Jaehyun said promptly, in that same, abrupt, Jaehyun-esque fashion. “Next week.”

The line stayed silent, and he could imagine your expression. He didn’t want to.

“If…” He hesitated, his fingers beginning to tremble. “If I had an extra plane ticket, would you go with me?”

Once again, silence. You shifted unsurely, leaning against the wall of Mr Hwang’s office.

“Jaehyun-ssi…”

Sigh.

“…I know.”

몇 시간이 지났습니다

𝐒𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐥 𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬 𝐩𝐚𝐬𝐬

Winter was in full swing. Several snowstorms a day, slick, slippery pavements coated in frost, your home like a winter wonderland in the worst way possible.

You weren’t exactly sure what you were doing, walking to your crossroads at this hour. Navigating your way through a sea of inky black skies and warm paper lanterns, however, you took the steps two at a time, narrowly missing hitting your head on one of them as you passed. The only lights illuminating the street were the lamps that lined the concrete, the only sounds were cars passing by, each carrying salary workers on their way home.

Several conversations swirling through your head, you rounded a corner, nearly tripping over your own shoes with how fast you were running. “I’ve been meaning to tell you,” Myeong’s desperate voice crackled in your mind like an announcement over an intercom.

“Yet you didn’t,” you’d said evenly. “And you lied to me for a year and a half.” You’d simply shaken your head, waving the older man off. “You don’t love me anymore. Part of me wonders if you ever did… Or if I ever loved you.”

You’d not the slightest as to what could’ve possibly possessed you to act so brashly. Perhaps you’d finally had enough, enough of the lies and the pretending. Perhaps you’d finally come to your senses, realised that a life lived in a lie was not a life worth living. All you knew was that you were running, and Jaehyun was going to Paris next week, and you ran faster the moment you spotted the familiar plume of smoke rising from the crossroads.

Jaehyun wasn’t exactly sure what he was doing, waiting at the crossroads until this hour. After your conversation—could one even call it that?—something strange had possessed him to take a walk, and his legs carried him here. It was as if his body knew nothing else, knew only to wait there, not sure what he was waiting for, until he saw you run around the corner.

You looked as if you’d run several blocks to get here, and he wondered why. You’d have finished up work a few hours before, and should’ve been resting at home currently. Except, of course, you weren’t.

You were here. With Jaehyun.

Your pace slowed to a light stroll, ambling over to him with legs weak and gawky from running. You never had been a runner, not for any man.

Jaehyun said nothing as you approached him, stopping in front of him. He could hear your shallow inhales deepen as you regained your breath, could smell the perfume he’d bought for you in secret and disguised as a thank you gift one night. Oriental, the soft, warm scent of cinnamon and patchouli clinging to your skin. He could see your shoes enter his line of sight, those cute black kitten heels you always wore to work.

He finally looked up at you when he heard you sigh softly, as if readying yourself for a speech; a rant, at the very least.

Yet all you said was,

“I don’t want to go home.”

And that was enough for Jaehyun.

It had been a mess of kisses then, the moment you two stepped foot in his flat, a clash of lips and teeth in the most spectacular way possible. He’d all but ran home with you in his arms, not even waiting for the door to open properly before pressing his lips to yours. His hands were everywhere; in your hair, on your hips, eagerly shrugging off your coat, and then your shirt, whatever he could find.

“Jaehyun-ssi,” you’d breathed, barely grasping onto his shirt before you were enveloped in his arms, his hands circling your waist from behind. His glasses hung low on the bridge of his nose, threatening to fall off if you hadn’t pushed them back into place.

“Yoonoh,” he corrected, softly pressing his lips against your neck. “My name is Yoonoh.”

You could barely speak, could barely even utter the first syllables of his name before he called yours, his warm, strong hands digging into your skin. He reached for your hand, stopping his movements then, as he held it over your shoulder. Your wedding ring was nowhere to be found, and he almost wept with joy. He stayed like that for a moment, drinking in the sound of your breaths mingling, the sight of you from this angle, the feeling of your skin against his.

Yoonoh turned you round in his arms, inhaling the soft scent of your perfume marrying with his, cinnamon and patchouli and myrrh and tonka, clinging to your dewy skin like an invisible halo. He pressed a kiss to your neck, then your forehead, and finally to your lips.

“I love you,” he whispered later that night, your cheek pressed against his bare collarbone, your lips resting in the crook of his neck. “So much.”

You lifted your head, your eyes meeting his. His gorgeous bleary brown eyes, and his wonderful swollen pink lips, and kissed them softly. Your hands deftly threaded through his dark hair; it was longer now, splayed across his pillow like a halo. “I love you, too, Jeong Yoonoh.”

𝟏𝟗𝟔𝟓년 서울

𝐒𝐞𝐨𝐮𝐥, 𝟏𝟗𝟔𝟓

The early spring breeze was light and cool on your skin, blowing through your dress, through your hair and in your face as you lay back on the checkered blanket beneath you, listening to the delightful sound of your daughter’s little laughs as she played a game of tag with her father. It was holiday season for the salaryworkers and students, so you and Yoonoh had plenty of time off to spend with one another.

Jeong Byulyi squealed as her father scooped her up into his arms, trying to wriggle free of his strong grasp to no avail. “Appa!” she whined, pouting that familiar pout she’d inherited from her father. “Lemme go.”

“Mm…” Yoonoh feigned thoughtfulness, making sure to squeeze her tighter as he did. “No. I don’t think I will.”

Contrary to his words, he let Byulyi finally worm herself out of his grasp, running to you instead. “Eomma,” she whined, making sure to drag out the last few syllables. She practically threw herself into your lap, expertly ignoring the way you wheezed at the sudden weight, sighing dramatically. “Appa won’t listen to me.”

You chuckled fondly, twirling a strand of her hair absently. “Appa doesn’t listen to me, either,” you assured. “He’s a pain in the neck sometimes, isn’t he?”

“Mm.”

Scoffing at your antics, Yoonoh plopped down onto the blanket beside you, moving your head into his lap out of instict. His fingers deftly moved over your lips, shushing you. “Don’t listen to Eomma, Byulyi,” he chided in a stage whisper. “If there’s one person I always obey, it’s her.”

“Really?” you asked, widening your eyes in feigned wonder. “Gosh, when were you going to tell me this?”

“Shut up,” he murmured, the fond smile on his face counteracting the nature of his words. “You know I’m loyal as a dog.”

“I know,” you whispered back, hands reaching up to cup his face. “As am I to you.”

Five years you’ve been married to Jeong Yoonoh, been introducing yourself with his name attached, been wearing his ring, been bathed in the perfume he’d gifted you. Four years you’d been the mother of his child, loved her with the same passion as you had him, attending parent-teacher meetings with the man who’d once been nothing more than a friend, a faraway desire.

Five years since you’d divorced Myeong, and he’d started a family of his own. He was happy, too, you assumed. The push he got from you had apparently been the push he needed to stop lying to himself. You were glad he could finally live, be free of you, and you be free of him. The same went for Gongmi; you wished her and her new husband and their child nothing but the best.

Five glorious years you’ve spent with the people most important to you. You couldn’t have asked for a better life, in your opinion, even with the difficulties that had come with attaining it.

Yoonoh dipped down to press a longing kiss to your lips, holding both your hands in his as you rose the slightest to meet him halfway.

Your daughter stuck her tongue out in mock disgust. “Eomma, Appa, gross!” she chided.

Breaking from the kiss with a chuckle, Yoonoh reached for your daughter with a, “Come here, you little pest!” and she squealed with laughter, running into your arms once more.

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xiuriii · 3 months ago

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Notice Me (literally) [ series masterlist ]

The dorm’s bulletin board is supposed to be for normal things—club ads, lost keys, tutoring offers. In reality, it’s a chaotic mix of passive-aggressive complaints, bizarre requests, and way too many badly designed flyers. Somewhere in the mess, connections are made, misunderstandings spiral, and romance sparks.

Seven stories. Seven different ways to accidentally catch feelings. All thanks to a glorified corkboard. taglist here

1. Mark Lee

Mark Lee thinks he’s the next big indie artist. You think he’s the reason you have eye bags. After weeks of listening to his 3 AM guitar sessions through your ceiling, you finally snap and put up a very direct complaint on the bulletin board. He, of course, does not take the hint. Now you have to march up there and personally make him stop—except it turns out Mark might actually be kind of… fun? Annoying, but fun.

Read here !

2. Huang Renjun

Renjun is very specific about his roommate ad: must be clean, quiet, and preferably not insane. He expects a responsible and disciplined guy to respond. Instead, it’s you—desperate, sleep-deprived, and begging to be let in because your current roommate situation is a waking nightmare. Renjun wants to say no, but for some reason, he doesn’t. Too bad he’s about to learn that you come with just as much chaos as the last one.

3. Lee Jeno

Jeno did not sign up to be a cat dad. He left his window open, and now he has a cat. The issue? He’s allergic. In a moment of desperation, he puts up a “co-parent wanted” notice on the bulletin board. You, an avid cat lover with way too much free time, volunteer. Now you and Jeno are stuck in a weird custody arrangement over a very spoiled cat, and somehow, it’s starting to feel a little too domestic.

4. Lee Donghyuck

Donghyuck puts up a note offering to clean dorm rooms for cash—because, apparently, years of surviving Renjun’s impossible cleaning standards have turned him into some kind of neat freak. You hire him out of desperation, expecting a quick fix, but instead, he turns up regularly, making himself very comfortable in your space. Somewhere between his dumb jokes and the way he always seems to know when you need a distraction, you realize your dorm isn’t the only thing that’s a mess.

5. Na Jaemin

The dorms are hosting a door decorating contest, and Jaemin is way too competitive about it. You, unfortunately, live next door and refuse to be outdone. What starts as some casual decorating quickly turns into a full-on battle involving bribery, sabotage, and a very illegal amount of glitter. The rivalry is intense—until someone suggests teaming up. Worst idea ever. Or maybe the best.

6. Zhong Chenle

Chenle finds an old love letter in the dorm printer trash and does the most logical thing: threatens to read it aloud at Movie Night unless the owner steps forward. The problem? It’s your friend’s letter, and they immediately beg you to pretend it’s yours. Now you’re fake confessing to Chenle in front of the entire dorm, and instead of being freaked out, he just seems amused. And suspiciously into it.

7. Park Jisung

Every night, without fail, you wrap up your study session and head to the dorm kitchen—only to be greeted by the unmistakable scent of burnt toast and the haunting sight of a charred bread corpse abandoned in the toaster. After weeks of suffering, you finally snap and leave an extremely passive-aggressive note on the bulletin board demanding that the culprit cleans up their act. Then one night, you finally catch him—Park Jisung, frozen mid-toast like a deer in headlights. Turns out, he’s just really bad at using a toaster. Against all logic, you decide to help him. Big mistake. Because now he keeps showing up, asking dumb questions, burning more bread, and somehow, making your very responsible life just a little more complicated.

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xiuriii · 4 months ago

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[9:43 pm]

(cw: f!reader, Mark is drunk)

"Fuck yeah! Keg stand champion!" You hear someone yell as you make your way into the crowded living room of the NXT frat house.

You hadn't planned on being here tonight. You had some assignments you wanted to get a jump on, you hadn't been in the best mood all day, and you didn't feel like spending your night around a bunch of drunken, bumbling idiots.

So how did you end up here? Your drunk, bumbling boyfriend fratboy!Mark. Well, not him directly. He'd been a little whiny when you told him you weren't going to come to the party tonight, but he understood your reasoning and didn't push. You'd actually gotten a call from Johnny about 20 minutes ago asking you to come help with Mark.

Mark was a lightweight, like a featherweight even. If he even smelled alcohol, he got tipsy. For the most part, during parties, you put yourself in charge of making sure Mark didn't get too drunk. When he got too drunk he got messy. Without you being there, there was no one to be in charge. You should have guessed you'd be getting this call at some point in the night, but not less than an hour after the party began.

You elbow past some drunk party goers and make your way upstairs toward one of the bathrooms that's always off limits during parties. You knock, hearing a muffled, "occupied! Use a bathroom downstairs!"

"Johnny," you reply, "it's me."

You hear a retch and cringe, listening as Johnny pulls the door open. He let's out a sigh of relief, "I'm sorry, he just wouldn't stop crying because he missed you. I don't know how you deal with this. He's fine with you, right?"

"Of course he is. Thanks for calling, enjoy your party," you nod with a smile.

Johnny leaves you and Mark alone in the bathroom and you take to helping Mark out. You rub his back and give him the water bottle Johnny had left on the counter for him. Mark is groaning the whole time, eyes shut as he curls in on himself. After about 15 minutes you know that he's done.

He's slumped against the toilet bowl when you pat his cheek, "come on, babe. Let's get you back to bed."

He doesn't even open his eyes as he whines, "not goin' to my room wi' you."

"We need to get you to bed, babe, come on," you prod.

His eyes snap open as he lifts his head, "Stop callin' me babe. Look, I have a girlfriend alright. She won't be happy if I bring another girl to my room."

"Mark, I am your girlfriend," you explain.

"No, you're not," Mark shakes his head like a child, "my girlfriend didn't wanna come out tonight, and she said— she said she's not comin' tonight." He's looking up at you with tears in his eyes, "I really miss 'er."

You crouch down beside him, cupping his cheek as you coo, "baby, I'm here. It's me."

"No, you're not you!" He squints at you, rubbing his eyes and grumbling about needing his glasses, "if you're my girlfriend, tell me something only my girlfriend would know."

You stare at Mark blankly, as his girlfriend since senior year of high school, there's a lot of things only you would know. You shrug and answer anyway, "when we lost our virginities to each other you cried."

"My mom knows that too, pick something else!"

"Mark, why would you tell your mom about that?" You ask incredulously.

"She loves me!" He cries, "just like my girlfriend! I miss my girlfriend!"

"Oh my— Mark Lee. It's me, I'm your girlfriend. You text me every time you need to wash your sheets because you forget how much detergent you need, you like it when I kiss below your ear, you keep snacks under your bed for midnight snacks, and you have a crush on the librarian on the third floor for some reason," you list off.

"Oh, my snuggle muffin! It is you! I missed you!" Mark exclaims as he throws himself into your lap, embracing you tightly.

You laugh, brushing your fingers through his damp hair, "I told you. Can we get you to bed now?"

"You're staying right?"

"Yes, Mark."

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xiuriii · 4 months ago

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Dont become a stranger, dont be distant at all please, our friendship means so much tangina ayaw kong malayo ka sa amin, miss ko na agad mga gala natin tanginaka huwag kang lumayo sa amin plzzzzzz

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xiuriii · 4 months ago

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TANGLED DESIRES- p.sh

PAIRING: enemy!sunghoon x f!reader

SYNOPSIS: At a prestigious private school, you and Park Sunghoon are locked in a constant rivalry. During a party at your friend Karina’s, a heated argument between you two escalates into an unexpected, passionate encounter. The next morning, you wake up in his arms, forcing both of you to confront the new, complicated tension between you. As you navigate the fallout and shifting feelings, you start to question if your biggest enemy might actually be something much more.

GENRE: enemies to lovers, rich kids au

WARNINGS: smut (unprotected sex, oral sex) rivalry, hurt feelings, angst. ALL ARE OF AGE

wc: 15.4k

You attend the most prestigious school in Korea, where the sky-high tuition fees are only accessible to those born into pure wealth. This elite institution is a playground for the richest families, and your name is synonymous with success. Your family, being the owners of one of Korea’s top corporations, you seem to have everything at your fingertips—a glamorous life of luxury, an enviable social circle, and endless opportunities.

To the outside world, you’re the quintessential rich girl: impeccably stylish, effortlessly popular, and seemingly flawless. Yet beneath this polished veneer lies a different reality. Despite your privileged upbringing, you’re kind-hearted, fiercely intelligent, and deeply dedicated to everything you do. Your friend group, including Jake, Jay, Heeseung, Sunoo, Niki, Jungwon, Yuna, and Karina, forms a close-knit circle that navigates the pressures of their world together.

But there’s always been one glaring exception: Park Sunghoon. The feud between the two of you is infamous, an unspoken tension that pulses beneath the surface of your otherwise harmonious friendships. No one really knows how it started, and no one seems to care enough to unravel it. Instead, everyone just tolerates your constant bickering.

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

The lunch table is alive with conversation, the usual chatter amplified by the excitement of the latest gossip. Karina sits comfortably beside Heeseung, leaning into him with an easy confidence that only she can pull off. She’s in the middle of talking about her parents’ latest venture—something about opening another resort somewhere exotic—when she casually drops the bomb.

“So, they’re gone for the whole weekend,” she says, her voice loud enough to catch everyone’s attention. “And you know what that means…”

Jake perks up immediately, his eyes bright. “Party?”

Karina grins. “Obviously. Saturday night, my place. No theme this time, just show up and bring your best energy.”

Yuna claps her hands in excitement. “Finally! It’s been forever since the last one. I was starting to forget what a real party looks like.”

Jay laughs. “As if you’d ever forget. You practically live for these things.”

Yuna sticks her tongue out at him, but her smile doesn’t waver. “Guilty as charged.”

Heeseung wraps an arm around Karina’s shoulders, looking amused. “You’re not worried about your parents finding out?”

She rolls her eyes. “Please, they won’t even notice. And even if they do, what’s the worst that could happen? They’ll just buy me something to make up for being gone.”

“Must be nice,” Niki mutters, leaning back in his chair.

Sunoo nudges him with a grin. “Oh, come on, don’t act like you’re not excited. You were the first one to ask about the music last time.”

Niki shrugs, but he can’t hide his smile. “Yeah, well, only if it’s not Sunghoon’s terrible playlist again.”

You glance across the table, catching Sunghoon’s eye. He’s lounging back in his chair, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “My playlist was fine, thank you very much,” he retorts. “It’s not my fault you have no taste.”

You snort. “Please, Sunghoon, your taste in music is as bad as your taste in everything else.”

He looks over at you, eyebrow raised. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

You shrug, feigning innocence. “Nothing, just that your definition of ‘good’ is highly questionable.”

He chuckles, the sound low and irritatingly smug. “Coming from you, I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Karina cuts in, sensing the rising tension. “Alright, let’s not turn this into another one of your little spats. Save it for the party, okay?”

Sunghoon smirks, still looking at you. “Looking forward to it already.”

You roll your eyes but can’t resist shooting back, “Don’t get too excited, I might just ignore you all night.”

“Oh, the horror,” he replies, his voice dripping with mock terror. “How will I ever survive?”

Jay laughs, nudging Jake. “You know, one day they might actually get along.”

Jake shakes his head, grinning. “Nah, where’s the fun in that?”

Karina steers the conversation back to the party details, running through a list of essentials while Heeseung nods along, offering suggestions. “Invite whoever you want,” she says, “oh except luci, last time I caught her giving mark head in my parents bedroom, I haven’t been able to go in there since.”

You laugh and nod in agreement, trying not to notice how Sunghoon is still watching you, his expression unreadable. For a moment, you wonder what’s going through his head, but then you push the thought away. Whatever it is, it’s probably nothing you need to worry about.

Karina claps her hands, bringing the attention back to her. “So, everyone’s in?”

There’s a chorus of agreement, and the table erupts into a mix of laughter and excited chatter as plans start to form. You glance over at Sunghoon one more time, catching his eye for a brief second before looking away. This party is already shaping up to be interesting… and you have a feeling that’s an understatement.

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

The lunch buzz still lingers in your ears as the group makes its way back across the pristine campus grounds. The sunlight reflects off the sleek, modern architecture of the school’s main building, and you can’t help but admire the way everything here seems to sparkle—like even the bricks and mortar are aware of the school's prestige.

You find yourself walking beside Karina, who’s still chatting excitedly about the party, while Heeseung stays close, throwing in a comment or two. Yuna and Sunoo are a few steps ahead, their heads bent together as they giggle over something on Sunoo’s phone. You catch Jake and Jay trailing behind, still debating something about sports cars or the best summer destinations.

Just as you’re about to reach the entrance, you feel a presence beside you. You don’t need to turn your head to know who it is; Sunghoon always manages to sidle up to you when you least expect it.

“What, are you following me now?” you ask, not breaking your stride.

He chuckles. “Oh, please. Don’t flatter yourself. It just so happens our lockers are in the same direction.”

“Right,” you drawl, rolling your eyes. “Like you don’t go out of your way to annoy me.”

He glances at you, smirk still firmly in place. “Maybe I just like seeing you get all riled up. It’s entertaining.”

You shoot him a glare, but before you can fire back a retort, the group reaches the main hallway. The chatter from the student body fills the air, a mix of excitement and post-lunch drowsiness. The smell of expensive cologne and designer perfumes lingers in the air, an unmistakable signature of the school’s elite.

Karina stops at her locker, Heeseung leaning against it with a casual arm draped over her shoulder. She turns to you, her voice dropping conspiratorially. “So, you’re coming early on Saturday, right? I need a hand setting things up.”

You nod, grateful for the distraction from Sunghoon. “Of course. I’ll be there.”

“Great!” She beams. “And maybe you can help me make sure everything stays under control. You know how things can get with this crowd.”

Heeseung laughs softly. “Good luck with that. I don’t think anyone’s ever managed to keep Sunoo and Niki under control for more than five minutes.”

As if on cue, Sunoo pops up beside you with a grin. “I heard that, Heeseung! I’m an angel, thank you very much.”

Niki appears at his side, raising an eyebrow. “An angel of chaos, maybe.”

The group laughs, and you feel the tension in your shoulders ease. It’s moments like these that make all the bickering and drama feel worth it.

But then, just as you’re about to make another comment, Sunghoon’s voice cuts through the noise. “So, Y/N,” he says casually, “what are you going to wear to the party? Let me guess… something that screams ‘trying too hard’?”

You whip your head around, narrowing your eyes at him. “And what are you planning on wearing, Sunghoon? Something that screams ‘I own everything but a personality’?”

There’s a collective gasp from your friends, followed by a chorus of laughter. Sunghoon raises his eyebrows, feigning a look of hurt. “Ouch, that one actually stung a little. Didn’t know you had it in you.”

You cross your arms, feeling a triumphant smile tug at your lips. “I’ve got plenty more where that came from. Try me.”

He leans in slightly, lowering his voice just enough that only you can hear. “Maybe I will,” he says, his eyes flicking over you in a way that makes your pulse quicken. “But you’re going to have to do better than that if you want to get under my skin.”

You’re about to retort when a voice interrupts. “Can we get through one day without you two turning everything into a competition?” Jay sighs, looking exasperated. “Seriously, it’s exhausting just watching you.”

Jake nods in agreement, though he’s grinning. “You guys need to find a new hobby. Preferably one that doesn’t involve verbal sparring in the middle of the hallway.”

You shrug, unable to resist the urge to keep poking at Sunghoon. “I’m open to suggestions, but I doubt Sunghoon has any better ideas.”

Sunghoon leans back, crossing his arms with a playful smile. “Oh, I’ve got plenty of ideas. But I think you’d be too scared to try them.”

Before you can respond, the bell rings, signaling the end of lunch. Karina groans. “Ugh, saved by the bell. I guess we’ll have to pick this up later.”

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

As everyone starts to disperse to their respective classes, Sunghoon gives you one last look, a challenge in his eyes. “Don’t worry, Y/N,” he says smoothly. “I’ll be looking forward to it.”

You roll your eyes, but your heart is beating just a little faster. You can’t help but wonder what exactly he’s planning… and why a part of you is actually looking forward to finding out.

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

The day of the party arrives with a crisp, clear sky and a hint of excitement that seems to permeate every corner of the city. You wake up early, feeling a mix of anticipation and nervous energy. Karina had texted you the night before, reminding you to come over in the afternoon to help set up for the party. You agreed eagerly, knowing that any opportunity to help would give you something to focus on and take your mind off the strange tension building between you and Sunghoon.

When you arrive at Karina’s mansion, the house is buzzing with activity. Karina’s housekeeper greets you at the door with a warm smile, directing you to the large, open-plan living area where Karina is already busy coordinating the decorations with a small army of helpers. The space is being transformed into a glamorous party venue with twinkling lights, elegant table settings, and a dance floor that looks like it’s straight out of a high-end club.

Karina spots you as soon as you walk in, her face lighting up with relief and excitement. “Y/N! Perfect timing. I’m so glad you’re here. We could use an extra pair of hands.”

You smile, rolling up your sleeves. “What can I do to help?”

Karina hands you a stack of neatly folded napkins and points towards a table covered with party favors. “Start by setting these up on the tables. I want everything to look perfect tonight.”

You get to work, organizing napkins and arranging snack trays, chatting with Karina about the last-minute details. The hours fly by as you work alongside her, the room gradually coming together into a setting that is unmistakably Karina’s style—classy, sophisticated, and just a bit over the top.

As the afternoon drifts into evening, Karina claps her hands and gathers you for a brief break. “Alright, it’s time for a quick change. You’ve been working so hard, and I want you to look as fabulous as the rest of the evening.”

You raise an eyebrow, half-teasing. “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”

Karina waves her hand dismissively. “you don’t want me to answer that. cmon you’re hot, why not show off a little?”

Before you can protest, Karina ushers you into her bedroom and pulls out a sleek, little black dress from her closet. The dress is short and simple with a cut that accentuates your figure without being too revealing.

“Put this on,” Karina insists, handing you the dress. “Trust me, you’ll look amazing. And don’t worry about the hair and makeup; I’ve got that covered too.”

You change quickly, admiring the way the dress fits and the way it makes you feel more confident and glamorous. When you step out of the room, Karina is waiting with a professional-looking makeup kit and a few hair tools.

As she works on your hair and makeup, she chatters away, filling the room with her usual upbeat energy. “you look sexy”

You smile at her reflection in the mirror. “Thanks, Karina. You don’t think it’s a bit much? It’s definitely more out there than I usually go for”.

Karina beams, finishing up with a final touch of lipstick. “babe there’s no such thing as too much. And who knows, maybe you’ll catch someone eye tonight,” she tells you with a wink.

With a laugh and a final look at yourself in the mirror, you feel a surge of excitement. The dress feels perfect, and the makeup and hair make you look polished and ready for the night. As you head back downstairs, you catch sight of Karina’s smile of approval, and you can’t help but feel a bit more confident about the evening ahead.

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

The music starts pumping through the walls as you and Karina make your way back downstairs. The final touches have been set, and the room looks like a scene straight out of a teen movie: fairy lights strung up in every corner, a couple of disco balls catching the light just right, and a dance floor that practically begs people to let loose. Karina surveys everything with a grin that stretches from ear to ear.

“See?” she says, nudging you with her elbow. “This is why I always go all out.”

You chuckle, glancing around. “Okay, okay, you were right. This does look kind of amazing.”

The doorbell rings, and Karina practically bounces on her toes. “That must be the first guests! Come on, we have to greet everyone in style.”

The two of you rush to the front door, and soon enough, your friends start streaming in. Sunoo is the first to arrive, with Niki and Jungwon right behind him. They all look ready to have the best night ever, and Sunoo immediately zeroes in on you, his eyes going wide.

“Oh. My. God. Y/N!” Sunoo exclaims dramatically, clutching his chest. “Look at you in that little black dress! Who is she?!”

You roll your eyes, fighting back a grin. “Alright, Sunoo, calm down. It’s just a dress.”

“It’s not just a dress,” Niki interjects with a grin. “It’s the dress. Who are you trying to impress tonight?”

Jungwon nudges Niki. “Yeah, spill. Is there someone you’re hoping to catch the eye of?”

You smirk, crossing your arms. “Oh, please, like I’d tell you guys even if there was.”

More of your friends arrive, and soon the room is buzzing with chatter and laughter. Jake and Jay show up not long after, both of them effortlessly cool as always. Jay immediately gets to work DJ-ing from his phone, while Jake heads to the makeshift bar, already concocting a round of mixed drinks.

Then, just as you start to relax, you see him—Park Sunghoon. He steps in, looking annoyingly good in a casual black button-down and jeans. His eyes scan the room until they find you. For a split second, he looks almost surprised, but then his trademark smirk appears.

“Well, well,” Sunghoon says as he strolls over to you, hands casually shoved into his pockets. “Look who decided to play dress-up. You got a hot date tonight or something?”

You scoff, giving him a look. “Oh, please, Sunghoon. Unlike you, I don’t have to try so hard to impress everyone.”

Sunghoon chuckles, leaning in just slightly. “Right. Because you just show up looking like that for fun?”

Before you can shoot back a retort, Karina swoops in, looping her arm through yours. “Hey, Sunghoon, quit being a troll. Y/N looks amazing, and you know it. Now go get a drink and try to be nice for once!”

He holds up his hands, his grin widening. “Alright, alright, I’ll behave... for now.”

You watch as he saunters off to join Jake at the bar, and Karina gives you a knowing look. “Don’t let him get under your skin tonight, okay?”

You nod, trying to brush it off, even though you’re still buzzing from his teasing. “Yeah, yeah, I’m good.”

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

The party is in full swing now—music thumping, people laughing, and the lights twinkling overhead like stars. You find yourself swept up in the fun, moving from one conversation to the next, the earlier tension with Sunghoon momentarily forgotten. You’re by the snack table, popping a few chips into your mouth when Haechan sidles up next to you with his signature grin.

“Hey, Y/N,” he says smoothly, leaning in a little closer than necessary. “Looking good tonight. That dress is seriously working for you.”

You smile at him, amused by his blatant flirting. “Thanks, Haechan. You’re not looking too bad yourself,” you reply, playing along. He’s always been a harmless flirt, and you don’t mind the attention tonight.

He grins wider, clearly pleased. “I try. But seriously, I can’t believe I’m just now noticing how stunning you are. Were you hiding this whole time or just waiting for the perfect moment to make your grand entrance?”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Oh, you know me. Always dramatic,” you joke, and he chuckles, leaning in a bit more.

“You’re full of surprises, Y/N. Makes me want to know you better,” he says, his voice dropping slightly, and you can’t help but laugh at his over-the-top delivery.

What you don’t notice is that from across the room, Sunghoon has been watching the entire interaction with a growing frown. He’s leaning against a wall, a drink in hand, his eyes narrowing as he watches Haechan lean closer to you, flashing that charming smile. His jaw tightens, and his grip on the cup becomes visibly tighter.

Heeseung, who’s been standing beside him, follows his line of sight and notices the tense look on his friend’s face. A knowing grin spreads across Heeseung’s lips as he leans over to Sunghoon, nudging him with his elbow.

“Someone looks like they’ve got their feathers ruffled,” Heeseung teases, keeping his voice low so only Sunghoon can hear.

Sunghoon scoffs, rolling his eyes. “I’m fine.”

“Sure,” Heeseung laughs. “That’s why you’ve been glaring at Haechan like you’re ready to knock that grin off his face.”

Sunghoon doesn’t respond right away, but his eyes remain fixed on you and Haechan. Heeseung watches with amusement, clearly enjoying the show.

“Just admit it, man,” Heeseung continues, his tone light. “You’re jealous.”

Sunghoon finally looks away from you, giving Heeseung a dismissive look. “I’m not jealous. I just don’t like seeing him act like a fool.”

Heeseung snorts. “Right. Because you’re so worried about Haechan embarrassing himself.” He claps a hand on Sunghoon’s shoulder. “Come on, dude, just go talk to her. Or are you afraid she’ll turn you down?”

Sunghoon shoots him a glare. “Shut up, Heeseung.”

Heeseung just laughs harder, clearly unbothered by Sunghoon’s mood. “Alright, whatever you say. But just so you know, glaring at Haechan isn’t going to do anything except make you look more obvious.”

Sunghoon doesn’t answer, but Heeseung’s words seem to hit a nerve. He turns his attention back to you, his expression unreadable, though there’s still a flicker of something in his eyes—something more than just casual interest.

Meanwhile, you’re still chatting with Haechan, completely unaware of the little drama unfolding across the room. But you can’t shake the feeling that someone’s watching you, and when you finally glance up, your eyes meet Sunghoon’s for just a second. He quickly looks away, and you can’t help but wonder what that was all about.

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

The party continues to buzz around you, but after a while, the noise and energy start to feel a bit overwhelming. You decide you need a break, a moment to yourself away from the chaos. Without saying anything, you slip out of the crowded living room and head toward the balcony, where the air is cooler and the music is just a muffled hum in the background.

You push open the glass doors and step outside, letting the crisp night air hit your face. It’s a welcome change from the warmth inside. You lean against the railing, taking a deep breath, trying to clear your mind. The stars are faint above the city lights, and you can hear distant sounds of traffic, a reminder of the world continuing outside this little bubble of a party.

You close your eyes for a moment, just enjoying the quiet. But then, you hear the soft sound of footsteps behind you. You turn, half-expecting to see Karina or maybe Sunoo, but your heart skips a beat when you see Sunghoon stepping out onto the balcony.

“What do you want, Sunghoon?” you sigh, not bothering to hide your annoyance.

“I could ask you the same thing” he replies, his voice closer than you expected. You feel the warmth of his body behind you, jus inches away. “Running away from the party?”

”Hardly.” You glance over your shoulder at him. “Just needed a break from all the fakes and liars inside.”

His lips curl into that familiar, infuriating smirk. “And here I thought you thrived on that type of thing. Who knew Y/N had limits?”

You roll tour eyes, turning back to the view. “Yeah, well, believe it or not I do. But you wouldn’t know anything, would you?”

Sunghoon steps closer, his breath brushing against your ear, sending an unwanted shiver down your spine. You feel a rush of heat flood your cheeks and something else you refuse to acknowledge. “You don’t know anything about me, Sunghoon. And id keep it that way if I were you.”

He laughs, a deep, rich sound that makes your skin prickle. “I think you like it when I get under your skin. Why else do you always react like this?” You scoff, turning to face him, only then realizing how close he actually was. “Maybe i’m just tired of you acting like you’re gods gift to the world. newsflash: you’re not.”

His grin widens, and he takes another step closer, invading you’re space entirely as if he wasn’t already to begin with. “Admit it.” he says, his voice dropping lower. “You like our little games. You like the way I push your buttons.”

Your heart is pounding now, and you hate that he’s right, that there’s something about him that gets to you in a way no one else does.But you refuse to five him the satisfaction of knowing it. “In your dreams,” you snap, though the breathlessness in your voice betrays you.

He reaches out, his fingers brushing your arm, and you feel a jolt of heat at the contact. “Is that so?” he whispers, his lips dangerously close to yours now, his eyes dark with challenge. “Because I think you’re lying. I think you want this as much as I do.”

Your breath hitches, and for a moment, you’re frozen, caught in his gaze. The intensity in his eyes makes your pulse race, a mix of anger and undeniable attraction. He’s so close now that you can feel his breath your lips, and before you can stop yourself, you grab his shirt, pulling him the last few inches towards you.

“Maybe I just want to shut you up,” you mutter, your voice barely above a whisper. “Then do it,” he taunts, his lips brushing against yours, almost but not quite a kiss. It’s all the encouragement you need. You close the distance, your mouth crashing against his. His hands grip your waist, pulling you closer, and you press against him, fueled by a mix of anger and desire.

The kiss is intense, a battle of wills as much as it is anything else. His lips are firm, demanding, and you meet him with equal force, neither of you willing to give an inch. Your hands move up to his hair, tugging slightly and he groans against your mouth, deepening the kiss.

You’re lost in it. Lost in him, every nerve in your body alight with sensation. His hands slide up your back, his touch sending sparks through you, and you hate how much you crave it, hate how much you want him despite everything.

You’re breathless when you finally pull back, your heart hammering against your ribs. Sunghoon’s lips are parted, his breaths coming in ragged, and his eyes are dark with something dangerous—something you know you shouldn’t be entertaining.

His hand is still on your waist, his thumb brushing the exposed skin just beneath the hem of your shirt, and you swear every nerve in your body is on fire. He leans in close, his lips grazing your ear, and his voice comes out in a low, almost pleading murmur. “Come back to my place.”

It isn’t a question, but there’s something in his tone that sends a shiver down your spine, a combination of hunger and desperation that mirrors what’s coursing through your veins. For a moment, you’re tempted—so, so tempted to just say yes and give in to whatever this is. But logic fights its way to the surface, and you pull back just enough to meet his gaze.

“Are you serious?” you ask, your voice wavering more than you’d like.

His expression doesn’t falter, his eyes locked onto yours. “Dead serious.” He swallows, his grip on your waist tightening, as if he’s afraid you’ll slip away. “I don’t want this to end here.”

You hesitate, your mind racing. This is Sunghoon—Park Sunghoon—the guy you’ve spent so long arguing with, glaring at across rooms, doing everything in your power to avoid. But there’s something different about the way he’s looking at you now, something raw and real that makes it hard to think clearly.

“I don’t know,” you say, trying to sound firm, though your resolve is crumbling by the second. “I mean… this is crazy.”

“Maybe,” he agrees, his voice still low, still laced with that edge of desperation. “But I think you like crazy.” His lips curl into a half-smile, that familiar cockiness tempered with something else, something softer.

You bite your lip, weighing your options, feeling the tension between you both—hot, magnetic, impossible to ignore. “This is a bad idea,” you whisper, though even you can hear the lack of conviction in your words.

Sunghoon steps closer, closing the distance again, his forehead almost touching yours. “Probably the worst,” he says, his breath hot against your skin. “But if you don’t say yes, I’m going to lose my mind.”

You can feel his heartbeat through his shirt, can feel how fast it’s racing, and you know he means it. Part of you is screaming to walk away, to leave now before you make a mistake, but there’s another part—a louder, more reckless part—that’s screaming for you to stay, to see where this goes.

“Just one night,” he murmurs, his lips brushing yours again, barely a kiss, just enough to make you shiver. “No strings, no expectations. Just… us.”

You close your eyes, fighting against every instinct telling you to run. But when you open them again, his gaze is still locked onto yours, and you can’t deny the heat pooling in your stomach, the way your skin tingles with every touch.

“Fine,” you breathe, barely louder than a whisper. “One night.”

His grin is immediate, but there’s relief in it too, and he closes the distance, pressing his lips to yours again, this time harder, more insistent. “Let’s get out of here,” he says against your mouth, his hand sliding to intertwine with yours, and you know there’s no going back now.

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

You manage to sneak past your friends to leave Karina’s mansion, the partygoers and scattered distractions making it all that more simple.

The drive is quiet, both of you caught in your own thoughts. The city passes by in a blur of neon signs and headlights, the streets quieter than they were earlier. You steal a glance at him, watching the way his jaw clenches, the way his fingers tap against the wheel like he’s counting down the seconds.

Sunghoon pulls up to his mansion, its sprawling, modern architecture framed by towering trees and high walls that ensure absolute privacy. The wide driveway curves up to the grand entrance, where soft lights cast a warm glow over the marble steps and tall double doors. You glance around, taking in the sheer size of the place—not because it surprises you, but because you’ve never been here before.

Your own family’s estate is nothing to scoff at, but there’s a distinct style to his home—something sleek and almost understated, despite its size. You tilt your head slightly, noticing the details: the way the garden is meticulously maintained, the sharp lines of the building softened by the greenery that surrounds it. It’s impressive, in a way that’s different from what you’re used to.

He takes your hand to lead you inside, you follow him down the dimly lit corridor, decorated with family pictures and modern art that costs a fortune. He pauses at his bedroom door, his hand still holding yours, and turns to look at you one more time. “Last chance to change your mind,” he murmurs, though his thumb strokes the back of your hand, a comforting gesture.

You take a deep breath, then shake your head. “I’m not changing my mind.”

A small smile tugs at his lips. “Good,” he whispers, unlocking the door and pushing it open.

You step inside, and he follows, closing the door behind you. The space is dimly lit, warm, and there’s an unexpected coziness to it—minimalistic but comfortable. The air feels thick with everything unspoken between you.

Sunghoon turns to you, his gaze intense, and he steps closer, his hand moving up to your face, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “I’ve been thinking about this all night,” he admits quietly, his voice almost a growl.

Your breath catches, and you feel the heat rush to your face. “Then stop talking,” you murmur, your own voice breathless.

His lips are on yours in an instant, capturing your mouth in a kiss that’s all-consuming, filled with all the tension, the want, the frustration that’s been building for so long. You kiss him back just as fiercely, hands sliding up his chest, feeling his heartbeat pounding beneath your palms.

Sunghoon's hands roamed over your body, squeezing your tits. You let out a small involuntary moan, a grunt leaving him immediately after. His lips move down to your next, trailing up and down before reaching that sweet spot right behind your ear.

It all feels to fucking good, your panties sticking to your core. He moves to sit on the edge of his bed, pulling you into his lap before catching your lips once again. His growing hardness is poking at you. “You look so fucking sexy in this little dress,” He tells you in a low tone that makes you clench around nothing, the ache between your legs growing. You start grinding on him, his hands grabbing your ass, encouraging you to keep grinding against his clothed length. “That’s it baby, grind on me, keep rubbing that pretty pussy over my cock.”

Your head is thrown back, lip in between your teeth, his words encouraging your quickening movements. “Need you so bad, Hoon,” you manage to get out.

“Yeah baby? tell me what you need.” He tells you. It’s almost embarrassing how much you wanted him. “Need your cock.” Without another word you feel his hands back on your ass, lifting you up and throwing you down on his bed. He looks up at you with mischievious eyes, hovering over you as his hands roam down the sides of your thighs to them hem of your dress. “Can i take this off?” he asks, caressing the soft, exposed skin there.

Eagerly, you nod quickly, reaching for the hem to help him pull it up and over your head. Luckily you opted for a pair of black lacy panties and opposed to your more comfortable ones. He audibly sighs and your exposed figure, “You’re so beautiful,” He tells you, his fingers working to slide your panties down your legs and tossing them to the side, revealing just how much you wanted him.

“Shit baby you’re so wet.” He leans down, placing soft, wet kisses just below your navel, dangerously close to where you wanted him most. “Hoon please,” you murmur out. He straightens out, unbuckling his belt to pull down his pants and boxers all in one go. While he wasn’t remarkably long, he made up for it in girth. You lick your lips at the sight, anticipation and heat pooling.

He pumps himself a couple times before he’s lining himself up with your entrance. He takes his time, making sure to smear your slick between your clit and his length. You feel his tip parting your folds, your breath hitching in your throat. “You ready?” his eyes meet yours for assurance. No words come out your mouth, all you do is nod.

He enters you carefully, a strong contrast from his words earlier in the night. The last thing he wants is to rush, just because of how unpatient and horny he is. You close your eyes, holding in the gasp that threatens to escape your lips. “Relax baby, I got you.”

“I know,” you breathe out. The sudden stretch has your eyes rolling to the back of your head. The burn quickly turning into a delicious one. “That’s it,” he praises you continuing to slide in until he’s nestled completely between your walls. “You take me so well,” he grunts, his length twitching inside of you.

“Fuck me, Hoon” you murmur, your walls clench around him, throwing his head back at the feeling. Before you know it he’s pulling out of you, only to smack his hips back against yours. It knocks all the oxygen out your lungs, leaving you breathless as he repeats the same action over and over again. “Fuck,” you breathe out, focusing on how good he looks above you.

You’re in a complete feeling of euphoria. Sunghoon’s skills topping those of the few guys you’ve slept with before. In that moment, all the bickering and years of back and forth leave your mind completely. The only thing closing your mind is how good him of all people is making you feel.

“Hoon… faster,” you let out, his hips snapping in a faster pace on command. Your back arches off the bed, hands grasping the sheets in small fists. He notices and reaches for them to thread his fingers through yours, pinning them above your head. “You like that baby? love how good you feel… fuck you’re so tight. Gonna make you cum so hard.”

“I’m so c-close, fuck,” you breathe out. His thrusts become messier and you know he’s close. “Cum on my cock pretty,” he grunts, hands letting go of yours to grip your hips. Clenching around him, it takes a few for pumps before you’re both coming undone. His cock twitching inside you as he fucks his cum into you.

He drops his sweaty forehead against your shoulder, quick, deep breaths meeting your skin and he comes down from his high. It takes you both a while before your breathing steadys. “You good?,” he asks you, settling on the bed beside you. “mhm,” is all you say in response, unsure as to where this leaves your relationship. It all felt to good to ignore. “Are you good?” you ask him after a moment of silence. “Better than I have in a long time.”

You’re not sure when you fall asleep. The exhaustion taking over you all at once.

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

The morning light filters softly through the heavy curtains, casting a gentle glow across the room. You wake to the sound of birds chirping outside, their songs a peaceful contrast to the intensity of the night before. The bed is warm, and you’re nestled comfortably under the covers, Sunghoon’s arm draped over you.

You shift slightly, the movement causing Sunghoon to stir beside you. He mumbles something incoherent, tightening his hold on you before settling back into a deeper sleep. You take a moment to just lie there, letting yourself absorb the strange, surreal comfort of the situation. There’s an odd serenity in the room, a calm that feels almost unreal given the whirlwind of emotions that led you here.

As you slowly become more aware, you gently untangle yourself from his embrace, careful not to wake him. You sit up and stretch, glancing around at the elegant room that’s now your temporary sanctuary. The soft morning light highlights the sleek lines and modern decor, giving the space an almost ethereal quality.

You slide out of bed and make your way to the bathroom, feeling a little self-conscious but determined to gather yourself. You glance at yourself in the mirror, trying to process the whirlwind of the past night. The evidence of sleep lingers in your eyes, and you smooth your hair, mentally preparing yourself for whatever comes next.

When you return to the bedroom, Sunghoon is still asleep, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. You take a moment to just watch him, the vulnerability in his expression softened by sleep. There’s a part of you that feels a pang of something—softness, maybe even affection—though you’re still trying to fully understand what it all means.

Deciding not to linger too long, you quietly gather your things and start to get dressed. You’re pulling on your clothes when you hear a rustling behind you. You turn to find Sunghoon blinking awake, his gaze immediately locking on you with a sleepy, yet intense look.

“Good morning,” he murmurs, his voice rough with sleep.

You smile softly, trying to keep things light despite the previous night's intensity. “Morning. I didn’t want to wake you.”

He stretches lazily, a smirk forming on his lips. “And here I was thinking you’d sneak out before I even woke up. Not very considerate of you, you know.”

You raise an eyebrow, crossing your arms. “Oh, sorry. I didn’t realize I was supposed to tiptoe around your mansion.”

He chuckles, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “Yeah, well, you should be lucky you’re not being kicked out for your unexpected visit.”

You roll your eyes, pulling on your shirt. “Oh, please. It’s not like I forced my way in. You made it pretty clear you wanted me here.”

His smirk widens. “True. And now I’m faced with the charming aftermath of our little escapade. How do you intend to handle that?”

You shrug, trying to keep your tone casual. “I think we both know this doesn’t exactly change things. We still don’t like each other. This was… a one-off.”

Sunghoon raises an eyebrow, clearly amused. “A one-off? That’s what we’re calling it now? What happened to all that intense ‘hate’ from last night?”

You narrow your eyes at him, feeling a bit defensive. “It’s complicated. We both know that. I’m just here to sort myself out.”

He stands up, stretching with a yawn. “Well, I suppose if you’re done with the morning-after drama, I should at least make you breakfast.”

You look at him skeptically. “Breakfast? You’re really pulling out the stops now?”

He gives you a mockingly hurt look. “Don’t sound so surprised. Even enemies deserve to be fed after a night like that.”

You smirk, shaking your head. “Fine. Breakfast it is. But don’t think this means I’m sticking around for a whole lot of chit-chat.”

He grins, clearly pleased with your response. “Wouldn’t dream of it. Just a quick meal and then you can be on your way.”

As he leads you to the kitchen, you both fall into a familiar rhythm, trading barbs and jabs that feel almost comfortable in their own way. The awkwardness of the night before is still there, but it’s tempered by the humor and banter that defines your relationship.

In the kitchen, Sunghoon starts pulling out ingredients, his movements confident and efficient. You watch him, feeling a strange mix of irritation and appreciation. Despite everything, there’s something almost endearing about the way he’s trying to play the gracious host.

“So, what’s the plan after breakfast?” you ask, grabbing a coffee cup and filling it. “Are we going to pretend like nothing happened, or do you have some other grand gesture in mind?”

He looks over at you with a smirk. “Maybe I’ll just enjoy the novelty of seeing you eat my food. Consider it a small victory.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s a genuine smile on your lips. “Enjoy it while it lasts. I’m not here for long.”

He chuckles, placing a plate of food in front of you. “Don’t worry, I won’t be offended if you leave right after. I’m sure we’ll find new ways to annoy each other soon enough.”

You take a bite of the breakfast, shaking your head in mock exasperation. “I’ll hold you to that.”

As you eat, the tension from the night before begins to ease, replaced by the familiar dynamic of your interactions. It’s not exactly comfortable, but it’s familiar—a small reminder that despite everything, some things never really change.

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

The bell rings, signaling the end of the period, you gather your things and stand up, eager to leave the classroom and escape the strange tension that’s been hanging between you and Sunghoon all day. You’re heading toward the door when you feel a light tap on your shoulder. You turn around to find Sunghoon standing close, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

“Can I help you?” you ask, trying to keep your tone neutral.

Sunghoon leans in, his face just inches from yours. His breath is warm against your ear, and you can feel his proximity even though you try to back away slightly. “You look cute today,” he whispers, his voice low and deliberately teasing.

You freeze for a moment, your heart skipping a beat as his words sink in. You’re taken aback by the unexpected comment, feeling a rush of irritation mixed with something you can’t quite define. You quickly compose yourself, narrowing your eyes at him.

“Seriously?” you hiss, trying to keep your voice low so that no one else hears. “Now you’re trying to play nice? How pathetic.”

Sunghoon pulls back slightly, a smirk tugging at his lips. “I’m just making an observation,” he says innocently, though the amusement in his eyes betrays him.

You roll your eyes, your frustration evident. “Yeah, well, save it for someone who actually cares. I’m not in the mood for your games.”

As you turn and walk toward the door, you hear Sunghoon’s laughter behind you, light and mocking. You try to ignore the heat rising in your cheeks as you make your way out of the classroom, determined not to let him get under your skin. Despite your efforts to stay composed, his words linger in your mind, adding to the awkwardness and confusion of the day.

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

Lunch at school is a lively affair, with the cafeteria buzzing with the chatter of students and the clatter of trays. You and your friends—Yuna, Karina, and the rest—settle into your usual spot at the table. Sunghoon and his group are seated across from you, and you can feel his gaze lingering on you, even as you try to focus on the conversation with your friends.

Karina is mid-sentence, animatedly discussing the latest school gossip when Sunghoon's voice cuts through. “Oh, come on, Y/N. You can't actually believe that nonsense.”

You glance up, catching Sunghoon’s eyes. He’s smirking, clearly enjoying the opportunity to poke at you. “And what’s so ridiculous about it?” you retort, trying to keep your voice steady despite the irritation brewing inside you.

“Seriously?” Sunghoon’s grin widens. “It’s just a bunch of exaggerated stories. You’ve always had a knack for falling for that kind of thing.”

You roll your eyes, feeling a familiar annoyance bubbling up. “Says the guy who’s always spouting off about how everything’s ‘not worth his time.’”

Sunghoon leans back in his chair, folding his arms. “At least I don’t get caught up in every little bit of drama that comes my way.”

You scoff, crossing your arms. “I’m not the one who spends half his day looking for ways to pick fights. Maybe if you weren’t so obsessed with making everything a competition, you’d see things more clearly.”

Yuna and Karina exchange glances, trying to stifle their laughter as the two of you go back and forth. Karina nudges you playfully. “Looks like you two are back to your old routine.”

You shoot her a sidelong glance, annoyed but unable to hide a small smile. “Oh, you have no idea.”

Meanwhile, Sunghoon’s eyes are fixed on you, his smirk never fading. Every time you catch him looking, you feel a mix of frustration and unease. His gaze is unrelenting, and despite your best efforts to ignore it, you can’t help but feel self-conscious.

“What are you staring at?” you snap, catching him in the act.

Sunghoon raises an eyebrow, his expression innocent. “Just observing. Is that a problem?”

You narrow your eyes, crossing your arms. “Maybe if you had something better to do than harass me, you wouldn’t have to be so nosy.”

He chuckles, leaning forward with a teasing glint in his eyes. “Maybe I just enjoy watching you get all riled up. It’s entertaining.”

You glare at him, feeling your irritation spike. “Yeah, well, it’s not exactly a compliment.”

Sunghoon shrugs, still smirking. “Suit yourself.”

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

After lunch, you head to your next class with a sense of relief, hoping to escape the tension of the cafeteria. As you settle into your seat, the classroom buzzes with the usual pre-class chatter. You glance around, hoping to avoid any more interactions with Sunghoon, but he’s in the same class, sitting a few rows behind you.

The teacher arrives, and the room quiets down as the lesson begins. You try to focus on the lecture, but the lingering effects of the lunchtime bickering keep your thoughts scattered. Every now and then, you can feel Sunghoon’s eyes on you, though you avoid turning around to confirm it.

Halfway through the class, you feel a small piece of paper land softly on your desk. You glance down to find a note with neat handwriting:

*“Can we at least pretend to be civil? I promise I’m not plotting your demise.”*

You roll your eyes, a small smile tugging at your lips despite yourself. You scribble a quick reply:

“Why start now? It’s more fun to keep you on your toes.”

You fold the note and toss it back over your shoulder, hoping it will reach him without drawing too much attention. A few moments later, you see Sunghoon’s hand reach forward to grab it, his expression unreadable.

The rest of the class proceeds in a blur of lectures and notes. The occasional glances you and Sunghoon exchange are filled with unspoken tension, but you both manage to keep your interactions to a minimum.

At the end of your lecture, you pack up your things and make your way out of the classroom. You’re heading down the hall when you hear Sunghoon’s voice behind you.

“Hey, wait up.”

You stop, turning to see him catching up with you. He’s wearing a casual expression, though there’s a hint of seriousness in his eyes.

“Seriously? What now?” you ask, trying to keep your tone even.

Sunghoon’s gaze lingers on you, and he seems to consider his next words carefully. “So, I was thinking… why don’t you come over to my place later?”

You raise an eyebrow, puzzled. “For what? We already had our… whatever that was.”

Sunghoon gives you a knowing look, his smirk widening. “Come on, you know you’re curious. Besides, you know you want me.”

You feel a rush of heat at his words, and you try to maintain your composure. “And what happened to it being a one-night thing? Are you trying to make this a regular thing now?”

Sunghoon’s eyes twinkle with mischief. “Maybe I am. Or maybe I just want to spend more time with you. Either way, I think you’re interested.”

You hesitate, feeling the pull of his words. The desire that was ignited the night before is still burning strong, and you find yourself tempted despite your better judgment.

With a sigh, you give in, unable to resist the allure of what he’s offering. “Alright, fine. I’ll come over. But just to see what you have in mind.” Sunghoon’s smile broadens, clearly pleased with your decision. “Great. see you later.”

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

Later that night, you stand outside Sunghoon’s, house, or rather mansion. With a deep breath, you ring the doorbelll, and a moment later, Sunghoon opens the door. His eyes rake over you, and there’s that cocky familiar smirk on his face. “Youre here,” he says, stepping aside to let you in. There’s no hint of surprise, just a kind of smug statisfaction, like he knew you’d come.

“Yeah,” you reply, stepping inside “so what’s this all about?” Sunghoon doesn’t answer immediately. He just walks past you, heading into the foyer. You follow, your curiosity piqued, but you don’t miss the way his eyes flicker back to you with that same intent look. He turns around suddenly, before you can even process what’s happening, he’s closing the distance between you, leaning in like he’s about to kiss you.

“Woah wait,” you say quickly, pressing a hand against him firm chest to stop him. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Sunghoon pauses, eyebrows raised, but there’s no real apology in his expression. “What do you think in doing?” he counters, his voice low, almost daring him to challenge you. You roll your eyes, trying to ignore the way your heart is racing. “I didn’t come here just to… you know.”

He smirks, leaning in just enough that you feel the warmth of his breath. “Then why did you come here?”

You hesitate, caught between wanting to play it cool and the undeniable pull you feel toward him. “Maybe I was curious.” Sunghoon chuckles, “You’re here because you want this, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his hand grazing your hip lightly, testing your boundaries.

You swallow hard, trying to keep your composure. “You think you know everything, don’t you?”

His smirk widens. “I know enough.” He leans in again, and this time, his lips brush against your neck, a bold move that sends a jolt of heat through you. You bite your lip, figuring the urge to melt into his touch. “I didn’t say you could—“

“Then stop me,” he challenges, his voice a whisper against your skin. Your mind races every logical thought battling against the desire that’s been simmering between you since the other night. You hate how easily he gets under your skin, how is arrogance is both infuriating and strangely alluring. But instead of pushing him away, you find yourself lingering, testing the r limits just like he is.

“You’re infuriating,” you mutter, half annoyed, half breathless. He pulls back just enough to look you in the eye, his expression smug but hungry. “Yet I don’t see you walking away.”

You hate that he’s right. Instead of anything else, you meet his gaze head on, feeling that dangerous spark between you flicker into something more. “Just shut up and kiss me,” you say, finally giving in, if only to wipe that smug look off his face. And he does—without hesitation, with the kind of intensity that makes your head spin. It’s heated, unrestrained, and nothing like you imagined, and yet somehow it’s exactly what you wanted.

With a frustrated sigh, you put a hand on his chest and push him back a step. “Okay, seriously, what is this?” you demand, trying to keep your tone steady. “We can’t just keep… doing this whenever we feel like it. It’s stupid.”

He raises an eyebrow, looking way too amused for your liking. “Why not? You look like you’re enjoying yourself.”

You shoot him a glare. “Don’t flatter yourself. I just… I don’t want this to get messy.”

He smirks, clearly entertained by your struggle. “Messy? You mean you don’t want people to know you like kissing me?”

You scoff, crossing your arms. “I don’t like anything about you, Sunghoon. But if we’re being honest, there’s… something here, and I don’t see it going away anytime soon.”

His grin widens, and you want to slap it right off his face. “So, what? You’re proposing a deal?”

You roll your eyes. “Maybe. Friends with benefits. No strings attached, no drama, no catching feelings.”

Sunghoon chuckles, but there’s an edge to it. “Friends? I don’t think we’re even close to that.”

“Fine,” you snap, annoyed that he’s right. “Enemies with benefits then. Just… an arrangement. To get this out of our systems.”

His gaze darkens, and for a second, you think you see something flicker there, something unreadable. But then he leans in closer, his breath hot against your ear. “And what makes you think I’d agree to that?”

You raise your chin, meeting his challenge head-on. “Because you want this just as much as I do. Maybe more.”

He pauses, his lips curling into a slow, wicked smile. “Okay, I’ll bite,” he says, his voice low. “But here’s the deal: we do this my way. No whining, no complaining, and you definitely don’t get to pretend you don’t want it.”

You scowl, hating how cocky he looks, how certain he is that you’ll cave. “Fine,” you bite back. “But don’t think for a second that this means I like you.”

He laughs, the sound rich and mocking. “Trust me, I’d hate it if you did.”

You feel your blood boil at his arrogance, but there’s a thrill in it too, in the way you both seem to enjoy this game. “Deal,” you snap, holding out your hand.

He takes it, but instead of shaking, he pulls you in closer, his lips just inches from yours. “Just remember,” he murmurs, his eyes locked on yours, “this doesn’t change anything. I still can’t stand you.”

You smirk, matching his intensity. “Right back at you.”

And before you know it, his lips are crashing against yours again, and all that frustration and anger blurs into something reckless and wild. For now, you’ll play his game, but you know this is far from over.

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

Over the next few weeks, the “arrangement” with Sunghoon becomes a twisted game of secrecy and tension. You find yourself sneaking glances in class, meeting him in darkened hallways between periods, and exchanging heated looks across crowded lunch tables. The two of you are constantly dancing on the edge of discovery, and it’s becoming harder to hide the intensity simmering between you.

It starts small. The accidental brush of fingers when passing by in the hallway, the way his eyes linger a little too long when you’re speaking. But then, it escalates. The stolen moments between classes turn into late-night texts and spontaneous meetings wherever you can find some privacy. Empty classrooms, deserted stairwells, even the back of the library—places where no one would think to find the two of you together. The more time passes, the harder it gets to keep up the charade.

You’re starting to notice the way his friends glance between you two, confused by the sudden silences or the shared looks you forget to hide. Jay catches you one morning when you’re walking out of the library with Sunghoon following a few steps behind, your hair slightly mussed, your lips redder than usual.

“What’s going on there?” he asks, a teasing grin spreading across his face. “You and Sunghoon plotting world domination or something?”

You laugh it off, rolling your eyes. “Please. He’s too much of an idiot for that.”

But Jay looks unconvinced, his gaze flicking back to where Sunghoon is standing, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, watching you with a smirk that’s all too knowing. “Sure,” Jay says, dragging out the word like he’s not buying it.

At lunch, it’s even worse. Sunghoon sits across from you, his foot nudging yours under the table. It’s subtle, but it’s enough to send a jolt up your spine. You kick him back, hard, and he just chuckles, leaning back in his chair like he’s thoroughly enjoying the game.

“What are you two whispering about?” Yuna asks, narrowing her eyes in suspicion. You’re both quick to cover it up, but it’s obvious that your friends are starting to catch on.

“Nothing,” Sunghoon says smoothly, his voice annoyingly casual. “Just telling Y/N that she looks like she needs more sleep. Those dark circles are really showing.”

Your jaw clenches, but you force a sweet smile, playing along. “Oh, don’t worry about me. I’ll sleep just fine once I stop seeing your face every day.”

He grins, but there’s a flicker of something more heated in his eyes, something you recognize all too well. “Yeah, right.”

Karina frowns, sensing the tension that seems to hang in the air whenever you two are in the same room. “Seriously, what is up with you guys?” she asks, tilting her head.

You wave it off, laughing a little too loudly. “We’re just being our usual selves. You know how it is—can’t stand each other.”

But your friends are starting to notice the little things. The way Sunghoon’s gaze always seems to drift in your direction, the way you keep sneaking out of group study sessions with flimsy excuses, only to return looking flustered and breathless. Sunoo even catches you and Sunghoon exchanging hushed words in the corner of the hallway, too close for comfort, and he raises an eyebrow, a mischievous grin forming on his lips.

“Are you two planning a secret mission, or is there something else we should know?” he asks, his tone playful but probing.

Sunghoon just shrugs, but you can feel his eyes on you, daring you to say something. “No mission,” he replies coolly, “unless it’s trying to survive Y/N’s terrible attitude.”

You force a laugh, but the heat in your cheeks gives you away. “Yeah, well, some of us have better things to do than deal with you, Sunghoon.”

But it’s getting harder to pretend, harder to keep the fire between you from spilling over in front of everyone else. Every time he’s near, it feels like the world narrows down to just the two of you, a constant push and pull that’s impossible to ignore. The stolen kisses, the midnight texts, the moments of heated bickering that seem to blur into something more—it’s becoming too much to hide.

And it’s only a matter of time before someone figures it out.

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

You grip the sheets of your bed, lip caught between your teeth as sunghoon is under your duvet, tonguing your wet entrance, heat pooling in your belly, felling the intensity of your orgasm creeping up on you.

It’s all cut short when your door bursts open without warning, and Karina barges in, her voice already raised. “Y/N, I swear I’m going to lose my mind—!”

You freeze, your heart stopping in your chest. “Karina!” you squeak, quickly yanking the sheets up to your chin. “What happened to knocking?”

Karina stops mid-rant, blinking at you. “Oh, come on, like I ever knock?” she scoffs, throwing her hands up in frustration. “Anyway, you will not believe what Heeseung just did—”

She’s moving closer to the bed, and you panic, shifting slightly to keep Sunghoon hidden beneath the covers. You can feel him tense up, and his hand slips to your thigh under the sheets, pinching you playfully. You bite your lip to stifle a gasp, kneeing him as a warning.

Karina continues her rant, oblivious. “I mean, he had the nerve to ditch me for practice again, and I’m just—ugh, I needed to vent to someone who understands!”

Your mind races, desperately trying to keep her attention away from the suspicious lump between your legs. “That sounds… really frustrating,” you say, a bit too brightly. “But maybe just, you know, talk to him?”

Karina flops down on the edge of your bed, dangerously close to Sunghoon’s concealed figure. “Oh, I’ll talk to him, alright. I’m just so sick of his stupid excuses—”

Sunghoon’s fingers press into your clit under the sheets. He’s grinning, enjoying the situation far too much. You jab him again, your heart racing.

Karina glances at you, finally noticing your tense posture. “Are you okay? You’re acting weird,” she says, her brows furrowing.

You force a laugh, your voice too high. “I’m fine! Just… woke up. Didn’t expect you to burst in like that.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Since when do you care if I burst in? And why are you so… red?”

You feel the heat creeping up your neck. “Uh, just… hot in here,” you stammer, shifting to keep Sunghoon completely out of sight.

Karina looks like she’s about to press further, but then she sighs, clearly more focused on her Heeseung drama. “Whatever, I just needed to get that off my chest. He drives me insane!”

You nod quickly. “Yeah, I get it. He’s… Heeseung, you know?” Karina gives you a small smile, her frustration easing. “Thanks for listening. And seriously, you look so weird right now.”

You laugh nervously. “Yeah, just tired.”

Finally, she stands up, heading toward the door. “Alright, I’ll leave you to… whatever you were doing. I’m gonna go call him and give him a piece of my mind.”

You nod eagerly. “Good luck with that!”

As soon as she leaves, you exhale in relief, lifting the cover to eye Sunghoon, who’s still grinning like an idiot. “What?” he whispers, amused.

“What?” you repeat, incredulous. “You almost got us caught, that’s what!”

He chuckles, pulling you back down under the sheets. “Relax. She didn’t notice a thing.”

You roll your eyes, but your heart is still racing from the close call. “You’re lucky,” you mutter.

Sunghoon just leans in closer, his lips brushing your cheek. “You love the thrill,” he murmurs.

And damn it, you hate that he’s right.

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

It's late, the night air cool against your skin as you lean against the wall outside the school building, waiting for Sunghoon. You don't even know why you agreed to meet him here. Maybe because he seemed so insistent, or maybe because a part of you wanted to see him, even though you’d never admit it.

He arrives moments later, his footsteps heavy as he approaches. There’s a different energy about him tonight—something serious, something intense. His usual smirk is nowhere to be found, and his hands are shoved deep into his pockets. He stops in front of you, a little too close, and you have to tilt your head up to meet his eyes.

“What’s this about?” you ask, trying to sound casual, though your heart is pounding in your chest.

He doesn’t answer right away, his gaze boring into yours like he’s searching for something, something he can’t quite find. You shift on your feet, uncomfortable under his scrutiny.

“Sunghoon?” you prompt, your voice wavering just slightly.

He finally speaks, his tone lower than usual. “I’ve been thinking… about us,” he says, the words almost hesitant, like he’s testing them out.

You blink, caught off guard. “Us?”

He nods, his expression serious. “Yeah, Y/N, us. You and me… whatever this is.”

You swallow hard, trying to keep your face neutral. “I thought we agreed it’s nothing,” you reply, but your voice comes out softer than you intended.

Sunghoon’s eyes narrow, frustration flashing in his gaze. “Yeah, that’s what we said,” he agrees, “but it doesn’t feel like nothing to me anymore.”

Your heart skips a beat, and you feel a lump forming in your throat. You’ve never seen him like this—so open, so exposed. “Sunghoon, I don’t know what you’re getting at,” you say carefully.

He takes a step closer, his expression more intense. “I’m saying that I’ve caught myself… thinking about you. A lot. When you’re not around, I’m wondering what you’re doing, who you’re with. I hate that it bothers me when I see you talking to other guys, and I can’t stand the idea of you being with anyone else.”

You feel a wave of panic rising in your chest. This is too much, too fast. You press your back harder against the wall as if trying to create more distance between you. “Sunghoon, this was never supposed to be serious,” you whisper, your voice barely audible.

He exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. “I know, and I tried to keep it that way. But every time I see you, every time we’re together… I can’t help it. I don’t want to help it.”

You shake your head, refusing to let his words sink in. “You don’t mean that,” you insist, more to yourself than to him. “You’re just saying this because it’s… new or whatever. It’ll pass.”

Sunghoon’s jaw clenches, and he moves even closer, leaving barely any space between you. “No, Y/N, it won’t. I’ve tried to stop feeling this way, but I can’t. And I know you feel something too, even if you won’t admit it.”

Your pulse quickens, and you feel your resolve starting to crumble. “I don’t—” you begin, but he cuts you off.

“Stop lying,” he says firmly, his voice carrying a hint of desperation. “You’re scared, I get it. But don’t pretend like this is all just a game to you.”

You feel a flash of anger, your defenses rising. “What if it is, Sunghoon? What if I don’t want anything more than what we already have?”

His expression falters for a moment, a flicker of hurt crossing his face. “Then I guess I’ve made a mistake,” he murmurs, taking a step back.

You feel a pang in your chest, a sharp, unexpected ache. “Sunghoon…”

He shakes his head, cutting you off. “Forget it. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

For a second, you want to reach out, to say something, anything, to make that look on his face go away. But the fear of letting your guard down, of admitting that he might be right, keeps you silent.

He takes another step back, his expression hardening. “I won’t bother you about it again,” he says, his voice cold. “Let’s just go back to pretending like none of this ever happened.”

You nod, though you feel a tightness in your throat. “Yeah, let’s do that,” you say quietly, even though your chest aches with a feeling you don’t want to name.

Sunghoon turns and walks away, and you’re left standing there, the cool night air biting at your skin. You watch him go, feeling something inside you break just a little, and you wonder if maybe you’ve made a mistake too.

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

The next morning at school, everything feels heavier. The halls are crowded, but it’s like there’s a spotlight following you, and you can’t shake the feeling that everyone knows. You make your way to your locker, avoiding eye contact with anyone, especially Sunghoon.

You don’t see him at first, but you feel him—his presence looming in the periphery. It’s like he’s everywhere, watching you, and it makes your skin prickle with nerves. You busy yourself with rearranging your textbooks, trying to calm the storm inside your head.

“Hey, Y/N,” Karina chirps, appearing beside you. Her usual bright smile is there, but her eyes are curious, searching your face. “Are you okay? You seemed a little… off yesterday.”

You force a smile, gripping your locker door tighter than necessary. “Yeah, just tired, I guess.”

She studies you for a second longer, then nods. “Well, you should have come to dinner with us last night. It was a total mess, as always, but fun.”

You nod absently, not really listening. Your eyes flick over Karina’s shoulder and catch Sunghoon’s gaze across the hallway. He’s leaning against the wall, arms crossed, watching you with an unreadable expression.

“Y/N?” Karina prompts, bringing your attention back to her. “You’re zoning out again.”

“Sorry,” you mumble. “Just a lot on my mind.”

Karina glances over her shoulder, following your line of sight. Her brow furrows slightly. “You’ve been weird around Sunghoon lately,” she remarks. “Did something happen?”

Your heart skips a beat, and you quickly shake your head. “No, nothing. Why would you think that?”

She shrugs, unconvinced. “I don’t know… Just a feeling.”

You’re saved from having to respond when the bell rings. You grab your books and make a beeline for your next class, trying to ignore the heat of Sunghoon’s stare burning into your back.

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

Class drags on painfully. You can’t focus. Your mind is a whirlwind of confusion and annoyance. You thought sneaking around with Sunghoon would be fun, a game—a way to blow off steam. But now it’s getting messy, and you’re starting to feel the consequences.

When the bell finally rings, you bolt out of the classroom, desperate for fresh air. But as soon as you turn the corner, you’re yanked into an empty hallway.

Sunghoon.

His grip on your arm is firm, and his eyes are intense, searching yours. “We need to talk,” he says, his voice low.

You pull your arm free, glaring at him. “What’s there to talk about, Sunghoon? We agreed this was supposed to be casual. No strings, remember?”

He frowns, clearly irritated by your tone. “Yeah, but it doesn’t feel like that anymore, does it?”

You cross your arms over your chest, trying to steady your breathing. “That’s because you’re making it weird. Just… back off a little, okay?”

Sunghoon’s jaw clenches, and he takes a step closer. “Back off? You’re the one acting all paranoid, Y/N.”

“Maybe because you won’t stop staring at me like everyone else can’t see it!” you snap back, your voice rising. “This was supposed to be simple. But you’re turning it into something… complicated.”

He scoffs, a humorless smile tugging at his lips. “Maybe because it is complicated. Or have you not noticed?”

You hate the way your chest tightens at his words, the way his closeness makes your heart race. “Don’t do this, Sunghoon,” you warn, your voice quieter, more vulnerable than you’d like.

He pauses, his gaze softening just for a second. “Do what?”

“Make this more than it is,” you whisper, feeling a knot form in your throat. “Because I can’t… I won’t.”

Sunghoon’s expression hardens again, and he leans back, crossing his arms defensively. “Fine,” he mutters. “If that’s how you want it.”

You swallow, forcing yourself to stay composed. “Yeah. It is.”

He nods curtly, stepping away, his face unreadable. “Good. See you around, then,” he says before turning on his heel and walking away, leaving you standing in the empty hallway with your heart in your throat.

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

The next few days are torture. Sunghoon keeps his distance, and you tell yourself it’s for the best. But every time you see him, every time you catch his eyes across the cafeteria or in class, there’s a hollow ache in your chest that you can’t ignore.

Your friends notice the tension. They ask questions, but you shrug it off, pretending everything’s fine. But you can’t stop replaying your last conversation with Sunghoon, the way his face looked when you told him to back off. You hate how much you miss him, even if you’d never admit it to anyone, especially not to him.

One afternoon, as you’re walking to your car after school, you spot him leaning against a tree nearby, talking to some girl you don’t recognize. He’s smiling, that same smile that used to be reserved for your private moments. Something sharp twists in your chest, and you quickly look away, anger flaring up.

He catches your glance and, for a moment, his smile falters. But then he leans in closer to the girl, laughing at something she says, and your stomach churns with a mix of jealousy and frustration.

You grip your bag tighter, feeling a sting behind your eyes. This is exactly why you didn’t want things to get complicated. You turn away, refusing to look back.

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

Sunghoon avoids you. He’s usually the first one to shoot a teasing remark your way, but he’s silent. The hallways feel strangely empty without his usual jabs, and your friends are starting to notice the shift between you two.

“Are you guys fighting again?” Karina asks, as the two of you walk to lunch. Her tone is half-exasperated, half-amused, but you know she’s genuinely curious. “You and Sunghoon, I mean. There’s definitely more tension than usual.”

You shrug, trying to seem indifferent, but your stomach twists with anxiety. “When aren’t we fighting?” you mutter.

She gives you a knowing look, but thankfully doesn’t push it further. You’re not sure how much more of this you can take without your feelings bubbling over. You’re determined to get through lunch without letting Sunghoon get under your skin, but when you enter the cafeteria, you spot him immediately.

He’s at your usual table, talking to Heeseung, but his gaze is elsewhere. The second you walk in, his eyes find yours, and there’s a fleeting moment of something unreadable in his expression. A flash of frustration? Longing? You can’t be sure.

You take a deep breath and head over, sliding into your usual seat. Karina sits next to you, and for a moment, everything feels normal. But then Sunghoon starts talking.

“So,” he says, his tone casual but his eyes locked on you, “Heeseung, heard you and Karina had another spat. What was it this time? You didn’t say ‘I love you’ enough?”

Heeseung rolls his eyes, but Karina just laughs, lightly smacking Heeseung’s arm. “Don’t listen to him, babe. He’s just deflecting from his own issues,” she teases.

Sunghoon smirks, but there’s no real humor in it. “I don’t have issues, Karina. Just people who like to make things complicated,” he says, glancing at you.

You feel your face heat up, irritation boiling over. “Oh, please,” you snap back. “Like you’re the picture of simplicity.”

He leans back in his chair, his eyes glinting with challenge. “Never said I was. But at least I’m honest about it.”

Your chest tightens. “Honest?” you scoff. “You’ve been playing games from the start, Sunghoon.”

He shrugs, feigning indifference. “Maybe I have. But at least I know what I want.”

His words send a jolt of electricity through you, and you clench your jaw, trying to keep your composure. “And what’s that, exactly?”

He leans forward, his voice dropping low so only you can hear. “You. But you already knew that.”

Your heart skips a beat. For a second, you’re frozen, caught between wanting to slap him and… something else. Something you’re not ready to face.

“You’re such a—” you start, but before you can finish, Sunghoon’s foot nudges yours under the table, and your breath hitches.

You’re hyper-aware of the table between you, the curious glances from your friends, and the heat creeping up your neck. Sunghoon’s gaze is still on you, challenging, waiting for your response.

You can’t help the retort that slips out. “You’re really enjoying this, aren’t you?”

He shrugs with a small grin. “More than you know.”

Before you can shoot back another insult, heeseung cuts in, oblivious to the tension. “Okay, what is happening between you two? I feel like I missed an entire chapter here.”

Sunghoon doesn’t even glance at Heeseung. “Nothing’s happening. Right, Y/N?”

“Right,” you reply, forcing a smile, but your voice sounds strained, even to your own ears.

Heeseung and Karina exchange a look, clearly unconvinced. “Sure, whatever you say,” Karina murmurs with a smirk. “Just remember, denial isn’t just a river in Egypt.”

Sunghoon’s lips twitch in amusement, and he finally looks away, leaning back in his chair as if nothing happened. But under the table, his foot is still lightly brushing against yours, sending sparks up your leg.

You bite the inside of your cheek, determined not to let him see how much he’s getting to you.

But you can’t help it—the sensation, the frustration, and the undeniable attraction between you are all mixing into one chaotic storm.

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

The bell rings, signaling the end of lunch, and everyone begins to gather their things. You stand, trying to shake off the tension still lingering between you and Sunghoon, but Karina has other ideas.

“Hey, Y/N,” she calls, grabbing your arm just as you’re about to head out. “Can I talk to you for a second?”

You nod, feeling a knot form in your stomach. She leads you to a quieter corner of the hallway, away from the crowd. You can tell by the look on her face that she’s not letting this go.

Karina crosses her arms, tilting her head slightly. “Okay, seriously,” she starts, her voice low but pointed. “What the fuck was that back there?”

You blink, trying to feign ignorance. “What was what?”

She rolls her eyes. “Don’t play dumb with me. You and Sunghoon… there was some serious tension at lunch. It was like watching a live soap opera, and I feel like I’ve missed a few episodes.”

You sigh, glancing around to make sure no one is listening in. “It’s nothing, Karina,” you insist, but even to your own ears, it sounds unconvincing.

Karina raises an eyebrow. “Nothing? Really? Because from where I was sitting, it looked like something. A big something.”

You bite your lip, unsure of how much to tell her. “Look, we… we just don’t get along. You know that.”

“Yeah, but this felt different,” she replies, not letting up. “Like, I don’t know, it almost seemed like… there was something more there.”

Her words hit a little too close to home, and you feel your cheeks heat up. “You’re imagining things,” you say quickly, but Karina’s not buying it.

She leans in closer, her expression turning more serious. “Y/N, I’m your best friend. I know when something’s up. And that? That was definitely something.”

You hesitate, torn between the urge to confide in her and the fear of admitting the truth. “It’s complicated,” you finally admit, your voice barely a whisper.

Karina’s eyes widen with intrigue. “Complicated how?”

You swallow hard, looking away. “I don’t even know how to explain it. We’ve just… been hanging out a little more lately. And things got… weird.”

“Weird how?” she presses, clearly not letting this go.

You take a deep breath, trying to find the right words. “We’ve been… hooking up,” you confess, your voice almost inaudible.

Karina’s mouth falls open in shock. “Wait, what? You and Sunghoon?” She looks like she doesn’t know whether to laugh or gasp. “Since when?”

“A few weeks,” you admit, feeling a strange mix of relief and anxiety now that the secret is out.

Karina blinks, taking a moment to process. “And you didn’t think to tell me?”

“I didn’t think it would last this long,” you say defensively. “I thought it was just going to be a one-time thing, but then… it wasn’t.”

Karina’s expression softens slightly. “And how do you feel about it? About him?”

You shrug, trying to appear nonchalant. “I don’t know. It’s confusing. Half the time, I can’t stand him. The other half… well, you saw how lunch went.”

Karina lets out a small laugh. “Yeah, I did. It’s like you two can’t decide whether you want to kill each other or… not.”

You groan, leaning back against the wall. “That’s exactly how it feels.”

Karina nudges you with her elbow. “Just be careful, okay? Sunghoon’s not exactly known for being straightforward with his feelings.”

You nod, appreciating her concern. “I know. Trust me, I’m not expecting anything… much. It’s just… whatever it is.”

Karina gives you a knowing smile. “Alright, but just remember, I’m here if you need to talk. Or, you know, if you need me to kick his ass.”

You laugh, feeling some of the tension ease. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

As you walk back to class, you feel a little lighter, but also more uncertain than ever. Because now that Karina knows, it feels more real. And that scares you more than you’d like to admit.

You pause for a moment, letting your thoughts catch up to your racing heart. Sunghoon had admitted it first, hadn't he? In his own cryptic way, he’d confessed he wanted more than just the back-and-forth, more than just the thrill of the chase. You remember the way he looked at you that day, his eyes full of frustration and something else — something softer, something you weren’t ready to face.

He’d said he wanted you. He’d practically dared you to deny that you wanted him, too. And ever since, you’ve been trying to convince yourself that it didn't matter — that it was just some passing thing, some fling to fill the boredom. But it wasn't. It never was.

You sigh deeply, leaning back against the wall of the building. The memory of his words still lingers like a brand on your skin: "I want you." It had sounded so simple when he said it, so sure. Like he wasn’t afraid of the mess that came with it.

You’ve been too afraid to admit it to yourself, but now… now it feels like you’ve been fighting a battle that’s already lost.

He confessed his feelings first, but you’ve been holding back, afraid to let yourself feel the same. Afraid of what it might mean, of how it could change things between you. You thought you could control it, could manage the situation and keep your distance, but all you’ve managed to do is dig yourself deeper into this mess.

You’re tired. Tired of fighting your own heart, tired of pretending you’re unaffected. Tired of feeling like you're caught in this tug-of-war between desire and denial.

*He’s already put himself out there,* you remind yourself. *He made the first move.* And that thought alone is enough to push you forward, to make you realize that maybe it’s your turn now. Your turn to decide if you want to keep running or if you’re brave enough to let yourself fall.

Pushing off the wall, you feel a wave of determination settle over you. If you’re going to do this, you need to find him and be honest. Not just with him, but with yourself.

Because you don’t want to keep this back-and-forth going, this constant dance of pushing and pulling. You want to know where you stand — with him, and with whatever this thing between you is becoming.

You take a deep breath and start walking, knowing exactly where to find him. And this time, you’re not going to let him get away without an answer.

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

You find Sunghoon by the lockers, leaning against the metal with that typical nonchalant pose he seems to have perfected. His head is tilted down, focused on his phone, but he looks up as you approach, sensing your presence. His eyes flicker with surprise for just a moment before his usual guarded expression returns.

“What do you want?” he asks, his voice laced with that familiar arrogance, but there’s something else there, too—an undercurrent of curiosity, maybe even hope.

You don’t bother with pleasantries. “We need to talk,” you say, crossing your arms over your chest. You try to sound firm, but even you can hear the slight waver in your voice. Sunghoon raises an eyebrow, clearly intrigued.

“Oh, so now you want to talk?” he retorts, a smirk playing at the corner of his lips. “After avoiding me all day?”

You roll your eyes, feeling the tension bubble up again. “I wasn’t avoiding you,” you snap, even though you both know it’s a lie. “I just needed… time to think.”

He straightens up, slipping his phone into his pocket. “Think about what?” he asks, and his tone is a little softer now, less mocking.

You take a deep breath, feeling the weight of your next words pressing down on you. “About this. About us,” you say, your voice steadier now. “I’m tired of all this back and forth, Sunghoon. I’m tired of pretending like there’s nothing between us when we both know there is.”

His eyes search yours, and for a moment, his guard slips. “I told you how I felt,” he says quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. “You’re the one who kept pretending it was just… nothing.”

You feel a pang of guilt twist in your stomach. “I know,” you admit, meeting his gaze head-on. “And I was wrong. I thought I could just… push it away, ignore it. But I can’t. Not anymore.”

Sunghoon’s expression softens, just a little. “So what are you saying?” he asks, his voice careful, as if he’s trying not to hope too much.

You swallow hard, forcing yourself to stay honest. “I’m saying… I want to figure this out. I want to try… whatever this is between us. But I need you to be real with me, Sunghoon. No more games.”

He takes a step closer, closing the distance between you, and you can feel your heart pounding in your chest. “I’ve been real,” he says, his voice low and intense. “I’ve been real since that night at Karina’s party, and I’ve been waiting for you to catch up.”

You’re taken aback by the sincerity in his words, by the way his eyes seem to bore into yours like he’s trying to see into your very soul. “I’m here now,” you reply, your voice barely a whisper.

Sunghoon takes another step closer, and now he’s right in front of you, his breath warm on your skin. “So what do you want?” he murmurs, his hand reaching up to brush a strand of hair from your face. “Do you want me, or are you still trying to convince yourself you don’t?”

Your breath catches in your throat, and for a moment, you’re not sure what to say. But then you realize you’ve known the answer all along. “I want you,” you admit, your voice steady, finally letting the truth slip past your lips. “But I don’t want to keep pretending like it’s nothing. I want to try… something real. But I don’t want it to be this constant push and pull, Sunghoon. I can’t keep doing that.”

Sunghoon’s lips curl into a small, almost relieved smile. “Then let’s stop playing games,” he says softly, leaning in closer. “Let’s see where this goes, no more pretending. Just you and me.”

You feel a strange sense of relief wash over you at his words, a weight lifting from your chest. “Okay,” you whisper, and it feels like the most honest thing you’ve said in a long time.

His smile widens just a fraction, and he closes the final distance between you, his lips brushing against yours in a way that feels both familiar and new. It’s not the frantic, heated kisses you’ve shared before—it’s slower, deeper, filled with a promise of something more.

And for the first time, you feel like you’re finally on the same page. Finally moving in the same direction.

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

Over the next few weeks, things between you and Sunghoon change in ways you never could have anticipated. At first, it’s subtle — small shifts that only the two of you notice. You spend more time together between classes, sitting closer at lunch, and texting late into the night. The playful bickering is still there, but it’s softened somehow, more like an inside joke than a battle.

Your friends don’t notice at first. They’re used to seeing you and Sunghoon together, arguing about this or that, so the extra time you spend with him doesn't raise any immediate red flags. But eventually, the signs become too obvious to ignore.

One day at lunch, you’re sitting next to Sunghoon, your legs brushing under the table. His hand casually rests on the back of your chair, his thumb occasionally grazing your shoulder. Jay, seated across from you, narrows his eyes, a slow smile spreading across his face. “Okay, what’s going on?” he asks, his tone teasing but his eyes curious.

You glance over at Sunghoon, who just smirks. “What do you mean?” you reply, trying to sound nonchalant, but you can feel the flush creeping up your neck.

Jay gestures between the two of you. “This,” he says, waving his hand. “You two. You’re being weird. Weird even for you two.”

Karina, who’s been listening in, gasps. “Oh my god,” she says, her eyes widening with realization. “Are you guys… together?”

The table goes silent for a second, everyone turning to look at you. Sunoo’s eyebrows shoot up, and Jake leans forward, looking like he’s trying to solve a particularly complicated math problem.

Sunghoon leans back, crossing his arms over his chest with a grin. “Depends,” he says casually. “What do you think?”

You elbow him in the side, rolling your eyes at his vague answer. “Yes,” you say, looking at your friends. “We’re… together. Kind of.”

“Kind of?” Sunghoon echoes, feigning offense, and you shoot him a playful glare.

“Yes, kind of!” you insist, turning back to your friends, who are now staring at you like you’ve just revealed you’re secretly an alien. “It’s… new.”

Heeseung chuckles. “I mean, I’m not totally surprised,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “You two have been like a powder keg waiting to explode for years.”

Yuna nods eagerly. “Honestly, it was about time,” she adds, and you can’t help but laugh at her bluntness.

Jungwon, however, looks mildly concerned. “So, you’re serious?” he asks, glancing between you and Sunghoon. “Like, actually serious?”

Sunghoon looks at you, his smile softening just a bit, and he nods. “Yeah,” he says, and there’s a sincerity in his voice that makes your heart skip a beat. “We’re serious.”

Your friends take a moment to process this. Then Jake grins. “Alright,” he says, raising his glass of soda. “To Y/N and Sunghoon. The enemies-to-lovers arc we didn’t know we needed.”

You laugh, and everyone joins in, raising their glasses. It’s strange, in a way, seeing everyone so quickly accept what feels like a massive shift in your life. But it also feels… right.

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

Over the next few days, things become more obvious. You and Sunghoon are no longer trying to hide. He reaches for your hand in the hallways, and you let him. He kisses you on the cheek in front of the others, and they pretend to gag but smile knowingly when they think you’re not looking.

You catch Karina’s eye one afternoon, and she gives you a grin that’s part smug, part excited. She leans over, whispering, “So… you finally admitted you like him, huh?”

You smile, shrugging a bit. “Guess so,” you say, and she laughs, nudging you with her elbow.

The hardest part, strangely enough, is getting used to the change yourself. It’s still weird to not have to hide how you feel, to be able to smile at Sunghoon without wondering if anyone is watching. But with each passing day, it gets a little easier.

And it’s not like everything is perfect. You and Sunghoon still argue — of course, you do. That’s just how you are. But there’s something different now, something that feels less like anger and more like… passion. Like you’re both on the same side, even when you’re bickering.

There are moments when you catch him looking at you from across the room, a small smile on his lips, and you feel a warmth spread through your chest. And in those moments, you know — this is real. This is right.

Your friends have stopped asking questions. They’ve accepted that this is your new normal, and honestly, so have you. The only thing left to do is see where it takes you.

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