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omg if ur still taking hesitation reqs. maybe something early on in the relationship after they hookup where they're hanging out together and jw starts making out w reader and reader thinks its going to progress further into sex and is surprised when jw says "can we just kiss" and it infuriates her bc she's rarely done just that and its almost more intimate than sex to her . sorrydhahfhejc
AYO here you goooo. Another anon requested more detailed kissing scenes too, so hopefully this suffices!
As far as timeline goes, I feel like this is quite early relationship probably even before part 2.
This Jungwon for visual because someone on twitter said it’s the expression guys make before they’re about to kiss you and now I can’t unsee it
Enjoy!!!!
hesitation masterlist
Despite all the ways he manages to surprise you, regardless of the fact that Yang Jungwon has made a habit of catching you off guard and keeping you constantly on your toes, he also has a pattern.
One that goes a little like this:
First, he manages to convince his way into your apartment. Over the weeks, he’s gotten better at it. Or maybe you’ve just gotten worse at resisting. Either way, it’s starting to recur with alarming frequency.
Tonight, it was one of his favorite excuses that landed him next to you on your comfortable but slightly worn couch. There was a new movie out that he just had to show you. Something scary that’s apparently been taking everyone’s Twitter feed by storm.
His facade was flimsy from the beginning, mostly because you already know that he’s an absolute baby when it comes to horror films. The last time he used a similar excuse, the only parts of the movie he managed to watch were from behind his fingers.
Then again, the movie itself was never his end goal.
Jungwon’s patient when he wants to be, but he never lets the opening credits roll without sneaking his way a little closer to you. Thigh pressed against yours, arm slung across the back on the couch, fingers toying with the strap of your bra just under your shirt.
You can never decide if you should roll your eyes or press your legs together a little more firmly to stop yourself from squirming under his ministrations.
Then, he pretends to watch whatever plays out on the screen. Will even lean over and whisper little comments, something about filming locations or actor feuds or plot predictions you have half a mind to suspect he just looked up on Wikipedia before coming over.
With every new comment, he lets himself get a little closer. Until you feel his words more than you hear them.
Lips brushing against the shell of your ear as he tells you about broken box office records and controversial interviews.
You’re no better, of course. After he’s done with you, you could hardly give an accurate plot synopsis. And the way little shivers flutter down your spine every time he gets closer is a dead giveaway that you know exactly what his game is.
You do. You’d have to be an idiot not to, at this point. Even if a movie night wasn’t the oldest trick in the book, it’s landed Jungwon and you in a similar position more than half a dozen times by now.
You know what he’s doing. You’re letting it happen.
Pretending to protest when he lets his latest whispered fact about fake blood capsules turn into an actual kiss, pressed just below your earlobe.
“Jungwon,” you warn.
“What?” he pulls back, only barely. Eyes already heavy-lidded, the way he looks at you is dangerous.
He’s unabashed, shameless in the way he lets his gaze fall from your eyes to your lips before slowly dragging them back up.
It’s not subtle, but he’s been paying attention over the weeks, too. He knows he doesn’t have to be.
Still, he always hovers there for just a moment. Eyes locked on yours like he can feel the way your heart is hammering so hard you think it’s trying to escape your chest.
Like he loves the way your thighs start to fidget, a dead giveaway of exactly where your mind has gone.
Tonight, the screen behind you flashes with another jumpscare.
Neither of you notice. Neither of you care.
Jungwon lets his eyelids flutter shut before leaning in. Slowly, but deliberately. All the way until his lips press against yours.
It’s chaste at first. His arm falls from the back of the couch to curl around your shoulder, something possessive in his grip.
He kisses you, mouth closed, eyes screwed shut. Lets his mouth cover as much territory as it can, pressing his lips against the corner of your mouth, the curve of your cheekbone, the junction of your jaw.
But he always comes back to your lips. And this time, it’s with renowned fervency.
Lips parting, he pulls your bottom lip between both of his. Lets his tongue start to wander. Lets his teeth start to tease.
The first time he’d kissed you, really kissed you, it took you longer than usual to find your rhythm.
It wasn’t a fault of his abilities. Just the fact that before Jungwon, you’d never known anyone that liked to make out so messy.
But he’s obsessed with it. Heavy, deep, open-mouthed kissing that leaves your lips sticky and swollen and covered in him.
Now, you’ve had time to adjust. To understand that a refined, even rhythm was never what he was going for.
Not when he wraps his hand around the curve of your cheekbone to angle you better.
When he pulls back slightly to press his thumb against the corner of your lips, watching with a heavy gaze as you bend to his silent request.
Slowly, you part your lips, let his thumb slide beteeen them. Eyes locked on his, you press your tongue against the intrusion, mouth closing around his thumb as he slides it deeper past your lips.
You can’t help it, the way your eyes screw shut for a moment before finding his gaze again. The way a sudden, desperate whine is pulled from somewhere deep in you, reverberating around his finger.
Eyes heavy, focus zeroed in on every micro expression you make, Jungwon pushes the pad of his thumb a bit more firmly against your tongue. And then releases a low, breathy groan when he feels you suck.
And then, like he can’t quite help himself, he leans back in. His doesn’t pull his thumb from your mouth, not entirely. Instead, he just slides it over, out of the way as his lips cover yours again, hungrier now. So heated, so desperate, it’s almost feverish.
He leaves his thumb there too, uses it as leverage to keep your mouth as open as he wants. To let his tongue find yours and encourage you to slide it further into his waiting mouth. Until he can return the favor by closing his lips around it, tugging gently before he sucks.
He releases it with a popping sound that reverberates around your living room, quiet except for the moan that gets half stuck in your throat and the low drawl of yet another forgotten movie.
Someone on the screen screams in terror. Jungwon bites at your bottom lip, tugging gently before replacing his teeth with his tongue.
There’s something about it for him, you’ve realized — seeing you like this. Messy, pliant, covered in the evidence of heavy, wet kisses that leave your lips spit-slick and swollen.
It eats at his control. Like the idea of you letting him touch you like this, cover you in him like this, does more to him than you can imagine.
It’s why most nights, Jungwon only manages to put you through a solid ten minutes of making out before his hands start to wander further.
Before his fingers start to dip beneath your waistband. Until you’re too lost to the sensation to kiss him back properly.
He never minds. He just keeps his mouth against yours. Open, still searching, still licking into you, while his fingers in your underwear make your jaw fall slack, swallowing all the pathetic little whimpers that escape from your throat.
But tonight, his hands stay in infuriatingly neutral places. Dipping beneath the fabric of your shirt as his palms splay across your stomach. Teasing along your collarbone, your throat.
Wide against your cheek as he angles you to his liking. Tangled in your hair when he pulls — gently, but with no room for argument. Dipping back into the space between your parted lips when he decides he needs you more open to make a better mess of you.
Time is a flighty thing, but you can tell he’s been chasing your lips for longer than usual. That no matter how many times you adjust your position, tilt your hips in search of friction, his hands refuse to wander any lower.
It confuses you. For one, you can tell that he’s hard. Straining against his grey sweatpants in a way that would usually inspire more urgency than the lazy, deep, wet kisses he still presses into you.
Until now, you’ve always been a follower. Happy to let him set the pace and the tone when it comes to the bedroom.
But maybe tonight he’s waiting for you to be the bold one.
You’d be lying if you said it didn’t make you squirm even more — the thought of him falling apart against you, mouth slack on yours with your hand wrapped around him.
So, a bit timidly but still undeterred, you let your palm start to slide forward. Tracing his upper thigh until it’s all the way—
Jungwon’s hand slides out of your hair, falls to meet yours. And stops it dead in its tracks.
A frown pulls at your face, furrow between your eyebrows appearing as he slides his tongue against yours again.
You try to pull back, but his mouth chases yours. It’s even messier, hotter, wetter now that you’ve thrown his aim off. Like he’s terrified of breaking contact and all the more desperate because of it.
Bringing your other hand to his chest, you press firmly against him. He takes the hint well enough. Finally, he stops for long enough to allow you to speak, but not before pressing a final, surprisingly chaste kiss against your reddened bottom lip.
Only scant inches between you, his eyes bore into yours.
He’s a mess, too. Wet, swollen lips, flushed cheeks, hair messy where it falls over his forehead. Eyes heavy and still narrowed in intent. So completely fucked out from nothing but kissing.
You have half a mind to just pull him back into you.
But the frown is still pulling at your brows.
“Jungwon,” you mumble, suddenly a bit unsure how to approach this.
“Mm,” he hums, pressing an errant kiss to the tip of your nose like he just can’t help himself.
“Why did you…” you trail off, eyes falling to wear your other hand still lies enclosed in his. Resting against his upper thigh, only inches from your original intent.
Even without saying it directly, he knows what you mean.
His hand around yours squeezes, reassuring like he can tell that the gears in your mind have started spinning.
“I just…” he starts voice low, hoarse. Scraped raw from his previous ministration. There’s something vulnerable in his gaze when he asks, “Can we just kiss?”
A flicker of surprise crosses your features, quickly replaced with a resigned sort of acceptance.
Maybe this is it, you suppose. The beginning of the end. He’s found some other girl to keep him entertained. Maybe she’s better at this than you.
Maybe this is just the beginning of his evening and he’ll make an excuse to leave an go see her soon.
You hate it, the deep twist of jealousy that wrings your gut out unpleasantly. It’s not fair, probably, but you decide that you hate her, whoever this other girl is.
Then again, maybe you should be relieved. This whole thing with Jungwon was never meant to be serious after all. Just a way to blow off some steam.
Maybe it’s better to let it fizzle early, naturally.
After all, you don’t think there’s much you wouldn’t agree to when he sits in your couch with his smile and dimples and easy sort of comfort. When he’s got his fingers in your mouth and his lips insistent against yours.
That kind of power, the thought of him having it over you, is terrifying.
So yeah, it’s probably best to just call things off. Before you run the risk of getting too attached. Before you start obsessing over ridiculous things like the idea of him whining against your mouth, jaw slack as you work your hand against him under the waistband of his sweatpants.
You nod, about to pull away, when Jungwon’s hand wraps around the back of your neck. He lowers his lips again, until they’re brushing against yours.
All of a sudden, your heart is hammering, drilling against your rib cage.
“Had the shittiest day,” he mumbles, pulling your lip between his lazily. “Everyone was so annoying.” His tongue is back in the mix now, traces the seam of your lips. “All I could think about was this. Getting my mouth on you.”
“But you…” You frown. You still don’t get it. He’s not leaving for round two with someone else? “You’re hard,” you point out.
“Yeah,” Jungwon’s laugh is more exhale than sound. “I’ve been stressed as hell all day and now I’ve got my mouth on the prettiest girl in the world.” He smiles then, a little dopey as he pushes a strand of hair away from your face. “Of course I’m hard.”
“But you don’t…” You’re still so confused. And now, another feeling is starting to seep in. Fear. Something about it, the idea of him coming over here with nothing but the intent to make out like teenagers, is so horribly intimate you want to die a little. “You don’t want me to do anything about it?”
“Not tonight,” he shakes his head. “Feel free to ask me again in the morning, though.” His smirk is short-lived, melting quickly into a smile so genuine you’re not sure what to do with it.
The morning.
The morning.
He’s not running off to some other girl. He’s not tired of you and trying to craft an early exit. He’s sleeping over, and you’re not even having sex.
You have no idea what to do with that.
As if he can see the gears in your head spinning on full speed, Jungwon decides the best way to ease your worries is to distract you.
Or rather, to pull you back to him until your mind and your mouth and your senses are too full of him to leave room for anything else.
For now, at least, it works. You let your words and your worries and your questions die on your lips as he replaces them with his own.
You let him make a mess of you for long minutes, reveling in the tension that builds, the heat that generates slowly, more steadily than usual.
It’s frustrating in the most delicious way. The thrill of denying the unmistakable ache building deep in both of you.
The undeniable intimacy of choosing this instead. Of letting breaths mingle, lips explore, swallowing sighs, knowing it’s not going any further.
Of knowing that for tonight, this fulfills whatever need he came to you with. That he’s staying. That you’ll have the morning to see what desires you’re ready to explore then.
Jungwon is still hard in his sweatpants, and youre still chasing friction you can’t quite find. But it disrupts the illusion of urgency. It makes kissing, making out for hours in your couch like teenagers, feel like a luxury instead of a punishment.
The fear is still there, even if he’s good at burying it.
Because Jungwon has a pattern, but tonight he strayed from it. Found another way to lower your defenses. To catch you entirely off guard.
Someone that can do that so easily is dangerous. Will probably have terrible consequences for you and your poor little heart.
But for now, you just close your eyes, letting him make a mess of your lips and your hair and your heart.
You can deal with the consequences in the morning, you figure. Can let the doubt he eases with gentle touches redouble.
Yeah, you decide, sinking a little further into his touch, ignoring the surge of warmth that flares from the pit of your stomach when he sighs into your mouth. I’ll deal with it tomorrow.
୨ৎ Summary : After an unexpectedly early day off, all you want is a quiet evening with your husband. Unfortunately, Jungwon gets stuck working overtime and comes home after a company dinner. Jungwon comes home drunk for the first time since your marriage. You expect a sleepy husband and maybe a mild headache. Instead, you get a giggly, clingy menace Jungwon.
୨ৎ Pairing : husband! Jungwon x wife! reader
୨ৎ Wordcount : 3.5K
୨ৎ Warning : drunk! Jungwon, drunk! sex (just jungwon), unprotected sex (ZON'T ZO IT), Jungwon is giggle mess during sex, playful!Jungwon
Your work finished early today.
At exactly five thirty in the afternoon, your manager casually announced that everyone could head home because the remaining tasks had been postponed until tomorrow. For a few seconds, the entire office had gone silent in disbelief before people immediately started packing their bags like prisoners being granted unexpected freedom.
Lately, your schedule has been exhausting. Most nights, you did not get home until almost nine. By the time you showered, ate dinner, and properly relaxed, it was already close to midnight. The only thing keeping you sane throughout the week had been Jungwon dramatically complaining every single evening about how much he missed you.
You smiled just thinking about him. Your husband never handled your overtime gracefully. When you are deep in your work, Jungwon will send you a bunch of messages telling you to go home and spend time cuddling with him. Little did he know, you were almost tempted to do that.
Thank God you still hold yourself together.
The moment you stepped out of the office building, you immediately pulled your phone from your bag and typed quickly.
‘Baby, I finished early today ♡’
You smiled while pressing send. You could already imagine it. Maybe watching a movie curled against Jungwon’s chest while he complained dramatically about the plot, or falling asleep early together without either of you being too exhausted to speak. The thought alone made warmth spread softly through your chest.
The reply came almost immediately. And somehow, within one second, your excitement completely collapsed.
‘Baby, I might over time today :(‘
For a moment, you simply stared at the screen in disbelief. Of course the universe would do this to you. The timing honestly felt personal. Another message followed instantly after.
‘The manager suddenly added another meeting.’
You typed again while walking toward the station.
‘What time will you finish?’
This time the reply took longer. Long enough for your shoulders to slowly sink.
‘Maybe around 9.’
You physically frowned at your screen. Immediately another message appeared.
‘I’m sorry baby.’
And then another.
‘I really wanted to go home early today too.’
The guilt in that message softened your disappointment almost instantly. Because Jungwon genuinely loved spending time with you. Sometimes you thought he loved it too much. Even after marriage, even after living together for years, he still acted ridiculously attached to you. If anything, marrying you seemed to have worsened the situation entirely.
Then your phone buzzed again.
‘Are you disappointed?’
Your fingers paused above the screen for a second. Then you typed honestly.
‘A little.’
Three dots appeared immediately.
‘Come yell at my manager.’
You laughed softly.
‘I’m not going to yell at your manager Jungwon.’
Then you typed.
‘See you at home, love you ♡.
.
.
.
.
The front door clicked open around 9 pm. You could hear keys rattle and jangle in the ceramic bowl by the entrance. You know your husband is home. The footsteps were lighter, quicker, and then you heard a low, bubbling giggle that seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere at once.
You looked up from the counter where you were slicing vegetables. Jungwon stood in the doorway, cheeks flushed a dusty rose, eyes half lidded and shimmering with a mischief you didn’t recognize. His tie was loosened, the top button undone, and his hair, which was usually perfectly styled, was now a tufted mess.
He pads into the kitchen where you’re making him his dinner, and wraps his arms around your waist from behind, pressing his cheek against your shoulder blade.
“Hi?” you said carefully.
“Hi, baby.”
The way he said it made you narrow your eyes immediately.
“Baby,” he said, the word stretching into a sing song whine. “You smell so good.” Jungwon nuzzled into the crook of your neck. His warm breath brushed repeatedly against your skin, enough to send a small shiver down your spine before you could stop it.
He suddenly turned his face again, pressing another lingering kiss beneath your ear before resting his forehead against your shoulder with a small sigh. The affection behind it felt so sincere that your expression softened automatically.
“You must have had a rough day,” you murmured gently, reaching back to smooth your fingers through his hair.
The second your hand touched him, Jungwon practically melted. You felt it immediately in the way his body relaxed against yours.
“Mmm,” he mumbled quietly. “Missed you.”
You stir for another minute, and he stays there, swaying slightly against you. Jungwon was extremely clingy today, that’s what you thought. Well, to be fair, this isn’t unusual. Jungwon was infact affectionate, but there’s something in the way his fingers curl into the fabric of your shirt, the way he presses closer and giggles a little when you shift and bump him with your hip.
At first, you thought Jungwon was simply in a good mood.
Honestly, it was not unusual for him to come home affectionate after work. Your husband naturally carried bright energy wherever he went. Even on exhausting days, Jungwon still found ways to make you laugh.
You noticed it first when you bent down to grab bowls from the lower cabinet and Jungwon immediately bent down with you. Not to help, but to stare at you.
“Why are you crouching?”
“I’m accompanying you.”
“You’re watching me take bowls?”
“Mhm.”
“You know I can do this alone, right?”
Jungwon smiled at you instead of answering.
Then, minutes later, you noticed he had followed you into three separate rooms for absolutely no reason. Laundry room, kitchen, and bedroom. Every single time you turned around, there he was somehow already behind you, leaning lazily against the doorway with a soft smile on his face like following you around the apartment was the most entertaining activity imaginable.
And suddenly, finally, something clicked into place. Your eyes narrowed immediately.
“Wait.”
Jungwon blinked innocently from where he sat at the kitchen counter.
“What?”
You slowly placed the knife down. Then you turned toward him fully.
“Jungwon.”
“Mm?”
“Are you drunk?”
For exactly two seconds, your husband stared at you silently. Then his entire face lit up. He delighted.
“Oh,” he laughed softly, shoulders shaking slightly. “Was I obvious?”
Without warning, Jungwon stood from the chair and walked directly toward you.
“You really drank a lot tonight, huh?” you asked gently, smoothing your fingers through his hair. Jungwon relaxed further into your touch.
“Not that much.”
“How much is ‘not that much’?”
There was a long pause. Yup, that explains a lot. Whenever his office is doing this kind of activity, it usually involves alcohol. A lot of alcohol. Jungwon was not a weak drinker, but he’s not a heavy drinker either, you know, he’s going to get tipsy in the second bottle of soju. When tipsy, Jungwon still looks pretty normal to you. But his face, ears and neck will redden. But to see him completely gone? Well, that’s new to you.
He leaned in, you expected his usual slow pace, his soft lips, gentle tongue, the kind that made you melt over minutes. Instead, he devoured you. It start soft, his lips brush yours. You could taste faintly of alcohol from his mouth, your chest tighten. You cup his jaw, thumb stroking his cheekbone, and he leans into your touch like a cat.
Then the kiss changes. He press harder. His tongue slides along the seam of your lips, demanding entry, and when you part them, he takes. His mouth moves against yours with a hunger that makes you gasp, and he swallow the sound, teet grazing your lower lip, tongue sweeping inside to taste every corner of your mouth.
You broke away, breathless. “Jung—”
You’ve kissed Jungwon a thousand times. Slow kisses in the morning before work, tender kisses when he’s being sweet, firm passionate kisses when he wants you, when his hands slide down your back and grip your hips with purpose, you know the way he kisses. This is not that.
His lips are relentless, he bites your lower lip, pulling it slightly before soothing with his tongue. He kisses the corner of your mouth, down your jaw and across your throat. His teeth graze your pulse point, make you shiver, a whimper escaping your lips that you didn’t mean to make.
“Shh,” he whispered, lips trailing down your jaw. “Let me show you how much I missed you. Let me show you.”
He pulled you toward the bedroom, his steps steadier now despite the alcohol, and you found yourself following, heart thudding against your ribs. The bedroom door swung open, and he didn't bother with lights. The dim glow from the hallway spilled in, casting long shadows across the bed. He turned you gently, pressing your back against the doorframe for just a moment, his mouth devoured yours. Then he guided you backward until your knees hit the mattress.
He didn't rush to undress you. Instead, he knelt on the bed, hovering over you, and took his time. His lips traced down your neck, over your collarbone, pausing to suck a bruise just above your breast. He laughed softly when you arched into him.
His hand find the hem of your shirt and took it off. The fabric slides up your soft stomach, over your ribs, then Jungwon unclaps your bra and gives the swell of your breast a wet kiss. He follows its path with his mouth, when he reaches your nipple, he sucks it like he genuinely thirsty. You could heard how hard he sucking because the sounds is wet, downright vulgar. Your back arches. Your fingers tangle in his hair.
His tongue circled the peak, then he sucked hard. His other hand found your breast, kneading and pinching, and all the while he hummed with satisfaction. When he moved to the other side, giving it the same attention, you felt your hips buck involuntarily, searching for friction. He noticed.
"Someone's eager," he teased, pulling back with a wet pop. His grin was lopsided, boyish, utterly infuriating.
He kissed his way down your stomach, tongue dipping into your navel, teeth scraping over your hipbone. He slide down your pants while pressed your thigh down to keep you still. He tugged them off along with your panties in one smooth motion, then sat back again staring at you spread open before him.
"Fuck," he breathed.
He leaned down, and his first lick was broad, flat, from your entrance up to your clit. You jolted, hands flying to his hair, but he didn't stop. He licked again, slower this time, savoring, then wrapped his lips around your clit and sucked. Heared how high and desperate you are, Jungwon giggled against you, the vibration sending sparks through your nerves. He alternated between sucking and flicking his tongue, one finger sliding insede, then two, then he curling it to hit that spot that made your vision blur.
He added a third finger, sliding in alongside the others, and the stretch made you gasp. He didn't stop sucking, his tongue flicking in short, rapid strokes over your clit while his fingers pumped in and out, curling on every withdrawal. You could feel your orgasm coiling, tightening low in your belly, and he knew it too because he looked up at you through his lashes, that drunk, glittering gaze locked on your face.
“Give it to me, baby,”
You shattered with a scream, your back arching off the mattress as waves of pleasure crashed through you. Your walls clenched around his fingers, and he groaned, lapping at you through the convulsions, not letting up until you were trembling and oversensitive.
Only then did he pull back, his chin slick, his grin wide and drunk. He crawled up your body, leaving wet kisses across your stomach, your breasts, your throat, until his lips met yours. You tasted yourself on his tongue. Jungwon giggled against your mouth.
He laughed softly, breath warm against your cheek. “You look so gone.”
You want to punch him if you’re not so done because he just gave you the most earth shattering lip service. You could only give him that fuck out face.
He peeled his clothes; apparently, his clothes were too much for him. You could see his cock already leaking and messy with the red tip and continuous precum. That’s look delicious, you really want to run your tongue around it and make him whimpering mess. But, you’re too limp for that.
Jungwon spreads your legs, he positions himself between them and the way his weight settles against you give you so much comfort. You could feel the tip of his cock nudging your clit, teasng it before he pushed it all the way down your cunt.
Usually, Jungwon would slip his cock slowly, because he aware he’s too big for you. But, you learned that drunk Jungwon basically has 0 patience for that and went to straight to the main course. He lets out a shuddering breath. He bottomed out and paused, letting you feel the fullness. The sensation was intense, you could feel a deep stretch that made your back arch, a gasp escaping your lips as his girth pressed against the sensitive walls of your vagina.
His hips slammed into yours, the bed frame knocking against the wall, and his giggles mixed with your cries. He hits a spot inside you that makes you see white.
He chuckles, “Right there?”
He slams into that spot again, your nails dig into his shoulders.
He smirking, “Then I’lll take that as a yes.”
His rhythm becomes punishing. He pulls almost all the way out and slams back in, deep and relentless. Each impact pushes a desperate sound of you. You could barely form words, your hands clawed at the sheets, his back, anything to anchor yourself as he fucked you into the matress. The pressure built inside you, coiling tight, threatening to snap.
You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, and he rewarded you with another giggle. His hands gripped your hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh as he fucked you.
“What’s wrong, baby?” he asked, voice sweet like honey.
You were losing yourself. The room blurred at the edges, sensation overwhelming. He bent down to capture your mouth again, kissing you sloppily, tongue tangling with yours while his hips never slowed.
His hands roamed your body, one cupping your breast, thumb rolling over your nipple, the other sliding down to rub circles on your clit, sending jolts of pleasure that made your breath hitch.
The pleasure built, a low tide rising in your pelvis. You could feel Jungwon’s own arousal swelling, his cock throbbing inside you, a hot, rigid length that seemed to pulse with each beat of his heart. When you finally climaxed, it was a wave that started deep in your core and radiated outward, your inner muscles clenching around him as you cried out his name, your body trembling. He followed moments later, his release hot and thick, filling you with a warm surge that left you both panting
After a few minutes, Jungwon shift your legs, pushes them up, folds your knees toward your chest, pressing his weight into you. The new angle was brutal. Your legs were pushed so far back that your knees nearly touched your ears, leaving you completely open and vulnerable. He lined up again and drove inside with a single, punishing thrust.
He was so deep you could feel him in your throat. Your vision went white as he bottomed out, hitting that spot inside you that made your toes curl and your entire body clench. He didn’t give you a moment to adjust. He began to move his hips, pistoning fast and hard, the sound of his skin slapping against yours echoing through the room.
The squelch sounds is filled the room. His cum trickle down and soaked the sheets. White rings formed where your body joined.
His face hovered above yours, eyes dark and glassy, lips split in a delighted grin.
“You’re so pretty like this,” he said, voice wavering with exertion and liquor and joy. “I could fuck you forever. Would you like that?”
He grinds his hips, a slow, deep circle that makes you cry out.
“Tell me how it feels baby,”
“Good—so good—”
“Yeah?” he speed up, his hips slapping against your thighs, “You like when I fuck you like this?”
“Yes—”
He angled his hips, grinding deep on every stroke, and the pressure built inside you like a tidal wave. Your legs trembled, your breath came in ragged gasps, and Jungwon watched it all with that same intoxicated fascination.
“Are you going to cum?” he asked, almost innocently. You only nodded, your eyes almost rolled back and you feel so light right now.
Your inner muscles clenched around him, your body trembling as you cried out, your orgasm washing over you in a hot, bright wave. He groaned, head falling forward, and his rhythm stuttered as he rode you through it.
He kept going, thrusts turning sloppy as he chased his own release. The oversensitivity had you whimpering, but he only giggled, pressing a kiss to your forehead.
“Almost there, almost there, just a little more–”
Jungwon’s own climax followed, his thrusts becoming erratic and urgent as he spilled deep inside you, his release filling you with a thick, warm flood that seemed to linger . He came with a shudder, buried so deep that you felt the pulse of him inside you, warm and thick. His hips keep twitching through the aftershocks.
The weight of him pressed down on you, his body warm and slick with sweat as he collapsed against you, breath ragged and uneven. His cock pulsed inside you in fading aftershocks, and you felt every twitch, every residual throb as your walls still fluttered around him, reluctant to let go.
For a long moment, neither of you moved. The only sounds in the room were your mingled breathing and the distant hum of the city outside, muffled by the bedroom walls. His face was buried in the crook of your neck, his hair damp and ticklish against your skin, and you could feel the erratic beat of his heart hammering against your ribs.
Then came the giggle.
that drunken, unadulterated giggle that had you smiling despite the ache settling into your thighs. He lifted his head, and his eyes were glassy, pupils blown wide, his grin lopsided and utterly satisfied.
"Hi," he said, his voice hoarse and dreamy.
You laughed softly, your hand finding its way to his hair, fingers threading through the damp strands. "Hi."
He nuzzled into your palm like a contented cat, pressing a kiss to your wrist before lifting his head again. His gaze wandered down your body, tracing the marks he'd left, the faint red crescents on your hips from his grip, the love bites blooming along your collarbone, the sheen of sweat glistening on your skin in the dim light. He looked almost reverent.
"I really fucked you up, huh?" he mumbled, and there was no guilt in his voice, just plain awe, mixed with that lingering tipsy playfulness.
"You really did," you agreed, your voice rough from screaming.
He grinned, then slowly, carefully, pulled out of you. The sensation made you hiss, oversensitive and achingly empty, and you felt the warm trickle of his release begin to seep from you. He noticed too, his gaze dropping to where your bodies had been joined, and his grin softened into something more tender.
Your folds is soaked and painted with his cum. The milky fluids still trickle down from your entrance. Jungwon darted his tongue and lick it off. Cleaned your folds. He whined and savoring your taste.
Jungwon's grin lingered for a moment before gradually softening. The playful satisfaction that had been shining in his eyes faded into something warmer, something impossibly gentle as he looked down at you.
Your chest rose and fell unevenly while you lay beneath him, still trying to catch your breath. Every muscle in your body felt pleasantly heavy, leaving you with little desire to move from the comfortable warmth surrounding you.
His fingers brushed carefully along your cheek, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. Jungwon simply smiled. The expression that followed was so openly adoring that your heart squeezed. No matter how much he teased you, moments like this always reminded you how deeply Jungwon loved you.
Carefully, he gathered you into his arms, pulling you against his chest until your head rested comfortably beneath his chin.
"Comfortable?"
"Very."
"You sound sleepy."
"I am sleepy."
Neither of you spoke for a while after that. The room remained quiet. Filled only with the occasional brush of fingertips and the steady rhythm of breathing. Eventually, Jungwon tilted his head down and pressed one last kiss against your forehead. The warmth of his body molded to yours, the gentle weight of his arm anchoring you to the bed.
✚ Summary : Three best friends somehow survive med school and become actual doctors despite all evidence suggesting they absolutely should not have. Jay Park is a cardiologist suffering from rich people expectations. Jake Sim accidentally entered med school instead of veterinary school and realized it too late to escape. Sunghoon Park retired from figure skating only to voluntarily enter another form of physical suffering.
✚ Wordcount : 1.1K
✚ Warning : borderline unserious, 02! doctor, prettymuch just write some dumpster fire over here
Jay Park — Cardiology, Nepotism, and Other Heart Conditions
By the third time that week, someone whispered
“That’s the Park heir,”
Before he entered a patient room, Jay had developed the impressive ability to smile while internally dying.
Jay didn’t need to be a doctor. This is the thing people forget, and it is the thing Jay reminds himself every single morning when his pager goes off before his alarm.
Because yes, technically speaking, his family owned hospitals. Plural. Entire wings, actually. One time, his father casually bought an MRI machine the way other people bought air fryers.
But, people looooooove a good old spice called the nepo conspiracy. Which meant every single achievement Jay had ever accomplished came with an invisible subtitle: ‘Sure, but did your dad–’.
Annoyed was an understatement for Jay. He’s pissed. Probably ready to square up if they spoke some bullshit again. Not gonna lie, Jay’s patient is equally a wet tissue divided by 7 layers. You could call that almost nonexistent. Well… Sunghoon, for sure would write an entire essay on how bad Jay’s temperament is for 0 dollars.
Though his temperament was bad, Jay still a good cardiologist.
He was calm during emergencies. Great with difficult patients. Ridiculously precise in procedures. Nurses liked him because he never yelled. Elderly patients adored him because he looked expensive and spoke softly. Residents feared him because he could silently judge an ECG for seven seconds and then ask, “Do you notice the ST elevation?” in a tone that almost made the resident shit their pants.
Still, every morning he woke up he thought this is a scam.
To be fair, not medicine specifically. Just the entire concept of adulthood.
At 28, he spent his days discussing cholesterol with men who drank condensed milk straight from the can while his college friends in finance posted Instagram stories from Monaco.
Yesterday he spent forty minutes convincing a patient to stop smoking only for the man to light a cigarette in the parking lot while maintaining eye contact.
He recalls at least 7 different animals at that. He then remembered that he could lose his licence if he followed his emotion, so he just punching air and grumbled throughout the day.
Jay had once imagined cardiology would involve dramatic life saving moments. Instead, eighty percent of the job was paperwork and begging people to take their medication.
“Your blood pressure is dangerously high,” Jay said one afternoon.
The patient nodded thoughtfully. “Can I still eat fried goat intestine?”
This, he thought, was why doctors aged visibly.
He blames his grandfather, who said, with great theatrical gravitas at the dinner table in 2009, ‘Jay-ya, real men understand the heart.’ Jay is barely 7. He'd assumed this was a metaphor.
It was not a metaphor.
Jake Sim — The Accidental Anesthesiologist
The thing about Dr. Jake Sim was that he genuinely, sincerely, with his entire soul, believed he was going to veterinary school.
In his defense, the application portals looked similar.
Same layout, same font, roughly the same shade of blue. He was applying late at night. Layla was being loud. The tab he meant to submit was for veterinary school. The tab he actually submitted, confirmed, paid the deposit, showed up with two suitcases and a tote bag full of animal anatomy flashcards, was the college of medicine.
Why were veterinary medicine and medicine right next to each other in the dropdown menu like some kind of psychological trap?
He did not realise this until orientation day, when the dean welcomed them to a future of serving human patients.
Jake remembered blinking. Then blinking again. Then, looking around for cows.
There were no cows.
Only three hundred terrifyingly intelligent students holding anatomy textbooks thick enough to kill a man.
And Jake sat very still in the third row and thought, ‘oh, fuck…’
At first, he considered leaving immediately. But his parents had already framed the acceptance letter. His relatives had started calling him ‘our future doctor.’ His grandmother cried for forty consecutive minutes.
So Jake stayed. Um… well, mostly out of fear.
Years later, he was now an anesthesiologist, which felt deeply ironic considering he originally wanted to treat border collie with digestive issues.
The weird part was he is excellent at his job.
Anesthesia suited him. He was calm under pressure, fast thinking, oddly reassuring. Patients liked him because he spoke to them like normal people instead of malfunctioning medical robots.
“You’ll feel sleepy soon,” he’d say kindly while internally wondering how his life had led here.
Sometimes during surgery, while monitoring vitals with terrifying precision, Jake would suddenly remember he once dreamed of opening a countryside animal clinic.
Then a surgeon would yell, “Pressure’s dropping,” and he’d snap back into action like a divorced father in a medical drama.
The biggest scam, Jake thought, was how medicine slowly became your entire personality.
He now consumed caffeine like oxygen, referred to time in shifts, and got irrationally excited about finding a good vein.
Also, he hadn’t slept properly for over 10 years.
Sunghoon Park — Orthopedics and the Tragedy of Knees
Dr. Sunghoon Park still walked like an athlete. Especially in scrubs, actually.
It was impossible not to when you’d spent most of your teenage years as a competitive figure skater surviving entirely on muscle memory, caffeine, and chronic knee pain.
Sunghoon is the only one of the three who made a considered, rational, adult decision to attend medical school. He even made a spreadsheet.
To be fair, one injury too many. One surgery too serious, one doctor saying ‘you need to think about your future’
He thought got into medical school was a good choice. Haha, sike.
It’s not.
Buuuuuuut, orthopedics felt inevitable.
Who better to fix broken bones than someone whose body sounded like bubble wrap every morning?
The thing nobody tells retired athletes who become doctors is that your former career follows you. Sunghoon's patients, upon learning he was once a figure skater, respond in exactly two ways: extreme delight, or the immediate launching of deeply personal questions about what ice skates actually feel like on the feet, which is not why they came in for their knee replacement.
But that’s not where the problem is. The problem was that orthopedic surgeons were terrifying.
Not evil. Just alarmingly enthusiastic about power tools.
Sunghoon’s first orthopedic surgery involved someone casually saying, ‘Pass me the hammer’ and that should have been his sign to leave.
Instead, years later, he was now confidently drilling screws into femurs while discussing lunch plans.
Human beings adapted too easily. That was the real horror.
Orthopedics also turned out to be the most aggressively male specialty on earth. His coworkers communicated primarily through gym conversations and discussions about protein intake.
That’s why people in the hospital call the orthopedics the gym bro: hospital edition.
Sometimes, after exhausting shifts, Sunghoon would stand outside the hospital flexing his aching shoulder and think, ‘this is ridiculous’
He could’ve opened a skating academy, become a coach, or most realistically, lived peacefully.
Instead, he willingly entered a profession where people called him at 3 a.m. because somebody fell off a ladder.
✚ Summary : Three best friends somehow survive med school and become actual doctors despite all evidence suggesting they absolutely should not have. Jay Park is a cardiologist suffering from rich people expectations. Jake Sim accidentally entered med school instead of veterinary school and realized it too late to escape. Sunghoon Park retired from figure skating only to voluntarily enter another form of physical suffering.
✚ Wordcount : 1.1K
✚ Warning : borderline unserious, 02! doctor, prettymuch just write some dumpster fire over here
Jay Park — Cardiology, Nepotism, and Other Heart Conditions
By the third time that week, someone whispered
“That’s the Park heir,”
Before he entered a patient room, Jay had developed the impressive ability to smile while internally dying.
Jay didn’t need to be a doctor. This is the thing people forget, and it is the thing Jay reminds himself every single morning when his pager goes off before his alarm.
Because yes, technically speaking, his family owned hospitals. Plural. Entire wings, actually. One time, his father casually bought an MRI machine the way other people bought air fryers.
But, people looooooove a good old spice called the nepo conspiracy. Which meant every single achievement Jay had ever accomplished came with an invisible subtitle: ‘Sure, but did your dad–’.
Annoyed was an understatement for Jay. He’s pissed. Probably ready to square up if they spoke some bullshit again. Not gonna lie, Jay’s patient is equally a wet tissue divided by 7 layers. You could call that almost nonexistent. Well… Sunghoon, for sure would write an entire essay on how bad Jay’s temperament is for 0 dollars.
Though his temperament was bad, Jay still a good cardiologist.
He was calm during emergencies. Great with difficult patients. Ridiculously precise in procedures. Nurses liked him because he never yelled. Elderly patients adored him because he looked expensive and spoke softly. Residents feared him because he could silently judge an ECG for seven seconds and then ask, “Do you notice the ST elevation?” in a tone that almost made the resident shit their pants.
Still, every morning he woke up he thought this is a scam.
To be fair, not medicine specifically. Just the entire concept of adulthood.
At 28, he spent his days discussing cholesterol with men who drank condensed milk straight from the can while his college friends in finance posted Instagram stories from Monaco.
Yesterday he spent forty minutes convincing a patient to stop smoking only for the man to light a cigarette in the parking lot while maintaining eye contact.
He recalls at least 7 different animals at that. He then remembered that he could lose his licence if he followed his emotion, so he just punching air and grumbled throughout the day.
Jay had once imagined cardiology would involve dramatic life saving moments. Instead, eighty percent of the job was paperwork and begging people to take their medication.
“Your blood pressure is dangerously high,” Jay said one afternoon.
The patient nodded thoughtfully. “Can I still eat fried goat intestine?”
This, he thought, was why doctors aged visibly.
He blames his grandfather, who said, with great theatrical gravitas at the dinner table in 2009, ‘Jay-ya, real men understand the heart.’ Jay is barely 7. He'd assumed this was a metaphor.
It was not a metaphor.
Jake Sim — The Accidental Anesthesiologist
The thing about Dr. Jake Sim was that he genuinely, sincerely, with his entire soul, believed he was going to veterinary school.
In his defense, the application portals looked similar.
Same layout, same font, roughly the same shade of blue. He was applying late at night. Layla was being loud. The tab he meant to submit was for veterinary school. The tab he actually submitted, confirmed, paid the deposit, showed up with two suitcases and a tote bag full of animal anatomy flashcards, was the college of medicine.
Why were veterinary medicine and medicine right next to each other in the dropdown menu like some kind of psychological trap?
He did not realise this until orientation day, when the dean welcomed them to a future of serving human patients.
Jake remembered blinking. Then blinking again. Then, looking around for cows.
There were no cows.
Only three hundred terrifyingly intelligent students holding anatomy textbooks thick enough to kill a man.
And Jake sat very still in the third row and thought, ‘oh, fuck…’
At first, he considered leaving immediately. But his parents had already framed the acceptance letter. His relatives had started calling him ‘our future doctor.’ His grandmother cried for forty consecutive minutes.
So Jake stayed. Um… well, mostly out of fear.
Years later, he was now an anesthesiologist, which felt deeply ironic considering he originally wanted to treat border collie with digestive issues.
The weird part was he is excellent at his job.
Anesthesia suited him. He was calm under pressure, fast thinking, oddly reassuring. Patients liked him because he spoke to them like normal people instead of malfunctioning medical robots.
“You’ll feel sleepy soon,” he’d say kindly while internally wondering how his life had led here.
Sometimes during surgery, while monitoring vitals with terrifying precision, Jake would suddenly remember he once dreamed of opening a countryside animal clinic.
Then a surgeon would yell, “Pressure’s dropping,” and he’d snap back into action like a divorced father in a medical drama.
The biggest scam, Jake thought, was how medicine slowly became your entire personality.
He now consumed caffeine like oxygen, referred to time in shifts, and got irrationally excited about finding a good vein.
Also, he hadn’t slept properly for over 10 years.
Sunghoon Park — Orthopedics and the Tragedy of Knees
Dr. Sunghoon Park still walked like an athlete. Especially in scrubs, actually.
It was impossible not to when you’d spent most of your teenage years as a competitive figure skater surviving entirely on muscle memory, caffeine, and chronic knee pain.
Sunghoon is the only one of the three who made a considered, rational, adult decision to attend medical school. He even made a spreadsheet.
To be fair, one injury too many. One surgery too serious, one doctor saying ‘you need to think about your future’
He thought got into medical school was a good choice. Haha, sike.
It’s not.
Buuuuuuut, orthopedics felt inevitable.
Who better to fix broken bones than someone whose body sounded like bubble wrap every morning?
The thing nobody tells retired athletes who become doctors is that your former career follows you. Sunghoon's patients, upon learning he was once a figure skater, respond in exactly two ways: extreme delight, or the immediate launching of deeply personal questions about what ice skates actually feel like on the feet, which is not why they came in for their knee replacement.
But that’s not where the problem is. The problem was that orthopedic surgeons were terrifying.
Not evil. Just alarmingly enthusiastic about power tools.
Sunghoon’s first orthopedic surgery involved someone casually saying, ‘Pass me the hammer’ and that should have been his sign to leave.
Instead, years later, he was now confidently drilling screws into femurs while discussing lunch plans.
Human beings adapted too easily. That was the real horror.
Orthopedics also turned out to be the most aggressively male specialty on earth. His coworkers communicated primarily through gym conversations and discussions about protein intake.
That’s why people in the hospital call the orthopedics the gym bro: hospital edition.
Sometimes, after exhausting shifts, Sunghoon would stand outside the hospital flexing his aching shoulder and think, ‘this is ridiculous’
He could’ve opened a skating academy, become a coach, or most realistically, lived peacefully.
Instead, he willingly entered a profession where people called him at 3 a.m. because somebody fell off a ladder.
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୨ৎ Summary : Jungwon’s love overflows—soft hands, needy touches, and a hunger for closeness that never quite fades. The more he has you, the more he wants, until every moment together blurs into something warm, consuming, and impossible to resist.
୨ৎ Pairing : husband! Jungwon x wife! reader
୨ৎ Wordcount : 1,6K
୨ৎ Warning : explicit scene, softdom!Jungwon, creampie, cumplay, unprotected sex (DON'T do it guys)
In the soft hush of your shared bedroom, lamplight casting golden hues over the rumpled sheets, your husband, Yang Jungwon, gazes at you with that familiar tenderness, his dark eyes brimming with unwavering devotion. He's always been respectful and soft with you. Gentle hands tracing your skin like you're fragile porcelain, whispers of love murmured against your temple before every kiss. But there's one obsession that burns quietly beneath his calm exterior: the primal need to cum inside your pussy every single time you have sex.
He cradles your face now, thumb brushing your lower lip as he leans in, voice a husky promise. "Let me fill you up tonight, love," he breathes, already hard and pressing against your thigh, his cock twitching with anticipation for that deep, claiming release only you can give him.
You melt into his touch, a soft whimper escaping as his thumb parts your lips, your tongue flicking out to taste you.
“Jungwon…” you murmur, your hand sliding down his chest to feel his abs.
The thick bulge starts straining in his boxers. He groans low, hips bucking, but his free hand catches your wrist gently. He shifts over you, pinning you lightly beneath his warm weight.
“Ssh, patience, my love,” he whispers, lips brushing yours in a featherlight kiss that deepens instantly, his tongue sweeping in to tangle with yours. The kiss was slow and thorough, while his fingers trailed down your neck, over the swell of your breasts, thumb circling your hardening nipple until you arch up with a gasp. He breaks the kiss to mouth along your jaw, down to suckle at your throat, leaving faint marks.
“My perfect girl,” he whispers against your mouth, voice thick with need.
You whimper softly, your fingers digging into his shoulders, pulling him closer. His hard cock presses against your thigh, already leaking precum that smears hotly on your skin.
"Jungwon... please," you breathe, arching up to meet him.
He smiles that tender, possessive smile, lining himself up before notching the fat head of his cock at your entrance, rubbing it through your wetness before pushing in slow, inch by inch. Your pussy clenches around him, greedy for every veiny ridge, and he hisses through his teeth, forehead pressing to yours.
"So tight for me... always taking me so well," he praises, voice rough with restraint as he bottoms out, his balls snug against your ass. The outline of his cock presses visibly against your lower belly, where his cock presses deep inside, and he groans, palm flattening over it.
“Look at that,” he praises, eyes locked on the swell. “You take me so well, love. So tight and perfect for my cock...” His hips rock forward in a slow thrust, the bulge shifting with each movement, making you gasp at the fullness. He starts a steady rhythm, pulling out halfway before sliding back in, grinding deep to hit that spot that makes your toes curl.
You cling to him, nails scraping his back as pleasure builds in waves. His mouth finds your neck, sucking softly, leaving faint marks of ownership. "That's it, baby," he murmurs, pace quickening just a touch. "Let me feel you squeeze me.”
He angles his hips, thrusting harder now, the bulge in your belly more pronounced with every plunge. Your clit grinds against his pelvis, sparks flying up your spine. "Wonnie—," you cry out, overwhelmed.
He kisses you messily, swallowing your moans, his free hand pinching your nipple gently before soothing it with his thumb.
"Cum for me, sweetheart," he urges, voice husky. "I want to feel you soak my cock." The praise tips you over, your orgasm crashing through you. He moans loudly, hips stuttering as he chases his release.
"Fuck, yes—take my cum," he growls softly, burying himself deep. Hot spurts fill your pussy, his cock pulsing as he empties inside you, until it overflows, leaking out around him. He doesn't pull out, staying seated as he catches his breath, kissing your forehead, your cheeks, your lips.
But he's not done. That needy glint returns to his eyes. "Need you again," he whispers, starting to move once more. His cock is still hard and slick with your mixed juices. You whine, oversensitive, but your hips buck up instinctively. He fucks you slower this time, savoring every drag, the bulge reappearing as he bottoms out.
"So good for me," he praises between thrusts. "My wrecked little wife, pussy full of my cum.” His mouth finds your breast, tongue laving your nipple before he sucks hard, teeth grazing just enough to make you cry out.
The pressure coils tight in your core, his cock hitting that spot inside that makes stars burst behind your eyes. "That's it, my perfect girl," he murmurs against your skin, lips trailing kisses everywhere he can reach. "Squirt for me, soak my cock before I breed you full."
Your walls spasm wildly, gushing around him in hot spurts that drench his pelvis and the sheets. You squirt hard, body shaking as he fucks you through it, the bulge in your belly shifting with every plunge. "Fuck, yes—wrecked for me," he growls softly, pride lacing his tone, and then he's following, cock swelling as he buries deep and unloads. Thick ropes of cum paint your insides.
Jungwon doesn't let you go for long. With a renewed, predatory hunger, he doesn't start with soft kisses this time. Instead, he spreads your legs wide, pinning your knees back toward your shoulders so your pussy is completely exposed, glistening and open to his gaze.
He reaches down, sliding two fingers into your drenched heat to stretch you, making a wet, squelching sound that echoes in the quiet room. "Look at you," he rasps, his voice thick and vulgar. He pulls his fingers out with a loud pop and replaces them with his cock.
He drives himself home in one heavy, brutal thrust that makes you gasp, your back arching off the mattress. He bottoms out completely, his balls slapping hard against your ass. He shifts his weight, propping himself up on his elbows so he can look down. He wants to see it. He watches with an obsessed intensity as his thick shaft disappears into your folds, the skin of your pussy stretching taut and translucent around him.
"I can feel my cock hitting your womb. I'm going to fill you so full you won't be able to walk."
“Won–” The friction becomes unbearable, your walls clamping down on him in desperate, rhythmic pulses. You're sobbing his name, your head tossing from side to side, as he picks up the speed. He's drilling into you now, short, fast stabs that target your G-spot with surgical precision.
He growls, his own climax hitting him like a freight train. He lets out a guttural moan, his hips locking against yours as he pumps a massive, pulsing load deep into your cervix. He doesn't pull out; he stays buried, grinding his pelvis into you, ensuring every single drop of his thick cum is forced deep inside.
The third orgasm rips through you violently, squirting harder, soaking his thighs. He follows with a guttural moan, pumping yet another load into you, cum dripping down your legs now. You're utterly wrecked, limbs heavy, pussy throbbing, mind hazy with bliss. He stays inside, plugging you full, his body curled protectively around yours.
After a few minutes of heavy breathing, he slowly, agonizingly withdraws. He stays hovering over you, watching with a smirk of pure possession as the seal breaks. A thick, creamy mixture of his seed and your juices begins to overflow, leaking slowly from your gaping hole and trailing down your thighs in white streaks.
Jungwon pulls you up, guiding you to sit astride him while he leans back against the headboard, his legs spread and his sculpted abs on full display, glistening with a thin sheen of sweat.
"Come here," he murmurs, his voice a low, vibrating rumble.
You sink onto him, but not in the way you usually do. He guides you so that you're riding his torso, your pussy pressed directly against the hard, defined ridges of his stomach.
Jungwon lets out a shaky breath, his hands gripping your hips to hold you firmly against him. He loves the sight of your drenched, swollen, heat-smeared across his toned abs. He begins to move you, grinding your pussy slowly and deliberately against his abs. The friction is electric, the wetness of his seed acting as a lubricant as you slide over his muscles.
"You're painting me with your mess. My cum is all over my stomach because you couldn't hold a single drop of it."
He watches your expression, loving how wrecked and sensitive you are, your breath hitching as he marks himself with the evidence of how thoroughly he's filled you.
As the intensity begins to mellow, the predatory hunger in his eyes softens back into that familiar, overwhelming devotion. He shifts, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you flush against his chest, his lips migrating from your mouth to your jaw, then your neck, showering you in a relentless stream of tender, lingering kisses.
"You did so well for me, baby," he praises, his voice returning to that soft, melodic tone that makes your heart melt.
He eventually helps you up, his movements gentle and supportive, and leads you toward the bathroom. In the shower, the atmosphere shifts from raw lust to pure, domestic bliss. The warm water cascades over both of you, washing away the salt and the seed, but Jungwon doesn't stop touching you.
He soaps your skin with slow, reverent strokes, his hands lingering on your curves as if he's memorizing them. He kisses every inch of your shoulder, your collarbone, and the slope of your breast, whispering sweet nothings and promises of forever against your skin. He holds you under the spray, forehead pressed against yours, his eyes full of an adoration that is just as intense as his obsession.
"I love you so much," he breathes, kissing your eyelids and the tip of your nose. "I'm never letting you go."
୨ৎ Summary : Dr. Sim thought surviving trauma surgery would be the hardest part of his new job. Until he met Dr. Y/N. Cold, terrifying, and impossibly competent, the trauma surgeon quickly becomes the center of every exhausting shift and every thought he can’t seem to turn off. Somewhere between overnight surgeries, coffee runs, and years of working side by side, Jake realizes falling in love with her is the easiest thing he’s ever done. The problem? Dr. Y/N doesn’t believe in making space for people in her life. Especially not someone as persistent as him.
୨ৎ Pairing : anesthesiologist! Jake x traumasurgeon! reader
୨ৎ Wordcount : 9.4K
୨ৎ Song : Crush - Ego
୨ৎ Warning : STILL A SLOW BURN!! Jake highkey down-bad, FLUFF!!, a bit angst, comedic (if you squint), co-worker to.... (idk) but there's a progress chat!, a lot of banter (please bear with me).
part I
Jake spent a solid fifteen minutes staring at the vending machine. A deep sigh escaped him as he leaned his forehead against the glass. His reflection stared back, looking significantly less charming than usual. Tragic.
First day as an attending anesthesiologist, he already got yelled at in front of an entire operating room.
Jake still couldn’t fully process it.
Not during med school. Not during residency. Not even by Professor Kwon, who once made a grown orthopedic resident cry over improper intubation positioning.
But you?
You had looked up from an actively bleeding patient with the coldest expression he had ever seen and said—
“Dr. Sim, are you planning to keep up, or should I ask for someone faster?”
The room had gone silent. Even the cardiac monitor suddenly sounded awkward. Jake winced at the memory and rubbed a hand down his face.
Okay.
In his defense, trauma surgery was insane. Things moved at approximately the speed of light in your operating room. Instruments flew into your waiting hand before people even registered that you asked for them. Residents looked second away from cardiac arrest. Nurses communicated through eye contact alone.
And you?
You were terrifying.
Not loud, not emotional, just brutally efficient. Which somehow made it worse.
Jake grabbed an Americano from the vending machine and muttered under his breath.
“One rough induction and suddenly my career flashed before my eyes,”
“You were slow.”
He nearly fumbled the drink. Turning around, he found you standing there in navy scrubs, arms crossed loosely over your chest.
No warning. No footsteps. Psychotic behavior, honestly.
“You always stand there like a disappointed ghost?”
“You always complain this much?”
“Only after public humiliation.”
You grabbed your drink from the vending machine. “Then get used to it.”
Jake stared at you in disbelief as you started walking away.
“Wow,” he called after you. “That was kinda mean.”
Jake watched you walk down the hallway without looking back once.
Sure, you were dragging your steps like each one weighed at least fifty pounds after a brutal shift, but somehow you still moved through the hospital corridor with the intensity of someone seconds away from giving a TED Talk titled Why Med School Was The Worst Decision Of My Life.
Jake took a sip of his coffee.
“…I kinda respect her, actually.”
“Don’t let her hear that.”
"Jesus!"
Jake's heart almost evaporates. A nurse stood beside him now, casually punching numbers into the vending machine. Slowly, and trying to make things more embarrassing, he calmed himself down.
“Why?” he asked.
“Compliments make her violent.”
He let out a quiet laugh. “That explains a lot.”
“You’re new, huh?”
“That obvious?”
The nurse grabbed her drink with a hum. “You’re still smiling after getting yelled at.”
Ouch.
Jake leaned back against the vending machine. “Does she hate everyone equally, or should I feel honored?”
“Oh, Dr. Y/N definitely hates incompetence more.”
“…That somehow feels personal.”
“You’ll survive,” the nurse said. “Probably.”
Probably?
Before Jake could question that deeply concerning choice of words, his pager suddenly buzzed against his waist.
OR TWO — TRAUMA ACTIVATION.
“Well,” he muttered, pushing himself off the vending machine, “time to go disappoint a woman again.”
“Good luck,” the nurse called out, already laughing.
He took one last sip of his americano before tossing the empty can neatly into the trash bin.
Missed.
Jake stared at the can lying sadly on the floor.
“…That feels symbolic somehow.”
Then, with what remained of his dignity, he picked it up and headed toward OR Two. Straight into the beginning of his problems.
.
.
.
.
Six months later, Jake learned three important things.
First, trauma surgeons operated entirely on caffeine, spite, and unresolved psychological issues. Second, the emergency department smelled permanently like stress and antiseptic. And third, you still hated him. Maybe hate was a strong word. Strongly disliked him? Yeah, probably that.
“Dr. Sim.”
Jake didn’t even look up from the patient chart anymore. “That tone usually means I’m about to get criticized.”
“Because you’re leaning on the sterile table.”
He immediately stepped away. “See, this is why morale in this hospital is terrible.”
“Morale is not my department.”
“Neither is emotional damage, yet somehow you excel at both.”
Around the operating room, two residents immediately looked down to hide their laughter.
Six months ago, they would’ve been terrified to witness conversations like this. Now the trauma team had simply accepted that Dr. Y/N and Dr. Sim existed in their own strange ecosystem. Jake adjusted his gloves before glancing sideways at you. Same cold expression. Same sharp eyes. Same terrifyingly competent hands are currently preparing for surgery.
Still terrifying. Still brutally honest. Still the prettiest person he’d ever seen in an operating room.
Which honestly felt medically unprofessional at this point.
“You’re staring again,” you said flatly.
Jake blinked once. “See, now you’re just making things awkward.”
“Focus on the patient.”
“I am.”
Your eyes narrowed slightly. Jake grinned behind his mask. Ah. There it was. Progress. Six months ago, you would’ve ignored him completely. Now you looked mildly homicidal instead.
Relationship development.
.
.
.
.
A year later, Jake still couldn’t decide whether meeting you had improved his life or permanently damaged it.
Probably both.
You were still terrifying. The difference was that he had unfortunately started finding it attractive. Deeply attractive. Catastrophically attractive, even.
Somewhere between his third overnight trauma call and the time you silently handed him half your sandwich during a fourteen-hour shift, Jake realized he was in serious trouble. Not crush trouble. Real trouble.
The kind where he automatically searched for you first every time he walked into the trauma department. The kind where hearing your voice over the intercom somehow made his shifts less unbearable. The kind where your approval started mattering more than it should.
Which was ridiculous, considering you still criticized him like it was a professional obligation.
“BP’s dropping.”
“I know.”
“Well, that response feels unnecessarily hostile.”
You didn’t even look up from the patient. “Clamp.”
The scrub nurse immediately placed the instrument into your hand.
“Pressure’s at eighty over fifty,” Jake continued, eyes moving across the monitor. “She’s bleeding faster than you’re closing.”
“That sounds judgmental coming from someone sitting down.”
Jake gasped softly behind his mask. “See? This is why people fear trauma surgeons.”
“People fear incompetence.”
“And yet you continue allowing residents into your OR.”
One of the residents nearly choked. You held your hand out wordlessly.
“Suction.”
Jake watched you work for a second.
Fast hands. Steady movements. Zero hesitation. Honestly, it was getting hard to focus professionally when you looked like that during surgery.
“Dr. Sim.”
He blinked. “Hm?”
“Focus.”
Jake stared. “You sensed me being distracted?”
“Your monitor alarm has been going off for seven seconds.”
“…Right.”
He silenced it quickly while muttering under his breath, “This is psychological warfare.”
“Heart rate stabilizing,” he said a moment later. “You’ve got a better window now.”
“How much time?”
Jake glanced at the monitor again. “If you want the patient alive? Ten minutes.”
“I only need seven.”
“That confidence is either very attractive or deeply concerning.”
Silence. Then the scrub nurse quietly turned away to hide her laughter. Your eyes narrowed above your mask.
“Are you always this annoying?”
“Only in rooms where I feel emotionally safe.”
“Then feel unsafe.”
Jake grinned immediately.
Ah. There it was. His favorite thing in the world: the tiny look of irritation you got whenever he made you this close to losing composure.
.
.
.
.
Three years later, Jake could read your moods purely based on how aggressively you tied your surgical gown.
Today?
Dangerous.
Not angry enough to kill someone, but definitely irritated enough to emotionally damage a resident.
“Why is everyone breathing so loudly today?”
Ah.
Definitely dangerous.
Around the operating room, three residents immediately lowered their heads like civilians avoiding eye contact with a predator. Jake, meanwhile, didn’t even look up from the anesthesia monitor anymore.
“Good morning to you, too, sunshine.”
“I’ve been awake for twenty-two hours.”
“And yet somehow your personality still finds ways to worsen.”
“Scalpel.”
The instrument landed perfectly into your waiting hand before the scrub nurse could react. Your eyes flicked toward Jake briefly. Not surprised. Just accustomed. Three years working together had turned your operating rhythm into something almost automatic.
Jake adjusted medications before you asked. You anticipated his timing without looking. The entire trauma surgeries passed with conversations made up of half-sentences because neither of you needed explanations anymore. Honestly, it was a little insane.
“BP stable,” Jake said.
“Mm.”
“Heart rate’s improving.”
“Good.”
“You know,” he continued casually, “most surgeons say thank you.”
“Most anesthesiologists don’t complain during active hemorrhages.”
Ouch.
The surgery continued smoothly after that.
Three years working together had turned both of you into something almost terrifyingly synchronized. You moved. Jake adjusted. He spoke. You already anticipated the problem before he finished the sentence.
Somewhere along the way, working together stopped feeling difficult and started feeling natural. Which was honestly dangerous for Jake emotionally.
Nearly an hour later, you finally stepped away from the operating table with a tired exhale.
“Closing complete.”
Jake glanced at the monitor one last time before nodding. “Vitals stable.”
“Good.”
The residents visibly relaxed like prisoners being granted freedom.
You peeled off your gloves with the same exhausted irritation you carried through most shifts nowadays. Twenty-two hours awake. Midnight surgery. Terrifying attitude is somehow still fully operational. Jake watched you walk toward the scrub room sink before following behind casually.
“So,” he started, washing his hands beside you, “coffee?”
“No.”
Immediate.
Jake sighed. “You reject me concerning efficiency.”
“Practice.”
“Cruel.”
“Accurate.”
Water ran quietly between both of you for a moment. Your shoulders looked tense. Heavy. The kind of exhaustion that sleep alone probably couldn’t fix. Jake leaned slightly against the sink.
“Okay,” he tried again, “then lunch tomorrow.”
“No.”
“Tomorrow night?”
“No.”
“Breakfast?”
“I’d rather intubate myself.”
Jake stared at you in disbelief. “See, comments like that are exactly why HR avoids our department.”
Finally, finally, the corner of your mouth twitched upward slightly. Barely there. Tiny.
But Jake noticed immediately anyway. And there it was. The reason he kept trying. Because every once in a while, after long shifts and impossible surgeries, you let tiny cracks show through the armor. Never for long. Never intentionally. But enough. Just enough to completely ruin him. You grabbed a towel, drying your hands before speaking flatly again.
“Go home, Dr. Sim.”
Jake smiled lazily. “Worried about me?”
“I’m worried your face will still be here when my next shift starts.”
“That’s the meanest possible version of concern.”
You turned to leave the scrub room. Then paused briefly near the doorway.
“…There’s coffee in the residents’ lounge.”
Jake blinked once.
“Wait.”
You kept walking.
“Was that an invitation?”
Silence.
Jake grinned slowly to himself before following you anyway.
.
.
.
.
Jake realized he was in love with you at 3:17 in the morning.
Which was deeply unfair, honestly.
Not because the timing was inconvenient— although falling in love during a trauma activation probably counted as psychological damage— but because the realization happened over something incredibly stupid.
You were eating crackers.
That was it.
Just you sitting on the counter in the residents’ lounge after eighteen straight hours awake, still wearing navy scrubs while quietly eating stale crackers like they personally offended you. Jake stood frozen near the coffee machine.
Yet somehow, while watching you silently eat crackers at an ungodly hour in a fluorescent hospital lounge, that was the only thought Jake had left.
Oh, this was bad.
Because suddenly every annoying thing about you became weirdly endearing. The permanent frown. The exhaustion in your eyes. The way you looked homicidal before caffeine. Even your silence felt familiar now instead of intimidating.
You noticed him staring almost immediately. Of course you did. You looked unimpressed already. Comforting, somehow. Jake grabbed two coffees automatically before setting one beside you. You glanced at the cup.
“I didn’t ask for this.”
“You also haven’t gone home in twenty hours. I’m taking creative liberties.”
You stared at the coffee for a few quiet seconds before taking it anyway. No, thank you, just acceptance. Jake smiled before he could stop himself. And there it was again. That horrible feeling in his chest. Warm. Heavy. Stupidly soft.
God.
He was genuinely done for.
You frowned slightly at him over the coffee cup.
“…Why are you smiling like that?”
Jake leaned against the counter beside you.
“Nothing.”
Suspicious silence.
“You’re being weird again.”
He laughed quietly. Again. Like this was normal now. And maybe that was the exact moment Jake realized the problem wasn’t that you were difficult to love. It was that loving you had become the easiest thing he’d done in years.
.
.
.
.
“Fine,” you said flatly. “Lunch.”
Jake blinked. For the first time since you’d known him, he looked genuinely caught off guard. Then his entire face changed. Not smug satisfaction. Not teasing triumph. He looked happy.
Ridiculously, openly happy.
“Seriously?” he asked.
You immediately regretted everything. “Don’t make it weird.”
“I’m not making it weird, you just said yes.”
“To lunch.”
“With me.”
“To food.”
He laughed under his breath, then straightened so quickly it was almost embarrassing. “Right. Yes. Of course. Food.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Why do you look like you won something?”
“Because I did.”
“You did not.”
“I absolutely did.”
That exact moment had permanently altered his brain chemistry.
But Jake couldn’t help it. Because for everyone else, lunch was just lunch.
For you?
Saying yes to anything personal felt nearly impossible. Which meant Jake remembered every tiny detail of that day with horrifying clarity. The way you sighed before agreeing. The way you rolled your eyes when he smiled too much. The fact that you stayed even after finishing your food.
Tiny things. Meaningless things. Things Jake treasured anyway, like a complete idiot.
“Dr. Sim.”
He looked up instantly. And there you were at the end of the hallway, already dressed in scrubs for the next surgery. Same exhausted expression.
Same terrifying aura.
The same woman is currently ruining his emotional stability.
“Are you coming to OR Three,” you asked flatly, “or are you planning to stand there looking emotionally compromised all afternoon?”
Jake blinked once.
“See, comments like that are exactly why I’m obsessed with you.”
“That sounds like a personal problem.”
“It is.”
You stared at him for a long second before turning around toward the operating rooms again.
“Five minutes.”
Jake immediately pushed himself off the counter to follow after you.
Of course he did.
The hallway lights reflected against the polished floors as both of you walked side by side in familiar silence.
“Why are you smiling again?”
Jake looked over innocently. “You notice me a lot.”
“You’re visibly weird.”
“That’s hurtful.”
God. Even your insults sounded fond lately. Or maybe Jake was just deeply delusional at this point. Honestly hard to tell anymore.
“You know,” he said casually as both of you stopped outside the OR doors, “we should do lunch again sometime.”
“No.”
Immediate. Jake sighed dramatically toward the ceiling.
“And yet you already said yes once.”
“Temporary lapse in judgment.”
“One of the best days of my life, actually.”
Your hand paused briefly against the OR door handle. Tiny. Almost invisible. But Jake noticed anyway. He always noticed. You glanced sideways at him with narrowed eyes.
Silence.
“Dr. Sim.”
“Yeah?”
“Go monitor your patient.”
Ah.
Deflection again. Interesting.
.
.
.
.
The problem with Jake openly liking you was that nobody in the hospital found it surprising anymore.
Not the nurses. Not the residents. Not even the janitors at this point. After three years, Dr. Sim orbiting around Dr. Y/N had simply become part of the hospital ecosystem. Jake brought you coffee. You rejected him. Jake flirted during surgeries. You threatened violence.
Nature healed.
“You know that our hospital scrubs look good on you, right?”
“Move.”
Jake sighed, stepping aside so you could reach the patient's chart behind him.
“See, this is what I mean. You never take me seriously.”
“Because you say things like that while blocking the hallway.”
“That’s not related.”
“It’s extremely related.”
You flipped through the chart with your usual flat expression while Jake leaned beside you like a man with absolutely no survival instincts.
“I’m serious, by the way.”
“Mm.”
“That response feels disrespectful.”
“That’s because I don’t respect this conversation.”
Brutal.
Jake watched you scribble notes onto the chart, completely unaffected. Which honestly felt offensive at this point. Most people got nervous when they confessed to. You looked mildly inconvenienced.
“Three years,” Jake continued. “Three years of emotional dedication.”
“Three years of workplace harassment.”
“Wow.”
“You asked.”
Fair enough.
A resident passing by suddenly changed direction immediately after spotting both of you together.
Coward.
Jake narrowed his eyes at your profile. “Do you genuinely not believe me?”
“No.”
Immediate.
“That’s crazy, actually.”
“You flirt with everyone.”
Ouch.
Jake straightened slightly.
“Not like this.”
Finally, your pen paused. Just briefly. Tiny enough that nobody else would notice. But Jake noticed everything about you. Your eyes lifted toward him slowly.
“Dr. Sim.”
“Yeah?”
“You tell nurses they look pretty at least twice a day.”
“That’s basic workplace morale.”
“You winked at a pharmaceutical representative yesterday.”
“In my defense, she gave us free pens.”
Your expression flattened further somehow.
“Exactly my point.”
Jake stared at you for a second before laughing quietly under his breath.
God.
This was the issue. You genuinely thought this was just how he was. That he was naturally charming, affectionate, and absolutely naturally unserious.
You finally closed the chart and handed it to him. Your fingers brushed his glove briefly. Accidental. Meaningless. Yet Jake still felt like an idiot.
“Trauma consult in ten,” you said.
Then, just before walking away—
“…And stop flirting in hallways. You’re disturbing the residents.”
Jake blinked. Slowly, a grin spread across his face.
Not stop flirting.
Just—not in hallways. Oh. Interesting.
.
.
.
.
The next morning, you looked terrible.
Not visually terrible. Objectively, annoyingly, you still looked good. But Jake had worked with you for three years. He knew your normal expressions, your normal silences, your normal levels of hostility.
Today? Something was off. You were quieter. Not calmer. Just exhausted in a way that sat too heavily on your shoulders.
You adjusted your gloves with visible irritation before looking over the trauma scans clipped beside the monitor.
“Patient’s unstable. We don’t have time.”
Jake kept watching you carefully.
Pale.
“Dr. Y/N.”
“What.”
“You have a fever.”
“You diagnosed that from across the room?”
“I diagnosed it from your personality, somehow getting worse.”
No response. Which, honestly, worried him more. Usually, you’d insult him by now.
“Pressure dropping,” Jake said sharply.
“I know.”
“You’re too slow.”
“I said I know!”
Your voice cracked harshly through the operating room. Everyone froze instantly. Not because you yelled. You yelled all the time. But because your hands trembled afterward. Barely noticeable. Barely there.
Jake’s stomach dropped immediately.
“Dr. Y/N.”
“Focus on your side.”
“Dr. Sim,” you said flatly, though your voice sounded weaker now, “either help me keep this patient alive or stop staring at me.”
Jake looked at the monitor again before adjusting the medications quickly.
“BP stabilizing.”
“Good.”
Your shoulders lowered slightly in relief.
The surgery ended nearly four hours later.
Successful. Technically. But the entire day had gone horribly for you. Two emergency traumas back-to-back. One difficult family consult. Three residents are asking questions at the exact wrong time. No proper meal since yesterday afternoon.
And now this surgery.
By the time you stepped out of the operating room, your face looked noticeably pale beneath the harsh fluorescent lights. Jake noticed immediately. Of course he did.
“You okay?”
“Fine.”
Automatic. Flat. You didn’t even look at him while stripping off your gloves. The second the operation ended, you scrubbed out quickly and walked straight out of the hallway without your usual post-op lecture to the residents. Jake frowned immediately. That wasn’t normal. The residents looked confused, too. You never skipped the chart review. Never disappeared first.
Jake watched you push through the heavy emergency stairwell door before it shut behind you. For a moment, he stayed where he was. Then, without really thinking about it, he followed quietly down the hallway.
The stairwell door didn’t close completely. Just enough of a gap remained for him to see through the narrow opening.
And there you were.
Sitting halfway down the stairs with your elbows resting against your knees, eyes closed briefly as your head leaned against the wall. Still wearing your scrubs. Still carrying exhaustion in every inch of your posture. Silent.
Jake froze near the doorway. Something unpleasant tightened in his chest immediately.
Because he’d spent three years watching you survive impossible shifts without slowing down once. Three years watching you carry entire trauma rooms on your shoulders like it was normal. Yet right now, sitting alone in a quiet emergency stairwell, you looked tired in a way he’d never seen before.
Not the kind fixed by sleep. The deeper kind of doctors ignored themselves constantly.
Jake’s hand rested lightly against the stairwell door. He could go inside. You’d probably insult him for following you. Tell him to leave. Tell him you were fine.
But for once, he didn’t think you wanted someone talking to you. You just wanted silence. So Jake stayed where he was. Quiet. Hidden behind the door like an idiot. Watching long enough to make sure your breathing evened out slightly. Watching until some of the tension slowly left your shoulders.
The exhausted one sitting alone on emergency stairs because the hospital never stopped needing pieces of you. Jake lowered his eyes briefly before exhaling quietly to himself.
Hopeless. Completely hopeless.
Then, careful not to make noise, he stepped away from the stairwell door and walked back toward the hallway—leaving you your five minutes alone.
.
.
.
.
The emergency department immediately dissolved into organized chaos the second the paramedics pushed the gurney through the trauma bay doors.
“Male, thirty-eight,” one of the paramedics reported quickly. “Blunt abdominal trauma, hypotensive en route, possible internal bleeding—”
You were already moving before they finished speaking.
“Prep OR Two,” you ordered sharply. “Get blood ready. FAST ultrasound now.”
Jake watched you take over the room instantly. Like always. Fast hands. Fast decisions. No hesitation. The exhaustion from earlier disappeared beneath pure instinct the second a patient’s life landed in your hands.
That was the terrifying thing about you.
No matter how exhausted you were, trauma mode always came first. The patient groaned sharply as nurses transferred him onto the trauma bed. Disoriented. Agitated. In pain.
“Sir, stay still,” you said firmly while checking the abdominal tenderness.
“Don’t touch me,” he snapped immediately, trying to shove your hand away.
Jake frowned slightly from beside the monitors. Pain response. Confusion. Not unusual. But the patient kept going.
“Where’s the real doctor?” he barked harshly.
Silence flickered briefly across the trauma bay. One of the residents visibly stiffened. You didn’t react. Didn’t even blink. Just continued checking his injuries calmly.
“I am the trauma surgeon,” you replied evenly.
The patient laughed bitterly through clenched teeth. “Yeah? Then why do you look about sixteen?”
Bad move.
Jake saw several nurses immediately avoid eye contact. Because everyone in the trauma department knew one thing very clearly: You hated incompetent men. But you hated disrespectful ones even more.
Still, your expression never changed.
“You have internal bleeding,” you said flatly. “You can either cooperate with treatment or continue arguing while your blood pressure drops.”
“Unbelievable,” the patient snapped loudly. “You people always act like you’re smarter than everyone else.”
Jake’s jaw tightened slightly.
Because normally? Normally, you’d shut this down immediately with one terrifying sentence and move on. But today you just looked tired. Not offended. Not angry. Just tired.
“OR is ready,” a nurse interrupted carefully.
You nodded once. “Move him.”
.
.
.
.
The silence between you stretched quietly beneath the fluorescent lights.
Cold water still ran over your hands. The steady sound echoed softly through the scrub room while the rest of the hospital continued moving somewhere beyond the walls—pages overhead, hurried footsteps, distant monitor alarms.
Jake stayed near the doorway. Not leaving. Not speaking. Just there.
You finally shut the water off with a tired exhale before reaching for a paper towel. “You’re hovering.”
Jake leaned lightly against the doorframe. “You look like you’re about to commit aggravated assault on the next resident that breathes wrong.”
“That’s not unusual.”
“…Fair.”
The corner of your mouth almost twitched upward. Almost. Jake noticed immediately anyway. Three years later, and he still reacted to every microscopic change in your expression like a man discovering religion. You tossed the paper towel into the trash before finally looking at him properly for the first time since surgery.
“What?”
Jake shrugged slightly. “Nothing.”
“You’re staring again.”
“You got yelled at by an idiot patient and still saved his life thirty minutes later. I think I’m allowed to stare a little.”
Your expression flattened automatically at that. Deflection. Distance. Armor back up.
“It’s part of the job.”
“I know.”
“And I’m fine.”
Jake looked at you quietly for a second too long. Because that word again.
Fine.
Your favorite lie.
The thing was—you probably believed it too. You’d spent so many years surviving impossible shifts and impossible expectations that exhaustion became normal. Hurt became background noise. You kept functioning, so technically nothing was wrong.
Jake hated that.
Not because he thought you were fragile.
God, no.
You were probably the strongest person he’d ever met. But strong people still deserved someone noticing when things got heavy.
“You know,” he said softly, “being good at handling something doesn’t automatically mean it doesn’t suck.”
For the first time that night, you looked caught off guard.
Tiny reaction. Brief. But real. Your eyes lowered for a second before you shook your head lightly, almost annoyed at yourself for reacting at all.
“Since when did anesthesiologists become therapists?”
Jake grinned faintly. “Since trauma surgeons became emotionally constipated.”
“Watch your tone.”
“There she is.”
That finally earned him a quiet scoff from you. Small. Tired. But genuine. And somehow that felt like victory.
It wasn’t the first time a patient had looked at you and questioned your abilities. Wasn’t the first time someone assumed you were too young, too cold, too arrogant to be good at your job. And it definitely wasn’t the first time a man raised his voice at you because you refused to soften your tone for his comfort. None of it was new. You learned years ago that being a trauma surgeon meant growing thick skin fast, so you did. You became sharper. Colder. Harder to offend. Most days, it worked. Today just wasn’t most days.
The trauma patient was eventually stabilized after agreeing to surgery at the last possible second. The operation itself went smoothly—efficient, controlled, another life saved. Everyone in the OR moved on quickly afterward. Residents talked about the procedure, nurses cleaned up, and another trauma page already echoed somewhere down the hallway. The hospital kept moving. It always did. You stripped off your gloves quietly before stepping out of the operating room without saying much to anyone.
Jake noticed immediately. Of course he did. He watched you stop near the scrub room sink, hands braced lightly against the counter while cold water ran over your fingers. Just breathing. Just existing for one second without somebody needing something from you. Jake stood near the doorway quietly, not interrupting this time. No flirting. No teasing. Because he knew. Not exactly what it felt like, but enough. Enough to understand that being hurt by something didn’t mean you were weak for it. You could hear the same insult a hundred times and still feel it on the hundred-and-first. Especially on days when you were already running on nothing.
For a long moment, neither of you spoke. Then quietly, without looking at him, you muttered, “…He’s alive.”
Like that was the only part that mattered. Jake’s chest tightened painfully.
Because even after getting screamed at, doubted, and disrespected, your first concern was still whether the patient survived. Not your pride. Not your feelings. The patient. And standing there beneath the harsh fluorescent lights, exhausted down to the bone yet still worrying about somebody who had insulted you to your face, Jake felt himself fall in love with you all over again.
A few weeks after that night, the hospital didn’t get any quieter.
It never did.
But something between you and Jake had shifted in a way neither of you said out loud. He still trailed after you through corridors, still made unnecessary comments during surgeries, still acted like your personal irritation in human form. And you still told him to move, still rolled your eyes, still treated him like he was one bad joke away from getting kicked out of your OR.
But it wasn’t just that anymore. It had started to feel consistent. Familiar in a way that didn’t belong to colleagues.
That night, another trauma page came in just after midnight. Jake was already in OR Two when you arrived, tying your gown with sharp, efficient movements that didn’t quite hide how exhausted you were.
“Male, forty-two, MVC,” Jake said as you stepped in. “BP unstable en route but responding to fluids.”
“Start transfusion protocol,” you replied immediately.
No hesitation. No wasted movement. Just instinct and control.
The patient came in fast. Too fast. The room snapped into controlled chaos the moment the gurney crossed the threshold.
And Jake noticed it again. You were tired. Not obvious to anyone else—but obvious to him. A fraction slower between movements. A tighter set to your jaw. The kind of exhaustion that didn’t show up in posture, only in timing.
“Dr. Y/N,” Jake said quietly while adjusting anesthesia, “you slept at all this week?”
“I sleep.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It is the only one you’re getting.”
He sighed under his breath, but didn’t push further. He’d learned that pushing didn’t help with you. Not like that. The surgery progressed. Bleeding controlled. Vitals stabilizing. Everything is technically going right.
Until a resident hesitated at a critical step. A second too long. You didn’t raise your voice. You didn’t need to.
“Step aside,” you said flatly.
The resident froze.
“I said step aside!”
They moved immediately. The room went tense for half a second before stabilizing again. Jake watched it happen, not with judgment—but recognition. Because he knew that silence. That tone. It wasn’t anger for the sake of control. It was exhaustion protecting something fragile underneath it: the patient not dying on your table.
The surgery finished cleanly after that.
“Vitals stable,” Jake said.
“Close,” you replied.
And just like that, it was over.
You moved to the sink afterward, stripping off gloves with slightly slower hands than usual. The kind of tired that had started to settle into your bones lately instead of passing with the shift.
Jake stayed with you this time. Not behind. Not beside like a passing colleague. Just there. Close enough that it was intentional. The water ran quietly between you for a moment before he spoke.
“You’re not fine.”
Your hands paused under the stream.
Not startled. Just… aware. He didn’t continue immediately. Didn’t push. His voice stayed steady, lower than usual.
“I’m not saying that as your anesthesiologist,” he added. “I’m saying it as someone who actually cares about you.”
Silence. That landed differently. You slowly turned off the water and reached for a paper towel.
“…That’s not your job,” you said flatly.
Jake gave a quiet, humorless exhale. “Yeah. I know.”
You finally looked at him then. Properly. Tired eyes. Controlled expression. Walls still up, but thinner than they used to be.
He didn’t look away. Because he meant it. Not as a colleague. Not as a coworker orbiting your OR schedule. As someone who had spent too many nights noticing when you stopped being okay before you ever admitted it.
“I don’t care about this job boundary thing,” Jake said more softly.
That made your expression tighten slightly. Not anger. Something more complicated.
“…You shouldn’t say things like that.”
“Why?”
He just stayed there beside you in the harsh fluorescent light, like leaving you alone wasn’t something he was willing to do anymore.
“You should stop,” you said.
“Stop what?”
“This.”
A beat.
You gestured vaguely between the two of you, like it explained everything and nothing at once. Jake’s expression tightened slightly, but he didn’t back off.
“No,” he said simply.
That one word landed harder than expected. Because Jake didn’t usually refuse you like that. Not seriously. Not like he had decided something.
You narrowed your eyes. “You don’t get to decide that.”
“I am deciding it,” he corrected, voice calm but firm. “Because you’re not actually asking me to stop. You’re telling me to leave you alone so you don’t have to deal with it.”
Your jaw tightened.
“That’s not true.”
“It is,” he said quietly. “And I get it.”
That stopped you for a second. Not because you agreed. Because he wasn’t arguing your competence. He wasn’t joking. He wasn’t pushing your patience just to get a reaction.
He was just seeing it. Like he had been paying attention longer than you realized.
Jake stepped slightly closer—not invading, not cornering, just closing the distance enough that you couldn’t ignore him without effort.
“I’ve watched you for three years,” he said. “Not just in the OR. Everywhere.”
Your eyes flicked to his face briefly, guarded. He continued anyway.
“You don’t slow down. Not when you’re exhausted. Not when people are disrespectful. Not when you’re clearly running on nothing.”
A pause.
“And I used to think that was just who you are.”
His voice softened slightly, but didn’t lose its edge.
“But it’s not strength when it’s constant depletion.”
The word hit differently. You hated that it did. Your fingers tightened around the edge of the sink.
“I’m fine,” you repeated automatically.
Jake shook his head once.
“No,” he said again, quieter this time. “You’re functional. There’s a difference.”
Silence stretched. The hum of the hospital overhead felt louder now. You looked away first, which annoyed you more than anything else.
“…You’re overstepping,” you muttered.
“Yeah,” Jake admitted immediately.
That made you look back at him. He didn’t apologize. Just nodded slightly as he accepted it.
“I am,” he said. “But I’d rather be annoying than watch you keep pretending you don’t need anything from anyone.”
Your throat tightened slightly—something you refused to name. Jake exhaled slowly, then added, softer but steadier:
“And I’m not doing this because you’re my colleague anymore.”
That part landed differently. He held your gaze. No grin. No flirting. No easy exit. Just honesty, stripped down.
“I care about you,” he said. “More than I should for someone I work with.”
A pause. Then, more firmly.
“And I’m not going to pretend I don’t anymore.”
The space between you felt too quiet after that. Not empty. Just full in a way neither of you had labeled yet.
.
.
.
.
You didn’t hate people.
Jake had stopped believing that version of you a long time ago. What you hated was the aftermath—the chaos left behind when someone else made a mistake, and you were the one expected to turn it into something survivable again. The delay. The preventable damage. The clean-up that always landed in your hands. Inconvenience disguised as responsibility. That was what irritated you, not humanity itself.
Because if it had truly been hatred, you wouldn’t pause the way you did when a patient’s voice cracked in fear. You wouldn’t adjust your tone when someone was too scared to understand instructions. You wouldn’t stay late when there was nothing in it for you except making sure things didn’t fall apart after you left. Jake had seen it too many times now for it to be an accident.
You had always told yourself engagement with people was complicated—that it meant getting pulled into problems you never agreed to take on, responsibilities that didn’t belong to you, emotions that would slow you down. So you built distance. Sharpness. Efficiency. Cold professionalism that made everything easier to manage and harder to reach. A system that worked, most of the time.
But life didn’t let you stay detached. Not here. Not in trauma. Because here you were anyway—standing in the middle of chaos, cleaning up what other people broke, making impossible decisions in seconds while others hesitated. Everything you said you didn’t want, you were already doing. Jake watched you for a moment longer and thought, quietly, that maybe it was never about hating people at all. Maybe it was just that you cared too much and never permitted yourself to call it that.
So when others called you cold, Jake no longer agreed. Because to him, you weren’t the coldest person in the hospital. You were the one who cared the most. Just in a way that didn’t ask for credit, didn’t ask to be seen, and definitely didn’t ask to be understood. And somehow, that made you the warmest person he had ever known.
.
.
.
.
The trauma page came in just after midnight.
MVC. High speed. Multiple casualties.
By the time you reached the ER, the chaos was already organized into sharp, practiced motion. Gurneys rolling in, voices overlapping, monitors beeping in a frantic rhythm.
“Male, early thirties,” one paramedic reported quickly. “Severe chest trauma, hypotensive, possible internal bleeding. Passenger vehicle. Wife is also incoming—pregnant, third trimester, conscious.”
That made your steps pause for half a second. Then you kept moving.
“Bring him to OR One. Prep blood now,” you ordered immediately. “Call OB for standby.”
The husband was already fading when they transferred him. Too much damage. Too fast. Internal bleeding, you couldn’t fully stop, even as you worked. Jake was there, but he didn’t speak much, just watched the numbers, adjusted what he needed to adjust, stayed exactly where he was needed.
And you?
You didn’t hesitate.
Didn’t break rhythm. Didn’t allow anything to slow your hands. But even before the final moment, you knew. That quiet, awful certainty that sometimes came in trauma. When effort stopped being about saving and started being about not losing control of the room.
“BP dropping,” Jake said softly.
“I know,” you replied.
You pushed harder anyway. Longer than most would have. Longer than was reasonable. Long enough that everyone in the OR understood what was happening without saying it.
Finally—
silence.
Not the peaceful kind.
The final kind.
Jake’s hand slowed on the monitor. No dramatic announcement. No unnecessary words. Just a small pause before he looked at you.
“…Time of death,” he said quietly.
You didn’t respond immediately.
For a second, your hands stayed where they were, still in position, still doing the job your body refused to stop doing. Then slowly, you stepped back.
“Stop,” you said flatly to the team. “Call it.”
Your voice didn’t shake. Not outwardly. The room moved again after that—procedures, documentation, cleanup—but everything felt muted now because the patient wasn’t just a case. Not this one.
When the OR finally cleared, you stood at the sink longer than usual. Washing your hands even after they were already clean. Jake didn’t say anything. Just stayed nearby.
And then the wife was brought in.
She was still in pain. Still in shock. Heavy pregnant, barely able to sit up properly, one hand gripping her abdomen while the other reached for the space beside her.
“Where is he?” she asked immediately.
No one answered right away. Not the nurses. Not the resident. Not Jake. Your name was the only one that mattered now. So you stepped forward. The hallway suddenly felt too small.
“I’m your trauma surgeon,” you said calmly.
Her eyes locked onto yours instantly.
“Where is my husband?” she asked again, sharper now, fear breaking through.
A pause. One that stretched too long. Jake watched your posture carefully. Saw it before you even spoke. That moment where you were still composed—but only just.
“He didn’t survive the surgery,” you said.
Simple. Direct. No decoration. The words hit her like an impact.
“No,” she whispered immediately, shaking her head. “No, that’s not—he was fine. He was talking to me. He said he was going to see the baby—”
Her voice broke. And you stood there, still. Holding it together in the only way you knew how. stillness, control, distance. But then she started crying properly. Not quietly. Not politely. The kind of grief that filled the space.
“He promised,” she said, voice cracking. “He promised he would be there. We waited so long—this baby—he—he can’t just—”
Her hand tightened over her stomach like she was trying to hold everything together physically. And something in you shifted. Not visibly. But deeply. Because it wasn’t just grief. It was love. It was a future that had already existed in her head, being taken away mid-sentence.
Jake saw it immediately. The way your expression didn’t change, but your silence did. He stepped slightly closer, not to intervene, but to stand near you. A quiet presence. Because he knew you. And he knew what moments like this did.
The wife reached forward suddenly, grabbing your sleeve with shaking hands.
“Please,” she cried. “Please, you have to do something. You’re the doctor. You’re supposed to fix it. You can’t just—he can’t be gone—he can’t—”
Your breath stopped for a fraction of a second. Just one. Barely noticeable. But Jake saw it. And so did you. Your hand lifted slightly, then paused mid-air, unsure whether to hold her wrist or let her hold on. For the first time all night, your voice didn’t come immediately.
And when it did, it was quieter. Not clinical. Not sharp. Just human.
“…I’m sorry,” you said.
The wife broke completely then.
And you stood there while she cried into the reality you had just given her, your composure holding like something inside you had taken a hit it couldn’t cleanly repair.
Jake stayed beside you. Not touching. Not speaking. Just there. Because for once, there was nothing to fix.
The hospital kept moving as if nothing had happened. Paperwork was completed, the OR was reset, and another trauma page already echoed somewhere down the hall. But you didn’t go back. You didn’t speak. You just walked until you reached the emergency stairwell, the one place in the hospital where the noise couldn’t follow you. The door shut behind you with a soft click, and suddenly everything went quiet.
You sat down slowly on the steps, as your body had finally decided it couldn’t stay upright anymore. At first, there was only silence. Then your breath broke. Small, uneven, almost imperceptible. You pressed a hand over your mouth like you could contain it, like control was still something you could choose. But it wasn’t. The grief came anyway, quiet and heavy, slipping through every restraint you’d built over years of training and survival. Tears fell without sound as you stared at the floor, unable to look away from the memory of a wife holding onto hope that had just been taken from her.
The stairwell door opened softly behind you, but you didn’t turn immediately. Jake didn’t speak when he stepped in. He didn’t rush toward you or try to fix anything. He just closed the door carefully and sat one step above you, close enough that the space didn’t feel empty, far enough that you didn’t feel cornered. For once, there were no jokes, no teasing, no words at all—just him staying there with you in the quiet, so you didn’t have to break alone.
“Hey.”
Your shoulders tensed slightly, but you didn’t look up.
Jake shifted down one step, slower this time, closer without invading. “You don’t have to stop,” he said gently. “I’m not going anywhere.”
That did something worse than comfort, it loosened the last bit of control you were still holding onto. Your breath hitched again, shorter this time, and you turned your face away instinctively as you could still hide it. But Jake had already seen enough. He lowered himself fully in front of you now, careful, steady, not rushing. “Look at me,” he said softly.
You didn’t at first. So he waited. No impatience. No teasing. No pushing. Just him, there. Eventually, your eyes flickered toward him, tired, wet, unguarded in a way you never allowed anyone to see. Jake’s expression softened immediately.
“There you are,” he murmured.
That was it. Something in you broke properly then. Jake didn’t hesitate. He reached forward and pulled you into him. Arms around you, firm and steady, like he was catching something he refused to let fall further. One hand came up to the back of your head, holding you gently against him. The other stayed at your upper back, grounding you with quiet pressure.
“It’s okay,” he said softly, close enough that you could feel his voice more than hear it. “It’s okay. You don’t have to hold it right now.”
Your hands froze for a second in the air, uncertain, before finally gripping his scrubs like you needed something real to anchor yourself to. Enough that you knew you weren’t alone in it.
“I’ve got you,” he said quietly. “Just breathe.”
And for the first time since the hospital had swallowed the night whole, you let yourself fall apart without standing back up immediately afterward.
.
.
.
.
A few months after the stairwell incident, things between you and Jake felt strangely normal again. At least on the surface.
You were back in the OR. Back to correcting residents before they make mistakes. Back to moving through trauma consults like exhaustion had never touched you at all. And Jake? Jake was back to orbiting around you like usual. Except now there was something quieter underneath it.
Something harder to joke away.
It happened late at night after a long surgery. The residents had already left, the nurses were finishing cleanup, and the hospital had finally slowed into that eerie post-midnight stillness.
You stood at the scrub sink washing your hands while Jake leaned against the counter nearby. For once, neither of you spoke immediately. Then Jake sighed softly.
“You know,” he said, “I don’t think you understand how I see you.”
You glanced at him briefly. “Unfortunately, I hear enough from you already.”
Usually, that would’ve made him laugh harder. This time, he only smiled faintly.
“I’m serious.”
That made you pause slightly. Not because he’d never said things like this before—he had, constantly. But lately, he sounded different when he did. Less playful. More certain.
You shut off the water slowly. “Jake.”
“No, listen to me for a second.”
His voice stayed calm. Steady. Not forcing, but not backing away either.
“You think I like you because I enjoy bothering you.” A small exhale left him. “And yeah, okay, I do enjoy that a little.”
“A lot.”
“A lot,” he corrected easily. “But that’s not why.”
Silence settled briefly between you. Jake straightened slightly, eyes fixed on you now with an honesty that immediately made you uncomfortable. Not because it was unpleasant. Because it was real.
“I like the way you care about people even when you pretend you don’t,” he said quietly. “I like that you keep showing up for everyone, no matter how exhausted you are. I like that you’re honest even when it makes people dislike you.” His mouth softened slightly. “I like that you’re strong without making it everyone else’s problem.”
Your chest tightened faintly. You hated conversations like this. Not because they were insincere. Because you never knew what to do with sincerity once someone handed it to you directly.
Jake continued before you could interrupt.
“And I know you think I flirt with everyone.” He smiled a little, tired this time. “But what I feel for you stopped being casual a long time ago.”
The room suddenly felt too quiet. You crossed your arms instinctively. Defensive.
“That sounds like a bad idea.”
Jake’s expression barely changed. “Because you don’t feel the same?”
Your jaw tightened immediately.
“That’s not what I said.”
Something flickered across his face, then small, hopeful enough to annoy you. You looked away first.
“I don’t…” You exhaled slowly. “I don’t think about relationships.”
“That’s a lie.”
You frowned. “Excuse me?”
“You think about everything.” Jake’s voice softened slightly. “You just avoid things that feel complicated.”
You hated how accurate that sounded. He stepped closer, careful, measured.
“And I know this is complicated,” he admitted. “We work together. We spend almost every day together. If things go wrong, it could affect everything.”
“Exactly.”
“But I still want you anyway.”
Your throat tightened slightly at the directness of it. Jake looked at you for a long moment before speaking again, quieter this time.
“I’m not asking you to decide anything right now,” he said. “I just need you to understand that I mean it.”
A pause.
“That this isn’t a joke to me anymore.”
The honesty in his voice made something shift uncomfortably in your chest. Because the problem wasn’t that you thought Jake was lying. The problem was that you were starting to believe him.
The problem wasn’t Jake.
That was what made this difficult. If he had been careless, immature, or insincere, you could’ve dismissed this easily. You could’ve rolled your eyes, told him to stop being dramatic, and continued your life the same way as before. But Jake meant it. You knew he did now.
And somehow, that made everything worse.
The hospital had taught you how to manage almost everything—pressure, exhaustion, grief, and responsibility. You knew how to function in chaos. You knew how to make impossible decisions without freezing.
This felt uncertain in a way trauma never did.
Because surgeries had protocols. Complications had procedures. Even death had steps you could follow after it happened. Relationships didn’t. Especially not with someone who worked beside you every day.
You sat alone in the attending lounge long after your shift ended, staring blankly at the untouched coffee in your hands. Jake’s words kept replaying, whether you wanted them to or not.
I still want you anyway.
Your jaw tightened faintly. You hated complicated things. And relationships felt like the most complicated thing possible. Not because you thought love was impossible. You saw it all the time. Families crying in waiting rooms, spouses refusing to leave hospital bedsides, people holding onto each other through impossible situations.
You knew it existed. You just never imagined it fitting into your life. Your life was sharp corners and unpredictable hours. Trauma calls at three in the morning. Twenty-hour shifts. Emotional exhaustion, you barely knew how to process yourself.
Jake already knew this life, too. Which meant if things went wrong, there would be no clean escape from it. You would still see each other in the OR. Still work trauma cases together. Still stand across operating tables pretending nothing happened while everyone around you noticed the tension anyway. The idea alone sounded exhausting.
You exhaled quietly and leaned your head back against the chair. The worst part was that you still didn’t know what you felt. Not fully.
Jake mattered to you. That much was obvious now in ways you couldn’t comfortably deny anymore. His presence had become something familiar. Important. He irritated you constantly, yet somehow made the hospital feel less unbearable at the same time.
But caring about someone and wanting a relationship weren’t automatically the same thing.
Were they?
You genuinely didn’t know. And that uncertainty unsettled you more than anything else. Because for the first time in years, this wasn’t a situation you could solve by being competent enough.
.
.
.
.
Jake, unfortunately, did not know how to quit.
After that conversation, any normal person probably would’ve backed off a little. Given you space. Allowed you time to process your feelings without constantly hovering around your existence like an emotionally persistent golden retriever in surgical scrubs.
Jake did none of those things.
“You know I’d marry you tomorrow if you asked, right?”
You didn’t even look up from the patient file. “I’d rather induce my own coma.”
“That’s not a no.”
“That is absolutely a no.”
Yet somehow, he never made it feel like pressure.
Jake didn’t confess because he expected something from you immediately. He confessed because he wanted you to know the feeling still existed. Constant. Unchanged. Certain.
And every time you dismissed him, he just smiled like someone who already understood your language better than you realized.
“Morning,” he greeted one day, falling into step beside you while you speed-walked toward trauma rounds. “You ignored three of my messages.”
“They weren’t messages. You sent me photos of hospital cats.”
“They reminded me of you.”
You stopped walking immediately. “Explain that statement carefully.”
“Mean eyes. Doesn’t trust people. Hisses when approached.”
“You’re brave today.”
“Love makes people fearless.”
“You need a psychological evaluation.”
Jake grinned like that was a compliment. That was the issue with him. Every rejection somehow fueled him, rather than discouraging him.
A week later, he cornered you at the vending machine at two in the morning while you aggressively tried to choose caffeine.
“You know,” he said thoughtfully, “if we dated, I’d let you steal my fries.”
You stared at him flatly. “I can already do that.”
“Yeah, but romantically.”
“That’s the worst thing you’ve ever said to me.”
“Not true. Remember when I said epidurals were easy?”
Your expression darkened immediately. “I almost reported you to HR for that.”
“Yet here we are. Stronger than ever.”
You genuinely couldn’t tell if Jake was flirting or simply surviving on a level of confidence normal people didn’t possess. The worst part? He somehow adapted to your personality instead of fighting it. When you ignored him, he kept talking anyway. When you insulted him, he looked entertained instead of offended. And when you got exhausted enough to stop responding entirely, he just walked beside you quietly until you recovered enough to threaten him again.
It was deeply inconvenient.
One afternoon after a brutal trauma surgery, you dropped heavily into a chair in the staff lounge while reviewing scans. Jake appeared two minutes later like a curse.
“You look terrible,” he said sympathetically, handing you coffee.
You accepted it automatically before narrowing your eyes. “Why are you here?”
“I sensed emotional distress.”
He sat across from you casually, watching while you drank the coffee in exhausted silence.
“You know I’m still trying to date you, right?”
You closed your eyes briefly.
“Jake.”
“I’m just making sure we maintain clear communication.”
“You confessed to me yesterday.”
“And today.”
“You’re proving my point.”
“That I’m consistent?”
“That you’re insane.”
Jake leaned back in his chair, completely unbothered.
“Okay, but statistically speaking, eventually you’re gonna accidentally fall in love with me.”
You looked at him over the coffee cup.
“…That’s not how statistics work.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Hm.” He nodded thoughtfully. “Then I’ll simply have to increase exposure.”
You stared at him for a long moment before muttering, “I actually understand why residents avoid you now.”
Jake looked delighted.
For a long moment, neither of you spoke. Then Jake shoved his hands into his pockets and tilted his head slightly.
“So?” he asked lightly. “Any progress on accidentally falling in love with me?”
You stared at him. Jake stared back hopefully. And despite everything, the exhaustion, the complicated feelings, the fact that relationships still sounded terrifying and inconvenient and deeply impractical, you felt your mouth twitch slightly.
Small. Real. Jake immediately pointed at you.
“That’s improvement.”
“Don’t ruin it.”
“Too late. I’m celebrating internally.”
You shook your head under your breath.
Still no answer. Still uncertain. Still not ready to call whatever this was by its real name. But this time, when Jake called after you—
“See you tomorrow, Dr. Y/N. I’ll continue loving you then too.”
You didn’t tell him to stop..
Jake watched you disappear down the hallway until the automatic doors closed behind you with a soft hiss. Around him, the hospital kept moving the same way it always did—pages overhead, hurried footsteps, another resident sprinting toward a consult somewhere down the corridor. Nothing had changed. And yet somehow, everything had. Because for the first time since falling in love with you, Jake realized he no longer needed an immediate answer just to keep going.
And honestly?
For now, that was enough.
tag list : @en-chantedtomeetyou, @ni-kiswife, @sunsetgenie, @jaeunaria0-0, @asa-is-acinggg, @mydearestdongwook, @mrs-r1zzimura, @chxrlz-mxr, @nlylilac, @coatedlily, @d3adaf, @lightyagamigooner, @woninlove, @imsimjaeyunswife, @maishee
୨ৎ Summary : Dr. Sim thought surviving trauma surgery would be the hardest part of his new job. Until he met Dr. Y/N. Cold, terrifying, and impossibly competent, the trauma surgeon quickly becomes the center of every exhausting shift and every thought he can’t seem to turn off. Somewhere between overnight surgeries, coffee runs, and years of working side by side, Jake realizes falling in love with her is the easiest thing he’s ever done. The problem? Dr. Y/N doesn’t believe in making space for people in her life. Especially not someone as persistent as him.
୨ৎ Pairing : anesthesiologist! Jake x traumasurgeon! reader
୨ৎ Wordcount : 9.4K
୨ৎ Song : Crush - Ego
୨ৎ Warning : STILL A SLOW BURN!! Jake highkey down-bad, FLUFF!!, a bit angst, comedic (if you squint), co-worker to.... (idk) but there's a progress chat!, a lot of banter (please bear with me).
part I
Jake spent a solid fifteen minutes staring at the vending machine. A deep sigh escaped him as he leaned his forehead against the glass. His reflection stared back, looking significantly less charming than usual. Tragic.
First day as an attending anesthesiologist, he already got yelled at in front of an entire operating room.
Jake still couldn’t fully process it.
Not during med school. Not during residency. Not even by Professor Kwon, who once made a grown orthopedic resident cry over improper intubation positioning.
But you?
You had looked up from an actively bleeding patient with the coldest expression he had ever seen and said—
“Dr. Sim, are you planning to keep up, or should I ask for someone faster?”
The room had gone silent. Even the cardiac monitor suddenly sounded awkward. Jake winced at the memory and rubbed a hand down his face.
Okay.
In his defense, trauma surgery was insane. Things moved at approximately the speed of light in your operating room. Instruments flew into your waiting hand before people even registered that you asked for them. Residents looked second away from cardiac arrest. Nurses communicated through eye contact alone.
And you?
You were terrifying.
Not loud, not emotional, just brutally efficient. Which somehow made it worse.
Jake grabbed an Americano from the vending machine and muttered under his breath.
“One rough induction and suddenly my career flashed before my eyes,”
“You were slow.”
He nearly fumbled the drink. Turning around, he found you standing there in navy scrubs, arms crossed loosely over your chest.
No warning. No footsteps. Psychotic behavior, honestly.
“You always stand there like a disappointed ghost?”
“You always complain this much?”
“Only after public humiliation.”
You grabbed your drink from the vending machine. “Then get used to it.”
Jake stared at you in disbelief as you started walking away.
“Wow,” he called after you. “That was kinda mean.”
Jake watched you walk down the hallway without looking back once.
Sure, you were dragging your steps like each one weighed at least fifty pounds after a brutal shift, but somehow you still moved through the hospital corridor with the intensity of someone seconds away from giving a TED Talk titled Why Med School Was The Worst Decision Of My Life.
Jake took a sip of his coffee.
“…I kinda respect her, actually.”
“Don’t let her hear that.”
"Jesus!"
Jake's heart almost evaporates. A nurse stood beside him now, casually punching numbers into the vending machine. Slowly, and trying to make things more embarrassing, he calmed himself down.
“Why?” he asked.
“Compliments make her violent.”
He let out a quiet laugh. “That explains a lot.”
“You’re new, huh?”
“That obvious?”
The nurse grabbed her drink with a hum. “You’re still smiling after getting yelled at.”
Ouch.
Jake leaned back against the vending machine. “Does she hate everyone equally, or should I feel honored?”
“Oh, Dr. Y/N definitely hates incompetence more.”
“…That somehow feels personal.”
“You’ll survive,” the nurse said. “Probably.”
Probably?
Before Jake could question that deeply concerning choice of words, his pager suddenly buzzed against his waist.
OR TWO — TRAUMA ACTIVATION.
“Well,” he muttered, pushing himself off the vending machine, “time to go disappoint a woman again.”
“Good luck,” the nurse called out, already laughing.
He took one last sip of his americano before tossing the empty can neatly into the trash bin.
Missed.
Jake stared at the can lying sadly on the floor.
“…That feels symbolic somehow.”
Then, with what remained of his dignity, he picked it up and headed toward OR Two. Straight into the beginning of his problems.
.
.
.
.
Six months later, Jake learned three important things.
First, trauma surgeons operated entirely on caffeine, spite, and unresolved psychological issues. Second, the emergency department smelled permanently like stress and antiseptic. And third, you still hated him. Maybe hate was a strong word. Strongly disliked him? Yeah, probably that.
“Dr. Sim.”
Jake didn’t even look up from the patient chart anymore. “That tone usually means I’m about to get criticized.”
“Because you’re leaning on the sterile table.”
He immediately stepped away. “See, this is why morale in this hospital is terrible.”
“Morale is not my department.”
“Neither is emotional damage, yet somehow you excel at both.”
Around the operating room, two residents immediately looked down to hide their laughter.
Six months ago, they would’ve been terrified to witness conversations like this. Now the trauma team had simply accepted that Dr. Y/N and Dr. Sim existed in their own strange ecosystem. Jake adjusted his gloves before glancing sideways at you. Same cold expression. Same sharp eyes. Same terrifyingly competent hands are currently preparing for surgery.
Still terrifying. Still brutally honest. Still the prettiest person he’d ever seen in an operating room.
Which honestly felt medically unprofessional at this point.
“You’re staring again,” you said flatly.
Jake blinked once. “See, now you’re just making things awkward.”
“Focus on the patient.”
“I am.”
Your eyes narrowed slightly. Jake grinned behind his mask. Ah. There it was. Progress. Six months ago, you would’ve ignored him completely. Now you looked mildly homicidal instead.
Relationship development.
.
.
.
.
A year later, Jake still couldn’t decide whether meeting you had improved his life or permanently damaged it.
Probably both.
You were still terrifying. The difference was that he had unfortunately started finding it attractive. Deeply attractive. Catastrophically attractive, even.
Somewhere between his third overnight trauma call and the time you silently handed him half your sandwich during a fourteen-hour shift, Jake realized he was in serious trouble. Not crush trouble. Real trouble.
The kind where he automatically searched for you first every time he walked into the trauma department. The kind where hearing your voice over the intercom somehow made his shifts less unbearable. The kind where your approval started mattering more than it should.
Which was ridiculous, considering you still criticized him like it was a professional obligation.
“BP’s dropping.”
“I know.”
“Well, that response feels unnecessarily hostile.”
You didn’t even look up from the patient. “Clamp.”
The scrub nurse immediately placed the instrument into your hand.
“Pressure’s at eighty over fifty,” Jake continued, eyes moving across the monitor. “She’s bleeding faster than you’re closing.”
“That sounds judgmental coming from someone sitting down.”
Jake gasped softly behind his mask. “See? This is why people fear trauma surgeons.”
“People fear incompetence.”
“And yet you continue allowing residents into your OR.”
One of the residents nearly choked. You held your hand out wordlessly.
“Suction.”
Jake watched you work for a second.
Fast hands. Steady movements. Zero hesitation. Honestly, it was getting hard to focus professionally when you looked like that during surgery.
“Dr. Sim.”
He blinked. “Hm?”
“Focus.”
Jake stared. “You sensed me being distracted?”
“Your monitor alarm has been going off for seven seconds.”
“…Right.”
He silenced it quickly while muttering under his breath, “This is psychological warfare.”
“Heart rate stabilizing,” he said a moment later. “You’ve got a better window now.”
“How much time?”
Jake glanced at the monitor again. “If you want the patient alive? Ten minutes.”
“I only need seven.”
“That confidence is either very attractive or deeply concerning.”
Silence. Then the scrub nurse quietly turned away to hide her laughter. Your eyes narrowed above your mask.
“Are you always this annoying?”
“Only in rooms where I feel emotionally safe.”
“Then feel unsafe.”
Jake grinned immediately.
Ah. There it was. His favorite thing in the world: the tiny look of irritation you got whenever he made you this close to losing composure.
.
.
.
.
Three years later, Jake could read your moods purely based on how aggressively you tied your surgical gown.
Today?
Dangerous.
Not angry enough to kill someone, but definitely irritated enough to emotionally damage a resident.
“Why is everyone breathing so loudly today?”
Ah.
Definitely dangerous.
Around the operating room, three residents immediately lowered their heads like civilians avoiding eye contact with a predator. Jake, meanwhile, didn’t even look up from the anesthesia monitor anymore.
“Good morning to you, too, sunshine.”
“I’ve been awake for twenty-two hours.”
“And yet somehow your personality still finds ways to worsen.”
“Scalpel.”
The instrument landed perfectly into your waiting hand before the scrub nurse could react. Your eyes flicked toward Jake briefly. Not surprised. Just accustomed. Three years working together had turned your operating rhythm into something almost automatic.
Jake adjusted medications before you asked. You anticipated his timing without looking. The entire trauma surgeries passed with conversations made up of half-sentences because neither of you needed explanations anymore. Honestly, it was a little insane.
“BP stable,” Jake said.
“Mm.”
“Heart rate’s improving.”
“Good.”
“You know,” he continued casually, “most surgeons say thank you.”
“Most anesthesiologists don’t complain during active hemorrhages.”
Ouch.
The surgery continued smoothly after that.
Three years working together had turned both of you into something almost terrifyingly synchronized. You moved. Jake adjusted. He spoke. You already anticipated the problem before he finished the sentence.
Somewhere along the way, working together stopped feeling difficult and started feeling natural. Which was honestly dangerous for Jake emotionally.
Nearly an hour later, you finally stepped away from the operating table with a tired exhale.
“Closing complete.”
Jake glanced at the monitor one last time before nodding. “Vitals stable.”
“Good.”
The residents visibly relaxed like prisoners being granted freedom.
You peeled off your gloves with the same exhausted irritation you carried through most shifts nowadays. Twenty-two hours awake. Midnight surgery. Terrifying attitude is somehow still fully operational. Jake watched you walk toward the scrub room sink before following behind casually.
“So,” he started, washing his hands beside you, “coffee?”
“No.”
Immediate.
Jake sighed. “You reject me concerning efficiency.”
“Practice.”
“Cruel.”
“Accurate.”
Water ran quietly between both of you for a moment. Your shoulders looked tense. Heavy. The kind of exhaustion that sleep alone probably couldn’t fix. Jake leaned slightly against the sink.
“Okay,” he tried again, “then lunch tomorrow.”
“No.”
“Tomorrow night?”
“No.”
“Breakfast?”
“I’d rather intubate myself.”
Jake stared at you in disbelief. “See, comments like that are exactly why HR avoids our department.”
Finally, finally, the corner of your mouth twitched upward slightly. Barely there. Tiny.
But Jake noticed immediately anyway. And there it was. The reason he kept trying. Because every once in a while, after long shifts and impossible surgeries, you let tiny cracks show through the armor. Never for long. Never intentionally. But enough. Just enough to completely ruin him. You grabbed a towel, drying your hands before speaking flatly again.
“Go home, Dr. Sim.”
Jake smiled lazily. “Worried about me?”
“I’m worried your face will still be here when my next shift starts.”
“That’s the meanest possible version of concern.”
You turned to leave the scrub room. Then paused briefly near the doorway.
“…There’s coffee in the residents’ lounge.”
Jake blinked once.
“Wait.”
You kept walking.
“Was that an invitation?”
Silence.
Jake grinned slowly to himself before following you anyway.
.
.
.
.
Jake realized he was in love with you at 3:17 in the morning.
Which was deeply unfair, honestly.
Not because the timing was inconvenient— although falling in love during a trauma activation probably counted as psychological damage— but because the realization happened over something incredibly stupid.
You were eating crackers.
That was it.
Just you sitting on the counter in the residents’ lounge after eighteen straight hours awake, still wearing navy scrubs while quietly eating stale crackers like they personally offended you. Jake stood frozen near the coffee machine.
Yet somehow, while watching you silently eat crackers at an ungodly hour in a fluorescent hospital lounge, that was the only thought Jake had left.
Oh, this was bad.
Because suddenly every annoying thing about you became weirdly endearing. The permanent frown. The exhaustion in your eyes. The way you looked homicidal before caffeine. Even your silence felt familiar now instead of intimidating.
You noticed him staring almost immediately. Of course you did. You looked unimpressed already. Comforting, somehow. Jake grabbed two coffees automatically before setting one beside you. You glanced at the cup.
“I didn’t ask for this.”
“You also haven’t gone home in twenty hours. I’m taking creative liberties.”
You stared at the coffee for a few quiet seconds before taking it anyway. No, thank you, just acceptance. Jake smiled before he could stop himself. And there it was again. That horrible feeling in his chest. Warm. Heavy. Stupidly soft.
God.
He was genuinely done for.
You frowned slightly at him over the coffee cup.
“…Why are you smiling like that?”
Jake leaned against the counter beside you.
“Nothing.”
Suspicious silence.
“You’re being weird again.”
He laughed quietly. Again. Like this was normal now. And maybe that was the exact moment Jake realized the problem wasn’t that you were difficult to love. It was that loving you had become the easiest thing he’d done in years.
.
.
.
.
“Fine,” you said flatly. “Lunch.”
Jake blinked. For the first time since you’d known him, he looked genuinely caught off guard. Then his entire face changed. Not smug satisfaction. Not teasing triumph. He looked happy.
Ridiculously, openly happy.
“Seriously?” he asked.
You immediately regretted everything. “Don’t make it weird.”
“I’m not making it weird, you just said yes.”
“To lunch.”
“With me.”
“To food.”
He laughed under his breath, then straightened so quickly it was almost embarrassing. “Right. Yes. Of course. Food.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Why do you look like you won something?”
“Because I did.”
“You did not.”
“I absolutely did.”
That exact moment had permanently altered his brain chemistry.
But Jake couldn’t help it. Because for everyone else, lunch was just lunch.
For you?
Saying yes to anything personal felt nearly impossible. Which meant Jake remembered every tiny detail of that day with horrifying clarity. The way you sighed before agreeing. The way you rolled your eyes when he smiled too much. The fact that you stayed even after finishing your food.
Tiny things. Meaningless things. Things Jake treasured anyway, like a complete idiot.
“Dr. Sim.”
He looked up instantly. And there you were at the end of the hallway, already dressed in scrubs for the next surgery. Same exhausted expression.
Same terrifying aura.
The same woman is currently ruining his emotional stability.
“Are you coming to OR Three,” you asked flatly, “or are you planning to stand there looking emotionally compromised all afternoon?”
Jake blinked once.
“See, comments like that are exactly why I’m obsessed with you.”
“That sounds like a personal problem.”
“It is.”
You stared at him for a long second before turning around toward the operating rooms again.
“Five minutes.”
Jake immediately pushed himself off the counter to follow after you.
Of course he did.
The hallway lights reflected against the polished floors as both of you walked side by side in familiar silence.
“Why are you smiling again?”
Jake looked over innocently. “You notice me a lot.”
“You’re visibly weird.”
“That’s hurtful.”
God. Even your insults sounded fond lately. Or maybe Jake was just deeply delusional at this point. Honestly hard to tell anymore.
“You know,” he said casually as both of you stopped outside the OR doors, “we should do lunch again sometime.”
“No.”
Immediate. Jake sighed dramatically toward the ceiling.
“And yet you already said yes once.”
“Temporary lapse in judgment.”
“One of the best days of my life, actually.”
Your hand paused briefly against the OR door handle. Tiny. Almost invisible. But Jake noticed anyway. He always noticed. You glanced sideways at him with narrowed eyes.
Silence.
“Dr. Sim.”
“Yeah?”
“Go monitor your patient.”
Ah.
Deflection again. Interesting.
.
.
.
.
The problem with Jake openly liking you was that nobody in the hospital found it surprising anymore.
Not the nurses. Not the residents. Not even the janitors at this point. After three years, Dr. Sim orbiting around Dr. Y/N had simply become part of the hospital ecosystem. Jake brought you coffee. You rejected him. Jake flirted during surgeries. You threatened violence.
Nature healed.
“You know that our hospital scrubs look good on you, right?”
“Move.”
Jake sighed, stepping aside so you could reach the patient's chart behind him.
“See, this is what I mean. You never take me seriously.”
“Because you say things like that while blocking the hallway.”
“That’s not related.”
“It’s extremely related.”
You flipped through the chart with your usual flat expression while Jake leaned beside you like a man with absolutely no survival instincts.
“I’m serious, by the way.”
“Mm.”
“That response feels disrespectful.”
“That’s because I don’t respect this conversation.”
Brutal.
Jake watched you scribble notes onto the chart, completely unaffected. Which honestly felt offensive at this point. Most people got nervous when they confessed to. You looked mildly inconvenienced.
“Three years,” Jake continued. “Three years of emotional dedication.”
“Three years of workplace harassment.”
“Wow.”
“You asked.”
Fair enough.
A resident passing by suddenly changed direction immediately after spotting both of you together.
Coward.
Jake narrowed his eyes at your profile. “Do you genuinely not believe me?”
“No.”
Immediate.
“That’s crazy, actually.”
“You flirt with everyone.”
Ouch.
Jake straightened slightly.
“Not like this.”
Finally, your pen paused. Just briefly. Tiny enough that nobody else would notice. But Jake noticed everything about you. Your eyes lifted toward him slowly.
“Dr. Sim.”
“Yeah?”
“You tell nurses they look pretty at least twice a day.”
“That’s basic workplace morale.”
“You winked at a pharmaceutical representative yesterday.”
“In my defense, she gave us free pens.”
Your expression flattened further somehow.
“Exactly my point.”
Jake stared at you for a second before laughing quietly under his breath.
God.
This was the issue. You genuinely thought this was just how he was. That he was naturally charming, affectionate, and absolutely naturally unserious.
You finally closed the chart and handed it to him. Your fingers brushed his glove briefly. Accidental. Meaningless. Yet Jake still felt like an idiot.
“Trauma consult in ten,” you said.
Then, just before walking away—
“…And stop flirting in hallways. You’re disturbing the residents.”
Jake blinked. Slowly, a grin spread across his face.
Not stop flirting.
Just—not in hallways. Oh. Interesting.
.
.
.
.
The next morning, you looked terrible.
Not visually terrible. Objectively, annoyingly, you still looked good. But Jake had worked with you for three years. He knew your normal expressions, your normal silences, your normal levels of hostility.
Today? Something was off. You were quieter. Not calmer. Just exhausted in a way that sat too heavily on your shoulders.
You adjusted your gloves with visible irritation before looking over the trauma scans clipped beside the monitor.
“Patient’s unstable. We don’t have time.”
Jake kept watching you carefully.
Pale.
“Dr. Y/N.”
“What.”
“You have a fever.”
“You diagnosed that from across the room?”
“I diagnosed it from your personality, somehow getting worse.”
No response. Which, honestly, worried him more. Usually, you’d insult him by now.
“Pressure dropping,” Jake said sharply.
“I know.”
“You’re too slow.”
“I said I know!”
Your voice cracked harshly through the operating room. Everyone froze instantly. Not because you yelled. You yelled all the time. But because your hands trembled afterward. Barely noticeable. Barely there.
Jake’s stomach dropped immediately.
“Dr. Y/N.”
“Focus on your side.”
“Dr. Sim,” you said flatly, though your voice sounded weaker now, “either help me keep this patient alive or stop staring at me.”
Jake looked at the monitor again before adjusting the medications quickly.
“BP stabilizing.”
“Good.”
Your shoulders lowered slightly in relief.
The surgery ended nearly four hours later.
Successful. Technically. But the entire day had gone horribly for you. Two emergency traumas back-to-back. One difficult family consult. Three residents are asking questions at the exact wrong time. No proper meal since yesterday afternoon.
And now this surgery.
By the time you stepped out of the operating room, your face looked noticeably pale beneath the harsh fluorescent lights. Jake noticed immediately. Of course he did.
“You okay?”
“Fine.”
Automatic. Flat. You didn’t even look at him while stripping off your gloves. The second the operation ended, you scrubbed out quickly and walked straight out of the hallway without your usual post-op lecture to the residents. Jake frowned immediately. That wasn’t normal. The residents looked confused, too. You never skipped the chart review. Never disappeared first.
Jake watched you push through the heavy emergency stairwell door before it shut behind you. For a moment, he stayed where he was. Then, without really thinking about it, he followed quietly down the hallway.
The stairwell door didn’t close completely. Just enough of a gap remained for him to see through the narrow opening.
And there you were.
Sitting halfway down the stairs with your elbows resting against your knees, eyes closed briefly as your head leaned against the wall. Still wearing your scrubs. Still carrying exhaustion in every inch of your posture. Silent.
Jake froze near the doorway. Something unpleasant tightened in his chest immediately.
Because he’d spent three years watching you survive impossible shifts without slowing down once. Three years watching you carry entire trauma rooms on your shoulders like it was normal. Yet right now, sitting alone in a quiet emergency stairwell, you looked tired in a way he’d never seen before.
Not the kind fixed by sleep. The deeper kind of doctors ignored themselves constantly.
Jake’s hand rested lightly against the stairwell door. He could go inside. You’d probably insult him for following you. Tell him to leave. Tell him you were fine.
But for once, he didn’t think you wanted someone talking to you. You just wanted silence. So Jake stayed where he was. Quiet. Hidden behind the door like an idiot. Watching long enough to make sure your breathing evened out slightly. Watching until some of the tension slowly left your shoulders.
The exhausted one sitting alone on emergency stairs because the hospital never stopped needing pieces of you. Jake lowered his eyes briefly before exhaling quietly to himself.
Hopeless. Completely hopeless.
Then, careful not to make noise, he stepped away from the stairwell door and walked back toward the hallway—leaving you your five minutes alone.
.
.
.
.
The emergency department immediately dissolved into organized chaos the second the paramedics pushed the gurney through the trauma bay doors.
“Male, thirty-eight,” one of the paramedics reported quickly. “Blunt abdominal trauma, hypotensive en route, possible internal bleeding—”
You were already moving before they finished speaking.
“Prep OR Two,” you ordered sharply. “Get blood ready. FAST ultrasound now.”
Jake watched you take over the room instantly. Like always. Fast hands. Fast decisions. No hesitation. The exhaustion from earlier disappeared beneath pure instinct the second a patient’s life landed in your hands.
That was the terrifying thing about you.
No matter how exhausted you were, trauma mode always came first. The patient groaned sharply as nurses transferred him onto the trauma bed. Disoriented. Agitated. In pain.
“Sir, stay still,” you said firmly while checking the abdominal tenderness.
“Don’t touch me,” he snapped immediately, trying to shove your hand away.
Jake frowned slightly from beside the monitors. Pain response. Confusion. Not unusual. But the patient kept going.
“Where’s the real doctor?” he barked harshly.
Silence flickered briefly across the trauma bay. One of the residents visibly stiffened. You didn’t react. Didn’t even blink. Just continued checking his injuries calmly.
“I am the trauma surgeon,” you replied evenly.
The patient laughed bitterly through clenched teeth. “Yeah? Then why do you look about sixteen?”
Bad move.
Jake saw several nurses immediately avoid eye contact. Because everyone in the trauma department knew one thing very clearly: You hated incompetent men. But you hated disrespectful ones even more.
Still, your expression never changed.
“You have internal bleeding,” you said flatly. “You can either cooperate with treatment or continue arguing while your blood pressure drops.”
“Unbelievable,” the patient snapped loudly. “You people always act like you’re smarter than everyone else.”
Jake’s jaw tightened slightly.
Because normally? Normally, you’d shut this down immediately with one terrifying sentence and move on. But today you just looked tired. Not offended. Not angry. Just tired.
“OR is ready,” a nurse interrupted carefully.
You nodded once. “Move him.”
.
.
.
.
The silence between you stretched quietly beneath the fluorescent lights.
Cold water still ran over your hands. The steady sound echoed softly through the scrub room while the rest of the hospital continued moving somewhere beyond the walls—pages overhead, hurried footsteps, distant monitor alarms.
Jake stayed near the doorway. Not leaving. Not speaking. Just there.
You finally shut the water off with a tired exhale before reaching for a paper towel. “You’re hovering.”
Jake leaned lightly against the doorframe. “You look like you’re about to commit aggravated assault on the next resident that breathes wrong.”
“That’s not unusual.”
“…Fair.”
The corner of your mouth almost twitched upward. Almost. Jake noticed immediately anyway. Three years later, and he still reacted to every microscopic change in your expression like a man discovering religion. You tossed the paper towel into the trash before finally looking at him properly for the first time since surgery.
“What?”
Jake shrugged slightly. “Nothing.”
“You’re staring again.”
“You got yelled at by an idiot patient and still saved his life thirty minutes later. I think I’m allowed to stare a little.”
Your expression flattened automatically at that. Deflection. Distance. Armor back up.
“It’s part of the job.”
“I know.”
“And I’m fine.”
Jake looked at you quietly for a second too long. Because that word again.
Fine.
Your favorite lie.
The thing was—you probably believed it too. You’d spent so many years surviving impossible shifts and impossible expectations that exhaustion became normal. Hurt became background noise. You kept functioning, so technically nothing was wrong.
Jake hated that.
Not because he thought you were fragile.
God, no.
You were probably the strongest person he’d ever met. But strong people still deserved someone noticing when things got heavy.
“You know,” he said softly, “being good at handling something doesn’t automatically mean it doesn’t suck.”
For the first time that night, you looked caught off guard.
Tiny reaction. Brief. But real. Your eyes lowered for a second before you shook your head lightly, almost annoyed at yourself for reacting at all.
“Since when did anesthesiologists become therapists?”
Jake grinned faintly. “Since trauma surgeons became emotionally constipated.”
“Watch your tone.”
“There she is.”
That finally earned him a quiet scoff from you. Small. Tired. But genuine. And somehow that felt like victory.
It wasn’t the first time a patient had looked at you and questioned your abilities. Wasn’t the first time someone assumed you were too young, too cold, too arrogant to be good at your job. And it definitely wasn’t the first time a man raised his voice at you because you refused to soften your tone for his comfort. None of it was new. You learned years ago that being a trauma surgeon meant growing thick skin fast, so you did. You became sharper. Colder. Harder to offend. Most days, it worked. Today just wasn’t most days.
The trauma patient was eventually stabilized after agreeing to surgery at the last possible second. The operation itself went smoothly—efficient, controlled, another life saved. Everyone in the OR moved on quickly afterward. Residents talked about the procedure, nurses cleaned up, and another trauma page already echoed somewhere down the hallway. The hospital kept moving. It always did. You stripped off your gloves quietly before stepping out of the operating room without saying much to anyone.
Jake noticed immediately. Of course he did. He watched you stop near the scrub room sink, hands braced lightly against the counter while cold water ran over your fingers. Just breathing. Just existing for one second without somebody needing something from you. Jake stood near the doorway quietly, not interrupting this time. No flirting. No teasing. Because he knew. Not exactly what it felt like, but enough. Enough to understand that being hurt by something didn’t mean you were weak for it. You could hear the same insult a hundred times and still feel it on the hundred-and-first. Especially on days when you were already running on nothing.
For a long moment, neither of you spoke. Then quietly, without looking at him, you muttered, “…He’s alive.”
Like that was the only part that mattered. Jake’s chest tightened painfully.
Because even after getting screamed at, doubted, and disrespected, your first concern was still whether the patient survived. Not your pride. Not your feelings. The patient. And standing there beneath the harsh fluorescent lights, exhausted down to the bone yet still worrying about somebody who had insulted you to your face, Jake felt himself fall in love with you all over again.
A few weeks after that night, the hospital didn’t get any quieter.
It never did.
But something between you and Jake had shifted in a way neither of you said out loud. He still trailed after you through corridors, still made unnecessary comments during surgeries, still acted like your personal irritation in human form. And you still told him to move, still rolled your eyes, still treated him like he was one bad joke away from getting kicked out of your OR.
But it wasn’t just that anymore. It had started to feel consistent. Familiar in a way that didn’t belong to colleagues.
That night, another trauma page came in just after midnight. Jake was already in OR Two when you arrived, tying your gown with sharp, efficient movements that didn’t quite hide how exhausted you were.
“Male, forty-two, MVC,” Jake said as you stepped in. “BP unstable en route but responding to fluids.”
“Start transfusion protocol,” you replied immediately.
No hesitation. No wasted movement. Just instinct and control.
The patient came in fast. Too fast. The room snapped into controlled chaos the moment the gurney crossed the threshold.
And Jake noticed it again. You were tired. Not obvious to anyone else—but obvious to him. A fraction slower between movements. A tighter set to your jaw. The kind of exhaustion that didn’t show up in posture, only in timing.
“Dr. Y/N,” Jake said quietly while adjusting anesthesia, “you slept at all this week?”
“I sleep.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It is the only one you’re getting.”
He sighed under his breath, but didn’t push further. He’d learned that pushing didn’t help with you. Not like that. The surgery progressed. Bleeding controlled. Vitals stabilizing. Everything is technically going right.
Until a resident hesitated at a critical step. A second too long. You didn’t raise your voice. You didn’t need to.
“Step aside,” you said flatly.
The resident froze.
“I said step aside!”
They moved immediately. The room went tense for half a second before stabilizing again. Jake watched it happen, not with judgment—but recognition. Because he knew that silence. That tone. It wasn’t anger for the sake of control. It was exhaustion protecting something fragile underneath it: the patient not dying on your table.
The surgery finished cleanly after that.
“Vitals stable,” Jake said.
“Close,” you replied.
And just like that, it was over.
You moved to the sink afterward, stripping off gloves with slightly slower hands than usual. The kind of tired that had started to settle into your bones lately instead of passing with the shift.
Jake stayed with you this time. Not behind. Not beside like a passing colleague. Just there. Close enough that it was intentional. The water ran quietly between you for a moment before he spoke.
“You’re not fine.”
Your hands paused under the stream.
Not startled. Just… aware. He didn’t continue immediately. Didn’t push. His voice stayed steady, lower than usual.
“I’m not saying that as your anesthesiologist,” he added. “I’m saying it as someone who actually cares about you.”
Silence. That landed differently. You slowly turned off the water and reached for a paper towel.
“…That’s not your job,” you said flatly.
Jake gave a quiet, humorless exhale. “Yeah. I know.”
You finally looked at him then. Properly. Tired eyes. Controlled expression. Walls still up, but thinner than they used to be.
He didn’t look away. Because he meant it. Not as a colleague. Not as a coworker orbiting your OR schedule. As someone who had spent too many nights noticing when you stopped being okay before you ever admitted it.
“I don’t care about this job boundary thing,” Jake said more softly.
That made your expression tighten slightly. Not anger. Something more complicated.
“…You shouldn’t say things like that.”
“Why?”
He just stayed there beside you in the harsh fluorescent light, like leaving you alone wasn’t something he was willing to do anymore.
“You should stop,” you said.
“Stop what?”
“This.”
A beat.
You gestured vaguely between the two of you, like it explained everything and nothing at once. Jake’s expression tightened slightly, but he didn’t back off.
“No,” he said simply.
That one word landed harder than expected. Because Jake didn’t usually refuse you like that. Not seriously. Not like he had decided something.
You narrowed your eyes. “You don’t get to decide that.”
“I am deciding it,” he corrected, voice calm but firm. “Because you’re not actually asking me to stop. You’re telling me to leave you alone so you don’t have to deal with it.”
Your jaw tightened.
“That’s not true.”
“It is,” he said quietly. “And I get it.”
That stopped you for a second. Not because you agreed. Because he wasn’t arguing your competence. He wasn’t joking. He wasn’t pushing your patience just to get a reaction.
He was just seeing it. Like he had been paying attention longer than you realized.
Jake stepped slightly closer—not invading, not cornering, just closing the distance enough that you couldn’t ignore him without effort.
“I’ve watched you for three years,” he said. “Not just in the OR. Everywhere.”
Your eyes flicked to his face briefly, guarded. He continued anyway.
“You don’t slow down. Not when you’re exhausted. Not when people are disrespectful. Not when you’re clearly running on nothing.”
A pause.
“And I used to think that was just who you are.”
His voice softened slightly, but didn’t lose its edge.
“But it’s not strength when it’s constant depletion.”
The word hit differently. You hated that it did. Your fingers tightened around the edge of the sink.
“I’m fine,” you repeated automatically.
Jake shook his head once.
“No,” he said again, quieter this time. “You’re functional. There’s a difference.”
Silence stretched. The hum of the hospital overhead felt louder now. You looked away first, which annoyed you more than anything else.
“…You’re overstepping,” you muttered.
“Yeah,” Jake admitted immediately.
That made you look back at him. He didn’t apologize. Just nodded slightly as he accepted it.
“I am,” he said. “But I’d rather be annoying than watch you keep pretending you don’t need anything from anyone.”
Your throat tightened slightly—something you refused to name. Jake exhaled slowly, then added, softer but steadier:
“And I’m not doing this because you’re my colleague anymore.”
That part landed differently. He held your gaze. No grin. No flirting. No easy exit. Just honesty, stripped down.
“I care about you,” he said. “More than I should for someone I work with.”
A pause. Then, more firmly.
“And I’m not going to pretend I don’t anymore.”
The space between you felt too quiet after that. Not empty. Just full in a way neither of you had labeled yet.
.
.
.
.
You didn’t hate people.
Jake had stopped believing that version of you a long time ago. What you hated was the aftermath—the chaos left behind when someone else made a mistake, and you were the one expected to turn it into something survivable again. The delay. The preventable damage. The clean-up that always landed in your hands. Inconvenience disguised as responsibility. That was what irritated you, not humanity itself.
Because if it had truly been hatred, you wouldn’t pause the way you did when a patient’s voice cracked in fear. You wouldn’t adjust your tone when someone was too scared to understand instructions. You wouldn’t stay late when there was nothing in it for you except making sure things didn’t fall apart after you left. Jake had seen it too many times now for it to be an accident.
You had always told yourself engagement with people was complicated—that it meant getting pulled into problems you never agreed to take on, responsibilities that didn’t belong to you, emotions that would slow you down. So you built distance. Sharpness. Efficiency. Cold professionalism that made everything easier to manage and harder to reach. A system that worked, most of the time.
But life didn’t let you stay detached. Not here. Not in trauma. Because here you were anyway—standing in the middle of chaos, cleaning up what other people broke, making impossible decisions in seconds while others hesitated. Everything you said you didn’t want, you were already doing. Jake watched you for a moment longer and thought, quietly, that maybe it was never about hating people at all. Maybe it was just that you cared too much and never permitted yourself to call it that.
So when others called you cold, Jake no longer agreed. Because to him, you weren’t the coldest person in the hospital. You were the one who cared the most. Just in a way that didn’t ask for credit, didn’t ask to be seen, and definitely didn’t ask to be understood. And somehow, that made you the warmest person he had ever known.
.
.
.
.
The trauma page came in just after midnight.
MVC. High speed. Multiple casualties.
By the time you reached the ER, the chaos was already organized into sharp, practiced motion. Gurneys rolling in, voices overlapping, monitors beeping in a frantic rhythm.
“Male, early thirties,” one paramedic reported quickly. “Severe chest trauma, hypotensive, possible internal bleeding. Passenger vehicle. Wife is also incoming—pregnant, third trimester, conscious.”
That made your steps pause for half a second. Then you kept moving.
“Bring him to OR One. Prep blood now,” you ordered immediately. “Call OB for standby.”
The husband was already fading when they transferred him. Too much damage. Too fast. Internal bleeding, you couldn’t fully stop, even as you worked. Jake was there, but he didn’t speak much, just watched the numbers, adjusted what he needed to adjust, stayed exactly where he was needed.
And you?
You didn’t hesitate.
Didn’t break rhythm. Didn’t allow anything to slow your hands. But even before the final moment, you knew. That quiet, awful certainty that sometimes came in trauma. When effort stopped being about saving and started being about not losing control of the room.
“BP dropping,” Jake said softly.
“I know,” you replied.
You pushed harder anyway. Longer than most would have. Longer than was reasonable. Long enough that everyone in the OR understood what was happening without saying it.
Finally—
silence.
Not the peaceful kind.
The final kind.
Jake’s hand slowed on the monitor. No dramatic announcement. No unnecessary words. Just a small pause before he looked at you.
“…Time of death,” he said quietly.
You didn’t respond immediately.
For a second, your hands stayed where they were, still in position, still doing the job your body refused to stop doing. Then slowly, you stepped back.
“Stop,” you said flatly to the team. “Call it.”
Your voice didn’t shake. Not outwardly. The room moved again after that—procedures, documentation, cleanup—but everything felt muted now because the patient wasn’t just a case. Not this one.
When the OR finally cleared, you stood at the sink longer than usual. Washing your hands even after they were already clean. Jake didn’t say anything. Just stayed nearby.
And then the wife was brought in.
She was still in pain. Still in shock. Heavy pregnant, barely able to sit up properly, one hand gripping her abdomen while the other reached for the space beside her.
“Where is he?” she asked immediately.
No one answered right away. Not the nurses. Not the resident. Not Jake. Your name was the only one that mattered now. So you stepped forward. The hallway suddenly felt too small.
“I’m your trauma surgeon,” you said calmly.
Her eyes locked onto yours instantly.
“Where is my husband?” she asked again, sharper now, fear breaking through.
A pause. One that stretched too long. Jake watched your posture carefully. Saw it before you even spoke. That moment where you were still composed—but only just.
“He didn’t survive the surgery,” you said.
Simple. Direct. No decoration. The words hit her like an impact.
“No,” she whispered immediately, shaking her head. “No, that’s not—he was fine. He was talking to me. He said he was going to see the baby—”
Her voice broke. And you stood there, still. Holding it together in the only way you knew how. stillness, control, distance. But then she started crying properly. Not quietly. Not politely. The kind of grief that filled the space.
“He promised,” she said, voice cracking. “He promised he would be there. We waited so long—this baby—he—he can’t just—”
Her hand tightened over her stomach like she was trying to hold everything together physically. And something in you shifted. Not visibly. But deeply. Because it wasn’t just grief. It was love. It was a future that had already existed in her head, being taken away mid-sentence.
Jake saw it immediately. The way your expression didn’t change, but your silence did. He stepped slightly closer, not to intervene, but to stand near you. A quiet presence. Because he knew you. And he knew what moments like this did.
The wife reached forward suddenly, grabbing your sleeve with shaking hands.
“Please,” she cried. “Please, you have to do something. You’re the doctor. You’re supposed to fix it. You can’t just—he can’t be gone—he can’t—”
Your breath stopped for a fraction of a second. Just one. Barely noticeable. But Jake saw it. And so did you. Your hand lifted slightly, then paused mid-air, unsure whether to hold her wrist or let her hold on. For the first time all night, your voice didn’t come immediately.
And when it did, it was quieter. Not clinical. Not sharp. Just human.
“…I’m sorry,” you said.
The wife broke completely then.
And you stood there while she cried into the reality you had just given her, your composure holding like something inside you had taken a hit it couldn’t cleanly repair.
Jake stayed beside you. Not touching. Not speaking. Just there. Because for once, there was nothing to fix.
The hospital kept moving as if nothing had happened. Paperwork was completed, the OR was reset, and another trauma page already echoed somewhere down the hall. But you didn’t go back. You didn’t speak. You just walked until you reached the emergency stairwell, the one place in the hospital where the noise couldn’t follow you. The door shut behind you with a soft click, and suddenly everything went quiet.
You sat down slowly on the steps, as your body had finally decided it couldn’t stay upright anymore. At first, there was only silence. Then your breath broke. Small, uneven, almost imperceptible. You pressed a hand over your mouth like you could contain it, like control was still something you could choose. But it wasn’t. The grief came anyway, quiet and heavy, slipping through every restraint you’d built over years of training and survival. Tears fell without sound as you stared at the floor, unable to look away from the memory of a wife holding onto hope that had just been taken from her.
The stairwell door opened softly behind you, but you didn’t turn immediately. Jake didn’t speak when he stepped in. He didn’t rush toward you or try to fix anything. He just closed the door carefully and sat one step above you, close enough that the space didn’t feel empty, far enough that you didn’t feel cornered. For once, there were no jokes, no teasing, no words at all—just him staying there with you in the quiet, so you didn’t have to break alone.
“Hey.”
Your shoulders tensed slightly, but you didn’t look up.
Jake shifted down one step, slower this time, closer without invading. “You don’t have to stop,” he said gently. “I’m not going anywhere.”
That did something worse than comfort, it loosened the last bit of control you were still holding onto. Your breath hitched again, shorter this time, and you turned your face away instinctively as you could still hide it. But Jake had already seen enough. He lowered himself fully in front of you now, careful, steady, not rushing. “Look at me,” he said softly.
You didn’t at first. So he waited. No impatience. No teasing. No pushing. Just him, there. Eventually, your eyes flickered toward him, tired, wet, unguarded in a way you never allowed anyone to see. Jake’s expression softened immediately.
“There you are,” he murmured.
That was it. Something in you broke properly then. Jake didn’t hesitate. He reached forward and pulled you into him. Arms around you, firm and steady, like he was catching something he refused to let fall further. One hand came up to the back of your head, holding you gently against him. The other stayed at your upper back, grounding you with quiet pressure.
“It’s okay,” he said softly, close enough that you could feel his voice more than hear it. “It’s okay. You don’t have to hold it right now.”
Your hands froze for a second in the air, uncertain, before finally gripping his scrubs like you needed something real to anchor yourself to. Enough that you knew you weren’t alone in it.
“I’ve got you,” he said quietly. “Just breathe.”
And for the first time since the hospital had swallowed the night whole, you let yourself fall apart without standing back up immediately afterward.
.
.
.
.
A few months after the stairwell incident, things between you and Jake felt strangely normal again. At least on the surface.
You were back in the OR. Back to correcting residents before they make mistakes. Back to moving through trauma consults like exhaustion had never touched you at all. And Jake? Jake was back to orbiting around you like usual. Except now there was something quieter underneath it.
Something harder to joke away.
It happened late at night after a long surgery. The residents had already left, the nurses were finishing cleanup, and the hospital had finally slowed into that eerie post-midnight stillness.
You stood at the scrub sink washing your hands while Jake leaned against the counter nearby. For once, neither of you spoke immediately. Then Jake sighed softly.
“You know,” he said, “I don’t think you understand how I see you.”
You glanced at him briefly. “Unfortunately, I hear enough from you already.”
Usually, that would’ve made him laugh harder. This time, he only smiled faintly.
“I’m serious.”
That made you pause slightly. Not because he’d never said things like this before—he had, constantly. But lately, he sounded different when he did. Less playful. More certain.
You shut off the water slowly. “Jake.”
“No, listen to me for a second.”
His voice stayed calm. Steady. Not forcing, but not backing away either.
“You think I like you because I enjoy bothering you.” A small exhale left him. “And yeah, okay, I do enjoy that a little.”
“A lot.”
“A lot,” he corrected easily. “But that’s not why.”
Silence settled briefly between you. Jake straightened slightly, eyes fixed on you now with an honesty that immediately made you uncomfortable. Not because it was unpleasant. Because it was real.
“I like the way you care about people even when you pretend you don’t,” he said quietly. “I like that you keep showing up for everyone, no matter how exhausted you are. I like that you’re honest even when it makes people dislike you.” His mouth softened slightly. “I like that you’re strong without making it everyone else’s problem.”
Your chest tightened faintly. You hated conversations like this. Not because they were insincere. Because you never knew what to do with sincerity once someone handed it to you directly.
Jake continued before you could interrupt.
“And I know you think I flirt with everyone.” He smiled a little, tired this time. “But what I feel for you stopped being casual a long time ago.”
The room suddenly felt too quiet. You crossed your arms instinctively. Defensive.
“That sounds like a bad idea.”
Jake’s expression barely changed. “Because you don’t feel the same?”
Your jaw tightened immediately.
“That’s not what I said.”
Something flickered across his face, then small, hopeful enough to annoy you. You looked away first.
“I don’t…” You exhaled slowly. “I don’t think about relationships.”
“That’s a lie.”
You frowned. “Excuse me?”
“You think about everything.” Jake’s voice softened slightly. “You just avoid things that feel complicated.”
You hated how accurate that sounded. He stepped closer, careful, measured.
“And I know this is complicated,” he admitted. “We work together. We spend almost every day together. If things go wrong, it could affect everything.”
“Exactly.”
“But I still want you anyway.”
Your throat tightened slightly at the directness of it. Jake looked at you for a long moment before speaking again, quieter this time.
“I’m not asking you to decide anything right now,” he said. “I just need you to understand that I mean it.”
A pause.
“That this isn’t a joke to me anymore.”
The honesty in his voice made something shift uncomfortably in your chest. Because the problem wasn’t that you thought Jake was lying. The problem was that you were starting to believe him.
The problem wasn’t Jake.
That was what made this difficult. If he had been careless, immature, or insincere, you could’ve dismissed this easily. You could’ve rolled your eyes, told him to stop being dramatic, and continued your life the same way as before. But Jake meant it. You knew he did now.
And somehow, that made everything worse.
The hospital had taught you how to manage almost everything—pressure, exhaustion, grief, and responsibility. You knew how to function in chaos. You knew how to make impossible decisions without freezing.
This felt uncertain in a way trauma never did.
Because surgeries had protocols. Complications had procedures. Even death had steps you could follow after it happened. Relationships didn’t. Especially not with someone who worked beside you every day.
You sat alone in the attending lounge long after your shift ended, staring blankly at the untouched coffee in your hands. Jake’s words kept replaying, whether you wanted them to or not.
I still want you anyway.
Your jaw tightened faintly. You hated complicated things. And relationships felt like the most complicated thing possible. Not because you thought love was impossible. You saw it all the time. Families crying in waiting rooms, spouses refusing to leave hospital bedsides, people holding onto each other through impossible situations.
You knew it existed. You just never imagined it fitting into your life. Your life was sharp corners and unpredictable hours. Trauma calls at three in the morning. Twenty-hour shifts. Emotional exhaustion, you barely knew how to process yourself.
Jake already knew this life, too. Which meant if things went wrong, there would be no clean escape from it. You would still see each other in the OR. Still work trauma cases together. Still stand across operating tables pretending nothing happened while everyone around you noticed the tension anyway. The idea alone sounded exhausting.
You exhaled quietly and leaned your head back against the chair. The worst part was that you still didn’t know what you felt. Not fully.
Jake mattered to you. That much was obvious now in ways you couldn’t comfortably deny anymore. His presence had become something familiar. Important. He irritated you constantly, yet somehow made the hospital feel less unbearable at the same time.
But caring about someone and wanting a relationship weren’t automatically the same thing.
Were they?
You genuinely didn’t know. And that uncertainty unsettled you more than anything else. Because for the first time in years, this wasn’t a situation you could solve by being competent enough.
.
.
.
.
Jake, unfortunately, did not know how to quit.
After that conversation, any normal person probably would’ve backed off a little. Given you space. Allowed you time to process your feelings without constantly hovering around your existence like an emotionally persistent golden retriever in surgical scrubs.
Jake did none of those things.
“You know I’d marry you tomorrow if you asked, right?”
You didn’t even look up from the patient file. “I’d rather induce my own coma.”
“That’s not a no.”
“That is absolutely a no.”
Yet somehow, he never made it feel like pressure.
Jake didn’t confess because he expected something from you immediately. He confessed because he wanted you to know the feeling still existed. Constant. Unchanged. Certain.
And every time you dismissed him, he just smiled like someone who already understood your language better than you realized.
“Morning,” he greeted one day, falling into step beside you while you speed-walked toward trauma rounds. “You ignored three of my messages.”
“They weren’t messages. You sent me photos of hospital cats.”
“They reminded me of you.”
You stopped walking immediately. “Explain that statement carefully.”
“Mean eyes. Doesn’t trust people. Hisses when approached.”
“You’re brave today.”
“Love makes people fearless.”
“You need a psychological evaluation.”
Jake grinned like that was a compliment. That was the issue with him. Every rejection somehow fueled him, rather than discouraging him.
A week later, he cornered you at the vending machine at two in the morning while you aggressively tried to choose caffeine.
“You know,” he said thoughtfully, “if we dated, I’d let you steal my fries.”
You stared at him flatly. “I can already do that.”
“Yeah, but romantically.”
“That’s the worst thing you’ve ever said to me.”
“Not true. Remember when I said epidurals were easy?”
Your expression darkened immediately. “I almost reported you to HR for that.”
“Yet here we are. Stronger than ever.”
You genuinely couldn’t tell if Jake was flirting or simply surviving on a level of confidence normal people didn’t possess. The worst part? He somehow adapted to your personality instead of fighting it. When you ignored him, he kept talking anyway. When you insulted him, he looked entertained instead of offended. And when you got exhausted enough to stop responding entirely, he just walked beside you quietly until you recovered enough to threaten him again.
It was deeply inconvenient.
One afternoon after a brutal trauma surgery, you dropped heavily into a chair in the staff lounge while reviewing scans. Jake appeared two minutes later like a curse.
“You look terrible,” he said sympathetically, handing you coffee.
You accepted it automatically before narrowing your eyes. “Why are you here?”
“I sensed emotional distress.”
He sat across from you casually, watching while you drank the coffee in exhausted silence.
“You know I’m still trying to date you, right?”
You closed your eyes briefly.
“Jake.”
“I’m just making sure we maintain clear communication.”
“You confessed to me yesterday.”
“And today.”
“You’re proving my point.”
“That I’m consistent?”
“That you’re insane.”
Jake leaned back in his chair, completely unbothered.
“Okay, but statistically speaking, eventually you’re gonna accidentally fall in love with me.”
You looked at him over the coffee cup.
“…That’s not how statistics work.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Hm.” He nodded thoughtfully. “Then I’ll simply have to increase exposure.”
You stared at him for a long moment before muttering, “I actually understand why residents avoid you now.”
Jake looked delighted.
For a long moment, neither of you spoke. Then Jake shoved his hands into his pockets and tilted his head slightly.
“So?” he asked lightly. “Any progress on accidentally falling in love with me?”
You stared at him. Jake stared back hopefully. And despite everything, the exhaustion, the complicated feelings, the fact that relationships still sounded terrifying and inconvenient and deeply impractical, you felt your mouth twitch slightly.
Small. Real. Jake immediately pointed at you.
“That’s improvement.”
“Don’t ruin it.”
“Too late. I’m celebrating internally.”
You shook your head under your breath.
Still no answer. Still uncertain. Still not ready to call whatever this was by its real name. But this time, when Jake called after you—
“See you tomorrow, Dr. Y/N. I’ll continue loving you then too.”
You didn’t tell him to stop..
Jake watched you disappear down the hallway until the automatic doors closed behind you with a soft hiss. Around him, the hospital kept moving the same way it always did—pages overhead, hurried footsteps, another resident sprinting toward a consult somewhere down the corridor. Nothing had changed. And yet somehow, everything had. Because for the first time since falling in love with you, Jake realized he no longer needed an immediate answer just to keep going.
And honestly?
For now, that was enough.
tag list : @en-chantedtomeetyou, @ni-kiswife, @sunsetgenie, @jaeunaria0-0, @asa-is-acinggg, @mydearestdongwook, @mrs-r1zzimura, @chxrlz-mxr, @nlylilac, @coatedlily, @d3adaf, @lightyagamigooner, @woninlove, @imsimjaeyunswife, @maishee
୨ৎ Summary : A little bit of teasing, a lot of tears, and an unforgettable night of passion. Jungwon makes up for his mischief by treating you like a goddess, delivering the pleasure you crave and leaving you completely wrecked in the best way possible.
୨ৎ Pairing : bf! Jungwon x gf! reader
୨ৎ Wordcount : 4.4k
୨ৎ Warning : explicit scene (i fear this is too soft to be called explicit...), softdom!Jungwon, creampie, unprotected sex (DON'T do it guys), belly bulge, squirting
Weekends at Jungwon’s apartment are usually peaceful.
Usually.
Today, unfortunately, Jungwon woke up and decided your suffering was entertainment. It starts in the morning when you’re standing in front of his apartment. He opened the door wearing those damn grey sweatpants and that fuckass tank top–who you love way too much, it’s embarrassing. His arms and shoulders were exposed so casually that it felt almost offensive.
And the worst part?
He looked completely normal doing it. Like he had no idea what kind of effect he had on you.
“Why are you just standing there?” Jungwon asks, one brow lifting slightly.
You immediately look away.
“I’m taking my shoes off.”
“You stopped moving for ten seconds.”
“I did not.”
His lips twitch upward.
You brush past him quickly before he can tease you further, trying your best to ignore the warmth creeping up your neck. The familiar scent of his apartment wraps around you instantly, laundry detergent, coffee, and the faint smell of his cologne lingering in the air.
Usually, being here calms you down. Today, unfortunately, your hormones decided otherwise. You’re ovulating. Which means every little thing Jungwon does feels amplified to a genuinely unbearable degree. The sound of his voice, the warmth of his hands, and the shape of his shoulders beneath those fuckass tank top. You hate how much you like them.
The weekend is supposed to be productive.
That’s why you’re sitting cross-legged on the couch with your laptop balanced on your thighs, several research tabs open, half-finished notes scattered across the coffee table, and a report deadline hanging over your head like a threat.
You know damn well that you should be working.
Instead, you’re staring at the same paragraph for the fifth time because Jungwon just walked past you looking scrumptious as ever.
He just casually walked into the kitchen to make iced coffee while pushing his hair back with one hand, exposing the line of his neck and shoulders so effortlessly that your entire brain short-circuited.
You squeeze your eyes shut. This is horrible.
Maybe it’s because you’re ovulating. Maybe your hormones decided to ruin your life. Maybe Jungwon simply exists too attractively for your own sanity. Whatever the reason is, you feel pathetically needy.
From the kitchen, you hear the clink of ice against glass. You glance up instinctively. Big mistake. Because now he’s leaning against the counter with his back facing you, broad shoulders stretching beneath dark fabric as he reaches for something from the cabinet, and suddenly you can’t breathe normally anymore.
Jungwon turns slightly, one brow raised while sipping his coffee. There’s amusement flickering in his eyes already.
“You’re doing it again.”
You nearly choke. That stupid, knowing grin. You duck your head back toward your laptop immediately, pretending to type something while your ears burn in embarrassment. Jungwon walks over eventually, completely unbothered, and drops onto the couch beside you. Close enough that his thigh presses lightly against yours.
“What are you working on?” he asks casually.
“Report.”
“You’ve written the same sentence three times.”
You glare at the screen.
Unfortunately, he wasn’t wrong—straight up just stating facts with zero hesitation. Which somehow makes it worse. Now you just look dumb and pathetic.
“Must be misstyped,” you mumble defensively.
Jungwon hums beside you from where he’s sprawled across the couch, one arm thrown behind his head lazily. “Three times?”
“Yes.”
“With the exact same typo?”
Oh, God. You genuinely want to dunk your head into the couch pillow and never come back out.
Jungwon glances lazily at the screen, clearly expecting to catch another repeated sentence. Instead, his eyes pause. Then narrow slightly.
“…You just wrote ‘Jungwon shoulders’ into your report.”
Silence.
Complete silence.
Your soul leaves your body instantly.
Slowly, painfully slowly, Jungwon turns toward you with the most unbelievable expression of amusement you’ve ever seen. You slam the laptop shut immediately.
“Don’t look at me.”
The laugh he lets out is dangerously delighted.
“Mhm.”
That smug tone already tells you today is going to be horrible. And somehow, it gets worse from there. Because Jungwon spends the entire day teasing you.
You’re sitting on the floor beside his couch, pretending to organize your bag while Jungwon lounges above you, scrolling through his phone. Then he casually runs a hand through his hair and tilts his head back against the couch. It was normal, like every other person does that, but why does this suddenly feel like a threat?
Well, you wonder.
The entire day had been a slow, agonizing torture. Every time you caught a glimpse of Jungwon—the way his tank top strained against the broad, powerful slope of his shoulders, the subtle, rhythmic flex of his back as he reached for a file—you felt a heavy, pulsing ache between your thighs. You were so worked up that your laptop screen was a blur; you couldn't focus on a single sentence of your work because all you could imagine was his heavy weight pressing you into the mattress, his skin hot against yours.
You’d tried working earlier. Tried sitting at the kitchen counter with your laptop open and your notes spread around you. But every time Jungwon walked past, your concentration was shattered instantly. To the point where your report became completely hopeless.
The brush of his arm against your shoulder while reaching for a mug. The sight of his back shifting beneath his tank top as he opened cabinets. The way he casually leaned against the counter beside you, smelling like soap and coffee and Jungwon.
And unfortunately, Jungwon was observant.
“You’ve been sighing a lot today.”
His voice breaks through your thoughts suddenly. Two steaming bowls of ramen sit in front of you now, the rich smell instantly filling the kitchen. Soft curls of steam rise into the warm apartment air, and Jungwon slides one bowl carefully toward you before sitting down beside you at the counter.
For a second, your chest tightens unexpectedly. Because, despite all the teasing today, Jungwon always does little things like this so naturally. Your heart feels annoyingly soft all of a sudden.
“You didn’t have to,” you mutter.
“But I wanted to.”
The casual sincerity in his voice almost makes things worse. You quickly look away before he notices the warmth rushing to your face again. Unfortunately, Jungwon notices everything.
“There it is,” he says quietly.
You narrow your eyes immediately. “What?”
“That look.”
“What look?”
“The one you get when you’re flustered.”
“I’m not flustered.”
“Mhm.”
You hate that hum. It always sounds like he’s humoring you.
You aggressively stab the noodles with your chopsticks while Jungwon watches with obvious amusement from beside you. The kitchen light reflects softly against his figure, while he leans one arm against the counter, posture relaxed and unfairly attractive for someone simply eating ramen.
And somehow, despite how badly he’s been teasing you since morning, Jungwon’s expression softens for a moment while looking at you now.
Like, he finds your entire existence unbearably endearing.
“You’re really needy today, huh?” he murmurs.
You immediately look back down at your ramen. “Shut up.”
.
.
.
"What was that? I can't hear you," he teased, a smug smirk playing on his lips as he leaned back, deliberately stretching the fabric of his shirt across those shoulders you were obsessed with.
When you tried to pull him closer, your small hands grasping at him, he playfully dodged you, giving you a look of mock innocence. "Are you actually asking for it? I don't know, I'm suddenly feeling very... tired. Maybe tomorrow?"
He kept it up, pushing your buttons with a stubborn, teasing refusal that felt like a knife to your desperation. The frustration, combined with your natural sensitivity, finally snapped. The overwhelming feeling of being ignored while your pussy was screaming for his cock became too much.
The frustration. The embarrassment. The awful overwhelming ache of wanting him all day while he kept laughing and teasing, and acting unaffected.
A shaky sob escaped your throat before you could stop it. Jungwon froze instantly. Tears blurred your vision embarrassingly fast, and you covered your face immediately, mortified at yourself for crying over something this stupid. But it wasn’t anger. It was worse. You just felt completely undone.
“You’re so mean,” you whispered brokenly, voice trembling. “I just wanted you…”
The moment the first tear fell, Jungwon’s expression shifted instantly. The smugness vanished, replaced by a look of pure, concentrated hunger and guilt.
"Oh, baby... no, no, no," he murmured, his voice dropping an octave, suddenly thick and raw. He surged forward, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you flush against his chest. "I'm sorry, I was just teasing.”
He moved immediately, grabbing your wrists gently and pulling your hands away from your face so he could see you properly. His eyes widened slightly at the tears sliding down your cheeks.
“Oh, sweetheart.”
You tried turning away out of embarrassment. Jungwon wouldn’t let you. Your face buried automatically against his shoulder, warm tears soaking into the fabric of his shirt, while Jungwon wrapped both arms tightly around you. The second you curled against his chest, your body relaxed instinctively.
“There’s my girl,” he murmured against your hair, rubbing your back slowly. “I pushed too far.”
You sniffled miserably against him.
“I hate you.”
Jungwon tilted your chin upward carefully after a moment, eyes softer now than they’d been all day.
“I’m sorry for teasing you too much,” he whispered.
He didn't waste another second. Jungwon’s lips crashed onto yours, kissing you hungrily, his tongue sweeping through your mouth with a desperation that mirrored your own. He lifted you effortlessly, your legs wrapping around his waist as he carried you to the bedroom, his mouth never leaving yours, sucking on your tongue as if he wanted to consume you.
The atmosphere in the bedroom was thick with a tension that had been building for hours. Jungwon had spent the entire evening playing a dangerous game. Now he had to deal with the consequences of his action.
He could see the frustration in your eyes, the way your lower lip trembled, and how you were practically vibrating with a need you were too timid to demand. The playful smirk he’d worn all night finally softened as he realized he had pushed you just a bit too far. He didn't want you truly distressed; he wanted you wanting him, but the line had blurred.
"Look at me, baby," he murmured, his voice dropping into that low, velvety register that always made your toes curl.
He leaned in, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to your forehead. It was a tender, grounding touch, designed to soothe the frantic beating of your heart. He shifted his lips to your temple, then your cheek, his breath warm against your skin.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice dripping with genuine contrition. "I know I was being a brat. I enjoyed seeing you get all worked up, but I didn't mean to actually upset you. I'm sorry for teasing you so much, sweetheart."
He trailed a path of soft kisses down the bridge of your nose, lingering just long enough to make your chest ache. One pressed carefully against the corner of your eye. Another against your cheek. Then, finally, a sweet apologetic kiss right on the tip of your nose that made your breath hitch despite yourself.
Jungwon looked unfairly gentle up close like this.
His dark lashes were low, his expression softened by guilt and affection instead of teasing for once. One of his hands stayed warm against the side of your face while the other rested securely at your waist, thumb rubbing slow circles through the fabric of his oversized hoodie hanging off your frame.
“You’ve been so patient with me today,” he murmured.
You tried to look away out of embarrassment. Jungwon only followed.
“No,” he whispered, brushing his nose lightly against yours. “Look at me.”
Your heartbeat stumbled. Because suddenly, all the teasing from earlier was gone. No smug grin. No playful mocking. Just Jungwon looking at you like you were something precious. Then he kissed you. Slowly. Not the overwhelming, breathless kind of kiss he usually gave when he got carried away. This one was softer—careful and lingering, like he was trying to soothe every bit of frustration he’d caused all day.
It somehow affected you even more.
Your fingers curled weakly into the fabric of his shirt while his hand slid lower along your waist, gently pulling you closer until your hips settled flush against his. The warmth there made your breath catch instantly. Jungwon felt it too. His own breathing deepened slightly against your lips before he kissed you again, slower this time, almost coaxing.
“There she is,” he murmured. “My pretty girl.”
Your face burned immediately.
“Don’t call me that.”
“But you like it.”
Unfortunately, the tiny shiver that ran through you betrayed the truth instantly. Jungwon smiled against your mouth.
“So sensitive today,” he whispered.
You buried your face briefly against his shoulder with a quiet groan, still embarrassed by how easily he affected you. The movement only made him laugh softly under his breath.
“You spent the whole day staring at me like you wanted attention,” he teased gently, fingers tightening slightly at your waist. “And now you’re shy?”
“You made me like this,” you muttered against his shoulder.
“Mhm.” He tilted his head just enough to press another kiss into your hair. “And I’m gonna make it better too.”
The warmth in his voice sent another wave of heat through you. Jungwon leaned back just enough to look at you again, eyes darker now but still impossibly affectionate.
“How about I make it up to you properly?” he asked quietly.
Your stomach twisted.
“You’ve had all this frustration building up since morning,” he continued softly, thumb brushing beneath your jaw. “I wanna take care of you now.”
The sincerity in his tone nearly undid you all over again. Especially because this wasn’t teasing anymore. Jungwon was looking at you like he genuinely hated seeing you upset. Like your feelings mattered more to him than the game he’d been playing earlier. You nodded shyly after a second. His expression melted instantly.
“Good girl,” he murmured warmly before kissing you again, deeper this time, one hand sliding into your hair while the other held your waist securely against him like he had no intention of letting you go for the rest of the night.
He shifted lower, pressing a soft, slow kiss to the corner of your mouth, then the other, teasingly grazing your lips without fully capturing them yet. He was being agonizingly patient with you. It was almost cruel how patient he was now. Not teasing to frustrate you this time. Just savoring you.
"Forgive me?" he breathed, his voice dripping with affection.
You tried to maintain at least a little dignity.
“…Maybe.”
Jungwon smiled immediately.
“Oh? Only maybe?”
“You were really mean today.”
“I know.” Another soft kiss against your cheek. “I’m sorry.”
This time, you only nodded quietly. The tiny bit of stubbornness you’d been holding onto melted away under the softness in his voice. Without thinking much about it, you shifted closer and buried your face in the crook of his neck.
Jungwon let out a soft, contented sigh as you tucked yourself into his neck, his arms wrapping around you instantly to pull you flush against his chest. He held you with a protective, needy grip, his face burying itself in your hair as he inhaled your scent deeply, as if he were trying to memorize you all over again.
Jungwon guided you carefully toward the bed, movements unhurried and gentle. The mattress dipped beneath your weight as he eased you down against the soft sheets, never fully letting go of you even for a second.
The bedroom light was dim now, warm amber shadows stretching softly across the room. Against them, Jungwon looked almost unfairly beautiful, hovering above you like this—dark hair falling messily over his forehead, lips slightly swollen from kissing you, eyes heavy with something so openly affectionate it made your stomach flutter nervously.
He looked at you like you were precious. Like you were something to be adored. And somehow that gaze always affected you more than anything else. Your hands instinctively reached for his shoulders again the second he settled over you. Jungwon immediately smiled.
“There they are,” he murmured warmly. “Knew your hands would end up here.”
You looked away instantly, embarrassed.
“Don’t start.”
“I’m not teasing.” His nose brushed softly against yours. “I like it when you touch me.”
The honesty in his voice made your heartbeat stumble.
Jungwon lowered his head slightly, pressing slow kisses along your shoulder this time. Warm lingering presses of his lips against sensitive skin that made tiny shivers ripple through you despite yourself.
“So pretty,” he murmured between kisses.
Your face burned.
“You say that too much.”
“Not enough.”
Another kiss. Slower this time. Jungwon’s hands moved carefully along your waist and hips, not rushed or impatient like earlier. Now every touch felt deliberate—like he wanted you to feel how much he adored you through every small movement.
“There you go,” he whispered soothingly after one particularly shaky exhale. “Just relax for me.”
He started with your shoulders, pressing slow, lingering kisses to the skin, his lips warm and soft. "You're so beautiful," he murmured between kisses, his voice a low hum of praise. "So perfect. I can't believe you're mine."
His hands began to roam, not with the urgency of before, but with a reverent slowness. He traced the curves of your hips, his palms grazing your skin in a way that made you shiver. Every time you let out a small, needy whimper, he would pause to kiss your forehead or your eyelids, reassuring you, reminding you that you were safe and cherished.
"I'm going to take such good care of you," he breathed, his hand sliding up to cup your cheek. "I'm going to give you everything you want, baby. Just tell me... tell me what you need."
Your throat tightened slightly under the weight of his attention. Because suddenly, after all the teasing and overwhelming frustration from earlier, the only thing you could really think of was him.
“I want you.”
“Oh, baby,” he murmured, sounding almost overwhelmed himself.
As he slowly peeled away the remaining layers between you, his gaze never left yours for long. And when he finally paused above you, taking you in properly, the expression on his face softened into something dangerously tender. Like awe. A shaky breath escaped him quietly.
Your face immediately burned.
You instinctively tried turning away, embarrassed under the intensity of his attention, but Jungwon gently cupped your cheek and guided you back toward him.
“No,” he murmured. “Don’t hide from me.”
The warmth in his voice made your chest ache.
Jungwon lowered himself again slowly, pressing kisses along your shoulder, down the sensitive curve of your collarbone, lingering everywhere that made your breathing stutter. His lips brushed softly along your inner thigh afterward, warm enough to send a sharp shiver through your body. Jungwon noticed immediately.
“There,” he whispered with a small smile against your skin. “Felt that.”
You covered your face instantly with one hand, mortified by how easily he could read you. Jungwon laughed quietly under his breath before gently pulling your hand away.
“Don’t get shy now.”
Jungwon’s hands moved slowly along your waist, thumbs brushing comforting circles into your skin while he kissed the dip of your hip gently enough to make your stomach twist.
"Look at how you're shaking for me," he whispered, a small, loving smile playing on his lips. "You're so sensitive, so responsive. I love how much you want me."
Before he even entered you, he pinned you down, his mouth attacking your neck and breasts, his teeth grazing your nipples until you whimpered. You reached up, your fingers digging frantically into the muscles of his shoulders and the broad expanse of his back, pulling him closer, begging for the friction.
When he finally positioned himself between your legs, he paused, his thick, pulsing cock brushing against your entrance. He leaned down, capturing your lips in a deep, slow kiss that tasted of devotion. He didn't use a condom; he wanted you to feel every inch of him.
"I'm going to be gentle, sweetheart. I'm going to fill you up so completely," he promised.
He entered you with an agonizingly slow push, savoring the feeling of your tight walls gripping him. He stopped halfway, letting you adjust, his forehead resting against yours as he breathed through the intensity of the sensation.
"You feel so good... so tight," he groaned, his eyes fluttering shut. "God, I love how you feel around me. You're perfect, baby. Absolutely perfect."
He was just watching your expression with that same unbearable tenderness that had been undoing you all night.
“You okay?” he whispered.
You nodded immediately, fingers tightening against his shoulders.
He began to move in a slow, rhythmic cadence, each thrust deep and deliberate. He wasn't trying to wreck you yet; he was making love to you, focusing on the emotional connection, the way your eyes locked, and the way your breaths synced. He praised every sound you made, every arch of your back, whispering how much he loved you, how much he adored your body, and how lucky he felt to be the one inside you.
"That's it, just take it all," he murmured, his voice dripping with affection as he picked up the pace slightly, the friction building into a searing heat. "You're doing so well for me. Such a good girl. Just let go, baby. I've got you."
Every word was spoken with such open fondness that it became impossible to stay embarrassed for long. Especially when Jungwon looked at you afterward like he was completely gone for you already.
As the tension peaked, Jungwon’s movements became more urgent, his possessive nature resurfacing. He gripped your hips firmly, pulling you higher against him to ensure he was hitting every sensitive spot. He wanted to feel every inch of you, to merge his body with yours until there was no space left between them.
"I want to fill you," he gasped, his breath hitching as he neared the edge. "I want to leave every drop of me inside you. I want you to feel me deep in your belly."
With a final, powerful surge, he buried himself as deep as he could go, his body shuddering as he released a massive, hot torrent of cum deep inside your womb. He groaned your name into your neck, his grip tightening as he pulsed over and over, filling you to the brim, obsessed with the feeling of his seed claiming you.
As he reached his first peak, he didn't pull out. He buried himself as deep as possible, his cock throbbing and expanding inside you as he blasted a hot, thick load of cum deep into your womb. You screamed into the pillow, feeling the warmth flood your internals, your walls pulsing around him. But he didn't stop. He stayed inside, grinding his hips to keep the friction going, driving you closer and closer to the edge.
The second time he came, he was relentless, pumping more seed into you, his cock twitching inside your tight heat. You could feel your belly beginning to tighten and bulge slightly from the sheer volume of his cum filling you. The intensity of the pleasure, combined with the feeling of being completely claimed and filled, triggered something visceral inside you.
Suddenly, your internal muscles clamped tight around him in a violent spasm. With a shaking, guttural moan, a massive spray of fluid erupted from you, soaking the sheets and splashing against his stomach and chest. You squirted for the first time in your life, your body convulsing in waves of pure, blinding ecstasy, your pussy milking him dry as you shuddered.
Jungwon froze, his eyes widening as he felt the hot spray and saw the wetness covering them both. He looked down at the drenched sheets and then back at your flushed, dazed face. He was in absolute awe.
"Did you... Did you just squirt for me?" he breathed, his voice trembling with a new level of obsession. He looked at you as if you were a goddess, his heart hammering against his ribs. Seeing you react this way—completely shattered and undone by him—made him fall for you all over again, deeper and harder.
As he pulled back just an inch, his gaze dropped to your stomach, where the slight, tell-tale bulge of his multiple loads was still visible beneath your skin. A small, possessive smile quirked his lips, and he leaned down to press a lingering, sweet kiss right over your navel, his lips grazing the skin where his seed was pooled inside you.
The room felt unbearably warm now, sheets tangled around both of you while the soft amber light cast shadows across Jungwon’s flushed face and messy dark hair. He looked completely undone.
You were curled against Jungwon’s chest with his oversized blanket tangled around both of you, your cheek pressed right over his heartbeat, while his fingers lazily traced patterns along your bare back. Neither of you spoke for a while. Mostly because you physically couldn’t look him in the eye yet. Not after everything. The moment Jungwon realized that, he smiled against your hair immediately.
“There she is,” he murmured sleepily. “Hiding again.”
“I’m not hiding.”
“You literally tucked your whole face into my chest.”
“…It’s comfortable here.”
His arms tightened around you at that answer. The reaction was immediate and instinctive, like Jungwon couldn’t help himself whenever you got clingy after affection.
“Mmm,” he hummed softly. “Stay there then.”
You could hear the smile in his voice. This was your least favorite thing about Jungwon sometimes. No matter how overwhelmed or embarrassed you got, he always sounded unbearably fond of it. Like your shyness was something precious to him instead of awkward. The mattress shifted slightly as Jungwon leaned down to press a slow kiss into your hairline.
“You okay?” he asked quietly.
You nodded against him.
“Tired?”
“A little.”
“Understandable.” His hand slid slowly up your spine soothingly.
“You know I’m obsessed with you, too, right?”
Your heartbeat stumbled. Jungwon’s gaze softened even further at your stunned expression.
“Maybe worse than you,” he admitted quietly.
For once, you had absolutely nothing teasing to say back. So instead, you just curled closer into him again, hiding your burning face in his neck while Jungwon laughed softly and held you tighter like he never planned on letting go.
୨ৎ Summary : You didn’t mean to fall for him. You didn’t even mean to meet him. It starts with an old CD—your mom’s favorite boy group from back in her school days. She points at one member, smiling like it’s a memory she never really let go of. You point at the same boy, not knowing why he feels so familiar. That night, you play the CD. And when you wake up, it’s 1995. The classroom is louder, the air feels different, and nothing makes sense—until you turn your head and see him sitting right next to you. Not on a screen. Not a voice through old tracks. Yang Jungwon. Seventeen. Your seatmate. The same boy your mom once loved. He thinks you’re weird. You stare too much, say things that don’t exist yet, and don’t know how to use a cassette properly. But somehow, he still walks you home, shares his music, and starts looking at you like you’re something he doesn’t quite understand—but doesn’t want to lose either. It was supposed to be temporary. Just a strange dream. A glitch. A mistake. But the more you get used to 1995—the laughter, the quiet walks, the way he says your name—the harder it becomes to remember that you don’t belong here. Because sooner or later, the song will end. And when it does, you’ll have to go back to a time where he only exists in memories that were never yours to begin with.
The kind that wasn’t supposed to mean anything. No warnings, no signs—just another ordinary day that should’ve passed like all the others.
But the classroom buzzes around you. Chairs scraping, people laughing, cassette players clicking open and shut, and it all feels distant, like you’re hearing it through water. You grip the edge of your desk, trying to ground yourself. This isn’t right. This isn’t your classroom.
And he, he’s not supposed to be real.
“You’re new,” he says, like he’s already figured that much out. His voice is calm, steady. Too normal for someone who just turned your entire world upside down by simply existing.
“Yeah,” you mumble. “You could say that.”
He watches you for a second longer, eyes narrowing slightly—as if trying to solve you.
“You’ve been staring since you walked in.”
“I have not.”
“You have.”
“…Okay, maybe a little.”
“A little,” he repeats, almost amused now. “Should I be concerned?”
You hesitate. Because how are you supposed to explain this? That just last night, you were lying in your room, listening to an old CD your mom used to love. That she pointed at him and said, he was my favorite, and now he’s sitting next to you like he’s always belonged here?
You swallow.
“No,” you say finally, softer this time. “You don’t have to be.”
He studies you for another second—then leans back in his chair, like he’s decided you’re not a threat. Just… strange.
“Good,” he says. “Because I don’t like complicated things.”
You let out a small breath, almost laughing. If only he knew.
The bell rings, sharp and sudden. Everyone starts moving, but you stay frozen for half a second too long—until he stands, slinging his bag over his shoulder. He glances at you.
You blink. “What?”
He gives you a look.
“Aren’t you going home?”
Right. Of course. You scramble to your feet, nearly knocking your chair over. He catches it before it hits the floor, steadying it with one hand.
“Careful,” he says, a hint of something like a smile tugging at his lips. “You’re really not used to this, are you?”
You meet his eyes, and for a second, everything goes quiet again.
No.
You’re not used to this.
Not used to 1995. Not used to this version of him. Not used to how real he feels.
“…not yet,” you admit.
He hums softly, like he doesn’t quite understand—but isn’t asking further.
“Then you’d better keep up.”
He starts walking ahead. And you follow. Because somehow, impossibly—on a random Tuesday that was never meant to matter—this is the closest you’ve ever been to someone you were never supposed to meet.
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synopsis : living next door to lee heeseung has always been a nightmare loud, cocky, and impossible to ignore until one reckless night at a party leaves you waking up in his bed and running before it can mean anything you try to forget it ever happened, until two lines change everything, and suddenly the one person you can’t stand is the one you can’t escape.
pairing : basketball captain heeseung x neighbourf!reader
trope : accidental pregnancy + forced proximity
word count : 19.6k
warnings : heeseung is a an absolute asshole, accidental pregnancy, alot panic and guilt, abortion / termination discussion, fear of the future, alcohol use, one night stand, dirty talking, cursing, foreplay, dry humping, oral, drunk sex ( consent is present ) , unprotected sex, mild degradation, hair pulling, creampie
🗯️ JO’s NOTES < 🐻❄️ 3 ! : omggg finallyy juno part one is out, hope you have an absolute amazing time when reading. navi did the proofreading for me ilysmm <3333
The bass from the apartment next door was so loud it made your pencil roll off the desk for the third time tonight thump thump thump. Each beat vibrated through the thin wall like it was personally trying to ruin your life.
You stared at the half finished notes in front of you, frustration bubbling hot in your chest. Midterms were in two weeks. Two weeks and Lee Heeseung, the campus golden boy, basketball captain, and your personal nightmare of a neighbor was throwing another one of his legendary parties like tomorrow didn’t exist.
This was the nth time. The nth damn time since you’d moved in six months ago. With a sharp exhale, you shoved your chair back and stormed out of your apartment, not even bothering to change out of your oversized hoodie and sweatpants. The hallway reeked of spilled beer and expensive cologne.
You could already hear the chaos before you even reached his door. Laughter, glasses clinking, some girl’s high pitched giggle cutting through the music.
You banged on the door harder than necessary. It took a few seconds before someone inside yelled over the noise, “Yoo Heeseung! Someone’s banging at your front door!”The door finally swung open.
Heeseung stood there in all his infuriating glory tall, broad shouldered, black hair slightly tousled like he’d been running his hands through it. His button up was half undone, revealing a silver chain that rested on his collarbones and a glimpse of toned chest. Behind him, the party pulsed with red solo cups, dim lights, and at least half the basketball team.
A pretty girl with long hair and a tight dress was pressed close to his side, her hand resting possessively on his arm. He’d clearly been in the middle of charming her into his bed by the end of the night.
The second his dark eyes landed on you, that signature cocky smirk curved his lips.“Hi, miss morals,” he drawled, voice low and teasing, like he’d been waiting for this exact interruption.
You rolled your eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn’t get stuck. “Can you turn it down? The music is too loud.”
Heeseung didn’t move. Instead, he leaned one shoulder against the doorframe, crossing his arms in a way that made his biceps strain against the fabric of his shirt. The girl behind him shifted, clearly annoyed at the sudden attention shift, but Heeseung didn’t spare her a glance now.
“Miss morals strikes again,” he laughed, the sound rich and mocking. It sent an unwelcome spark of irritation down your spine. “What’s the problem this time, neighbor? Come to bless us with your righteous presence?”
“I’m serious, Heeseung,” you said, voice sharp as you folded your arms tightly across your chest. “Not everyone has the pleasure of partying all night. Others have to actually study to pass their exams whereas others can just have daddy pay for everything when they fuck up.”The words hung in the air between you.
Heeseung’s smirk faltered instantly. His jaw tightened, and he sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth. For a split second, something raw annoyance, maybe even hurt flashed across his face before he quickly shoved it back into that indifferent mask. His eyes darkened, the playful glint gone.
“Whatever,” he muttered, voice suddenly flat and cold. “I’ll lower the volume.”He said, “Thank you,” you replied curtly, refusing to let the small victory show on your face even though your heart was hammering.
Heeseung didn’t say anything else. He simply stepped back and shut the door right in your face with a firm click that echoed down the empty hallway.
You stood there for a moment, staring at the closed wooden door, fists clenched at your sides. The music inside dropped almost immediately, not completely off, but low enough that you could finally breathe. Muffled laughter and voices still filtered through, but at least your walls wouldn’t shake anymore.
“Asshole,” you whispered under your breath, turning on your heel and heading back to your apartment.As you closed your own door behind you, you leaned against it for a second, eyes closed. Why did he always have to make everything so difficult? Why did one look from him always manage to crawl under your skin like this?
You shook your head, forcing the thoughts away. Back to studying. Back to pretending Lee Heeseung didn’t exist. But deep down, you already knew tonight’s silence between you two had just gotten a little louder.
You were halfway through rewriting your notes when your phone buzzed on the desk, the screen lighting up with a new message.
yunjin : you know sunghoon righttt? he’s throwing a massive party after midterms and he personally invited me. pleeease come with me?? i don’t wanna go alone 🥺
You stared at the text, already feeling the familiar dread settle in your stomach. Another party of course. You typed back quickly
you : No thanks im good have fun tho
The two dots appeared immediately.
yunjin : babe come onnnn
yunjin : it’s after midterms!! you deserve to relax
yunjin : sunghoon’s parties are actually fun i swear
yunjin : there’ll be good music, free drinks, and i heard the basketball team is coming too 👀
You groaned, rubbing your temples. The last thing you wanted was to be anywhere near the basketball team especially not after tonight’s lovely encounter with their captain.
you : exactly why I’m not going pass
yunjin : please please please i really like sunghoon and this could be my chance
yunjin : i’ll owe you big time i’ll even help you study for the next round of exams i’ll buy you that expensive matcha you like for a month!!
You leaned back in your chair, biting your lip. Yunjin was relentless when she wanted something. And honestly she had been there for you through every late night breakdown this semester. Saying no felt a little cruel the pleading texts kept coming
yunjin : i won’t leave your side the whole night ( she is lying )
yunjin : we can leave early if you hate it , pretty please with cherries on top?? 🥺🍒
You sighed deeply, already knowing you were about to lose this battle.
you : fine, ONE HOUR that’s it if it sucks, we’re out.
yunjin : YESSSSS!!! you’re the best i love you so much
yunjin : we can dress up together at my place okay , see you tomorrow <33
You tossed your phone onto the desk and dropped your head into your hands. Great, just what you needed. Another night surrounded by loud music, drunk athletes, and the very real possibility of running into the Lee Heeseung again.
You glanced at the wall that separated your apartment from his. The music was still playing faintly, but at least it was bearable now. Just one party, you could survive one party right?
The next morning, the art history lecture hall was already filling up with the usual mix of sleepy students and last minute crammers when you slipped into your regular seat in the middle row.
The faint scent of fresh coffee and old books lingered in the air. Yunjin dropped dramatically into the chair on your right, her long hair still slightly damp from her morning shower, eyes bright with far too much excitement for a 9 am class.
On your left, Soobin settled in quietly, tall frame folding gracefully into the seat. He placed his neatly organized notebook on the desk and pulled out a perfectly sharpened pencil, offering you a soft, reassuring smile.
Soobin was always like this calm, steady, the kind of friend who showed up without making a fuss. He was the complete opposite of the loud, chaotic energy that seemed to follow Heeseung everywhere.
Yunjin, however, was already completely distracted. She was leaning forward, chin resting on her hand, openly staring toward the front rows where Sunghoon sat chatting with a couple of friends. Her gaze was soft and dreamy, a tiny smile tugging at her lips every time he laughed at something.
You nudged her arm with your elbow, voice low and teasing. “You’re oogling him again it’s getting embarrassing at this point.”Yunjin didn’t even pretend to deny it. “I’m not oogling, im appreciating art,” she whispered back, still not tearing her eyes away. “Look at him he’s literally perfect.”
Soobin let out a quiet chuckle beside you, shaking his head as he flipped open his notebook. “Sure ‘appreciating’ that’s why half your notes from last week were just little hearts around his name.” He teased her, to which she replied,
“Traitor,” Yunjin hissed playfully, finally glancing at both of you as her cheeks flushed pink. “You two are supposed to be on my side.”The light banter continued until Soobin turned to you, lowering his voice a little. “Hey, I heard there was a party at Heeseung’s last night, did you survive the noise?”
You let out a long, dramatic groan and slumped back in your seat, the memory of last night’s confrontation still fresh and irritating. “Barely. That idiot had the music blasting so loud my textbooks were literally vibrating on the desk. I had to march over there in my hoodie and sweatpants like some angry neighbor from a sitcom again.”
Soobin listened attentively, his expression patient and sympathetic. He never interrupted your rants or told you to just ignore it. He just nodded along, dark eyes focused on you, making you feel genuinely heard.
It was one of the many reasons you treasured his friendship he was thoughtful, kind, and never loud or arrogant for the sake of it. The polar opposite of Heeseung.
“And of course he answered the door half dressed with some girl hanging off his arm like a trophy,” you continued, voice dripping with annoyance. “Called me ‘miss morals’ like it’s the funniest joke in the world.
Then when I pointed out that not everyone has a rich daddy to bail them out when they party instead of studying, he got all pissy, sucked in this dramatic breath, and slammed the door right in my face. He’s such an entitled asshole.”
Soobin hummed softly, a small frown creasing his brow. “That sounds exhausting, you should’ve texted me you know, i could’ve come over with snacks and we could’ve studied together instead of dealing with his nonsense alone.”
You smiled faintly at the offer, warmth cutting through the irritation. “Next time, maybe at least someone in this building has basic human decency.”
Yunjin finally tore her gaze away from Sunghoon long enough to grin at you. “Heeseung’s just bored and likes getting a rise out of you if you stopped reacting, he’d probably get bored and stop.”
“Easy for you to say,” you muttered, crossing your arms. “You don’t have to live next door to the human equivalent of a walking migraine.”The professor walked in moments later, cutting off any further complaints.
The next hour passed in a blur of projected slides on Renaissance techniques, quiet note taking, and the occasional whispered comment from Yunjin whenever Sunghoon shifted in his seat.
When class finally ended, the three of you packed up your things and joined the stream of students flowing out into the crowded hallway. The air was filled with chatter about upcoming midterms, weekend plans, and the usual campus gossip.
As you walked side by side, Yunjin suddenly looped her arm through yours, her excitement bubbling over again. “So, about Sunghoon’s party after midterms you’re definitely coming, right? And Soobin you should come too! It’ll be so much more fun with all three of us there.”
Soobin blinked, surprised, his eyebrows raising slightly. “Wait you’re actually going?” He looked at you, genuinely shocked. “I thought you hated parties, especially ones thrown by the popular crowd.”
You shrugged, already regretting your decision a little. “Yunjin begged a lot and guilt tripped me with matcha promises. One hour max, if it sucks, I’m dragging her out.”
Yunjin squealed happily and squeezed your arm. “See? She’s coming! So you have to come too, Soobinn please?”Before Soobin could respond, a familiar voice cut through the hallway noise from behind you.
“Can’t imagine miss morals at a party but I’m looking forward to seeing you there.” Your stomach dropped, you didn’t even have to turn around to know who it was.
Heeseung was leaning casually against a set of lockers a few feet away, arms crossed over his varsity jacket, that signature cocky smirk playing on his lips. He must have overheard the entire conversation.
His dark eyes locked onto yours with clear amusement, like he lived for these moments of catching you off guard.
You rolled your eyes so hard it almost hurt, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a verbal response. Heat crept up your neck partly from annoyance, partly from the embarrassment of him hearing your plans.
Yunjin stifled a laugh beside you while Soobin just shook his head quietly, a small, amused smile tugging at his mouth.
Heeseung’s low chuckle followed you as the three of you kept walking, but you kept your gaze fixed straight ahead, jaw tight. God, you really, really hated that guy.Midterms week stretched into a brutal two week marathon, and as an art curator major, you felt every single hour of it in your bones.
Your apartment had become a war zone of curated chaos towering stacks of books on museum exhibition design, printed slides from Art Conservation and Curatorial Practices, mood boards pinned to the wall for your upcoming gallery proposal project, and color coded flashcards scattered across every surface.
Late nights blurred into early mornings as you hunched over your laptop, drafting proposals for hypothetical exhibits while trying to memorize the intricate history of 19th century European collections. Sleep was a distant dream. Caffeine was your only reliable companion.
And then there was Heeseung.
He didn’t blast music or bring girls over every single night that would have been almost predictable. No, he was crueler than that. He chose random days, like he knew exactly how to keep you off balance, turning your already exhausting study schedule into a minefield of unwanted interruptions.
The first time hit on the second night of midterms. You were deep into analyzing a case study on museum ethics when the wall behind your desk started to vibrate faintly. At first it was just low music.
Then came the giggles two distinct female voices, breathy and flirtatious. Heeseung’s deep laugh cut through it all, followed by the unmistakable sound of bodies moving against furniture.
“Fuck, Heeseung you’re so good at this,” one of the girls moaned loudly, the words carrying crystal clear through the thin shared wall. The headboard started thumping a slow, steady rhythm against your wall rhythmic, insistent, growing faster.
You could hear the wet slap of skin, her exaggerated gasps turning into full throated cries every time he thrust.You yanked your noise canceling headphones on so hard the band dug into your temples, cranking the volume until classical music drowned most of it out.
But you could still feel it, the steady bang bang bang vibrating through your desk, through your chair, through your skull. Your cheeks burned with secondhand embarrassment and pure rage.
'Of course he’s fucking some random girl while I’m trying to memorize the difference between Baroque and Rococo curation techniques.' You thought bitterly, stabbing your highlighter across the page. Must be nice to have zero responsibilities except basketball and dick appointments.
It stopped around 2 a.m., but the damage was done. You only managed three hours of sleep before your 8 a.m. lecture.
The next morning, you were running on pure spite and too much coffee when you caught Heeseung in the hallway just as he was stepping out of his apartment. He looked annoyingly fresh — hair still damp from a shower, varsity jacket slung over one shoulder, that perpetual cocky smirk already in place.
You stopped right in front of him, arms crossed tightly. “Keep it down next time,” you said flatly, voice low but sharp. “Some of us are actually trying to pass our midterms instead of auditioning for porn.”
Heeseung raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “Aw, miss morals heard everything? Didn’t know you were such a light sleeper.” You glared at him, heat rising to your cheeks. “Just tone it down, the headboard banging is ridiculous.”
He chuckled lowly, the sound sending another spike of irritation through you. “Noted.” Then he leaned in slightly, voice dropping. “Though from the sounds of it last night, she seemed to enjoy the banging.”
You rolled your eyes and walked away without another word, his soft laugh following you down the hall.The next disruption came four days later. A random Thursday when you had a massive group project due on modern curatorial strategies.
You’d just settled in with your laptop open to a half finished exhibition proposal when his door slammed open down the hall. One girl this time, but she was even louder.
The moment they got inside, the sounds started again her high pitched whimpers, Heeseung’s low, cocky murmurs “Yeah? You like that? Tell me how much you want it” followed by the unmistakable wet sounds of them going at it on what sounded like his couch first, then migrating to the bed.
The headboard slammed against the wall so hard your framed print of Van Gogh’s Starry Night rattled. Her moans turned into broken sobs of pleasure, each one punctuated by Heeseung’s grunts and the filthy slap of bodies. “Harder fuck, right there, Heeseung don’t stop—”
You ended up studying in your bed instead, laptop balanced on your knees, pillows stacked around you like a fortress. Headphones on full blast. Still, every thrust made the wall tremble.
Every moan crawled under your skin and made focusing on your notes feel impossible. By the time they finally finished (or at least quieted down) around midnight, your eyes were burning and your proposal was only half done.
You hated how your body reacted sometimes not with attraction, but with pure, simmering resentment that made your stomach twist.That same night, after the noises finally stopped, you grabbed your phone in a fit of exhausted anger and texted him.
you : keep the noise down, some people are trying to study for actual grades, not coast on basketball talent and daddy’s money
His reply came faster than you expected. A picture popped up first. A close up selfie of Heeseung lying in bed, shirtless, messy hair, lazy smirk on his face, with the caption
heeseung : sorry, miss morals hard to stay quiet when they scream my name like that
heeseung : next time i’ll try to fuck quieter or maybe you can just join and tell me how to do it right?
You stared at the message, face flaming with a mix of rage and disbelief. You immediately blocked the image from your mind ( and definitely did not linger on the way his abs looked in the dim lighting ) before typing back a single furious reply
you : delete my number, asshole
The worst random night came during the final stretch, just three days before your last exams.
You were pulling an all nighter on your capstone project a full digital mock up of a contemporary art exhibit you’d spent weeks perfecting when the noises started again around 11 p.m. This time it was two girls.
Their laughter spilled into the hallway first, then straight through your wall. Heeseung’s voice was low and teasing, the kind of filthy charm that probably worked on every girl on campus.
Soon the bed was creaking loudly, headboard banging in a frantic rhythm while both girls moaned in tandem one breathy and high, the other deeper and more desperate.
“Heeseung oh god, yes fuck me like that—” mixed with wet, obscene sounds that left zero doubt about exactly what was happening next door. The wall vibrated so intensely your coffee mug slid an inch across the desk.
You sat there in your oversized hoodie and sweatpants, staring at your glowing screen, jaw clenched so tight it ached. Every moan, every dirty encouragement from Heeseung, every rhythmic thud felt like a personal attack on the one thing you actually cared about your future.
Your grades, your dream of curating real exhibitions someday. While I’m over here trying not to fail out of the only thing I’m good at, you thought, fingers flying angrily across the keyboard, he’s over there living his best life with a rotating cast of girls screaming his name.
You wore the headphones until your ears rang. You even tried white noise apps, earplugs underneath nothing fully blocked it. The sex noises went on for nearly two hours that night, loud and shameless, until they finally quieted around 1:30 a.m.
By the end of the two weeks, you were running on fumes dark circles under your eyes, caffeine shakes in your hands, and a permanent knot of irritation lodged in your chest whenever you passed his door.
The random nights had been spaced out just enough to feel like psychological warfare instead of constant chaos.Heeseung never once toned it down. Never once seemed to care that someone on the other side of the wall was actually trying to build a future that didn’t involve daddy’s money or NBA scouts.
When Friday morning finally arrived and your last exam was over, you dragged yourself back to the apartment building, shoulders heavy with exhaustion. The hallway was quiet for once. Heeseung’s door looked innocently closed.
You unlocked your own door, stepped inside, and immediately collapsed face first onto your bed, still in your clothes midterms were done.But the resentment toward the boy next door had only grown sharper and Sunghoon’s party was tonight. You groaned into your pillow one hour in and out. Just don’t kill Heeseung on sight.
You took the quickest shower of your life, and changed into the first comfortable outfit you could find—a simple black crop top that showed just a sliver of your midriff and your favorite pair of dark jeans—comfortable, practical, safe.
You texted Yunjin that you were ready to head over to her place to “get ready together,” secretly hoping she wouldn’t make a big deal out of your clothes—big mistake. Yunjin’s apartment was only two blocks away, and the second you stepped inside, she took one look at you and gasped like you had personally offended her.
“No no absolutely not,” she declared, hands on her hips, eyes scanning you up and down with pure horror. “You cannot go to Sunghoon’s party looking like that.”
You glanced down at yourself, confused. “What’s wrong with this? It’s cute it’s comfortable.”“Cute? Comfortable?” Yunjin repeated, already dragging you toward her bedroom like a woman on a mission.
“Babe, we’re going to a party, not the library. You just survived two weeks of hell tonight you’re supposed to look hot, not like you’re about to give a museum tour.”
Before you could protest, she flung open her closet and started pulling out clothes with frightening speed. She held up a black mini skirt dangerously short, made of soft leather like material and a sheer black button up shirt that was practically see through.
“Try these,” she ordered, shoving the hanger into your hands. You stared at the outfit like it might bite you. “Yunjin, no way, that skirt is barely legal and the shirt is see through i’m not wearing that.”
“Yes way, you are,” she sang, already pushing you toward the bathroom. “You agreed to come to the party that means you’re under my styling jurisdiction for tonight go change now”
You argued the entire time you were changing. “This is ridiculous! im going to freeze, people are going to stare i look like I’m trying way too hard—”
But Yunjin was relentless. The second you stepped out in the mini skirt and sheer shirt ( with a black bralette underneath so you weren’t completely exposed ), she clapped her hands and squealed.
“Oh my god, yes! Look at you!” She spun you around in front of her full length mirror. The skirt hugged your hips and ended high on your thighs, making your legs look longer.
The sheer shirt draped softly over your shoulders, the black bralette visible underneath in a way that was teasing but not outright scandalous. “You look insane like, dangerously hot.”
You tugged at the hem of the skirt, cheeks burning. “I feel naked. Can't I at least wear the jeans over this or something?”“No,” she said firmly, already sitting you down in front of her vanity. “We’re doing makeup now sit still.”
For the next twenty minutes, Yunjin worked her magic. Winged eyeliner sharp enough to cut glass, soft smoky eyes, a touch of highlighter on your cheekbones, and a bold red lip that made your mouth look fuller. She even styled your hair into loose, effortless waves that framed your face perfectly.
When she finally stepped back, she let out a satisfied sigh.“Anyone would worship the ground you walk on looking like this,” she said, grinning proudly. “Trust me tonight, you’re not the stressed out art curator girl who yells at her neighbor. You’re the girl who turns heads even Heeseung won’t know what to do with himself when he sees you.”
You rolled your eyes, but a small flutter of nerves mixed with reluctant confidence settled in your stomach as you looked at your reflection. The outfit was way bolder than anything you’d normally wear, but you had to admit it looked good.
“Fine,” you muttered, smoothing down the skirt one last time. “But if I hate it, we’re leaving early and if Heeseung says one word about ‘miss morals’ in this outfit, I’m pouring a drink on him.”Yunjin laughed and linked her arm with yours. “Deal now let’s go make Sunghoon’s party unforgettable.”
You and Yunjin barely made it out of her apartment before your phone buzzed with a text from Soobin saying he was already waiting downstairs. The three of you had agreed he would drive so none of you had to worry about getting home later.
The elevator ride down felt too short. Your heart was already beating a little faster than usual partly from the unfamiliar outfit, partly from the knowledge that you were actually going to a party after surviving two brutal weeks of midterms.
The black mini skirt kept riding up slightly with every step, and you kept tugging nervously at the hem while Yunjin wouldn’t stop complimenting how good you looked.
When you stepped out of the building into the cool evening air, Soobin’s car was parked right in front, engine idling. He was leaning casually against the driver’s side, scrolling through his phone, but the moment he looked up and saw the two of you approaching, his eyes widened noticeably.
Especially when they landed on you. Soobin froze for a second, his usual calm expression cracking into pure, genuine shock. His gaze traveled slowly from your loose waves and sharp winged eyeliner, down to the sheer black shirt that subtly revealed the black bralette underneath, then to the dangerously short leather like mini skirt that made your legs look endless.
He blinked once, twice, before quickly clearing his throat and straightening up, ears turning a light shade of pink.“Wow” he said, voice a little higher than his normal soft tone. “You both look really nice like, really nice.”
Yunjin grinned triumphantly, looping her arm through yours and squeezing. “See? Told you! Even Soobin is shook, she looks hot, right?”
You felt heat creep up your neck and quickly crossed your arms over your chest, suddenly hyper aware of how different you looked from your usual oversized hoodie and jeans self.
“It’s all Yunjin’s doing. She basically held me hostage in her room until I changed. I tried to wear my normal clothes and she acted like I committed a crime.”
Soobin gave a small, shy laugh, rubbing the back of his neck as he opened the back door for both of you like the gentleman he was. “No, it really suits you, you look great tonight.” His compliment was sincere and gentle, making the awkwardness feel a little softer. “Ready to go? Sunghoon’s place isn’t too far from here.”
The car ride was filled with easy, light chatter that helped calm your nerves. Yunjin sat in the front passenger seat, already buzzing with excitement about seeing Sunghoon, while you sat in the back, occasionally tugging at your skirt and staring out the window at the passing streetlights.
Soobin kept the conversation flowing comfortably, light complaints about how brutal midterms had been, predictions about how wild the party might get, and Yunjin’s endless teasing about how
Sunghoon had “personally invited” her. Every now and then Soobin would glance at you through the rearview mirror, still looking a little flustered whenever your eyes met.
Before you knew it, Soobin was pulling up to a large off campus house that was already pulsing with loud music and flashing colored lights. Cars lined both sides of the street, and groups of people were laughing and chatting on the front lawn, red cups in hand.
The three of you climbed out of the car, and the heavy bass from inside immediately hit you like a wave. The night air smelled like a mix of cheap beer, sweet perfume, and fresh cut grass. Yunjin practically bounced on her heels with excitement as the three of you walked up the pathway toward the front door.
Sunghoon was standing right at the entrance, playing the perfect host in a simple black shirt and jeans. His sharp, handsome features broke into a warm, genuine smile the moment he spotted your group approaching.
“Hey! You guys actually made it,” he greeted cheerfully, voice carrying easily over the noise from inside. His eyes lingered on Yunjin for an extra beat, a soft grin tugging at his lips. “Yunjin, glad you came and you brought friends, nice.”
He gave Soobin a friendly nod and then turned his attention to you, eyebrows raising slightly in pleasant surprise as he took in your bold outfit. “Hey! you clean up really well. Welcome to the party, hope you guys have fun tonight.”
You managed a small, polite smile, still feeling slightly out of your element. “Thanks for inviting us.”Sunghoon handed each of you a red solo cup filled with something fruity and strong smelling a sweet cocktail that had a sharp kick of alcohol when you took your first cautious sip.
“Drinks are flowing inside help yourselves to whatever you want. There’s food in the kitchen, beer pong in the living room, and dancing. Pretty much everywhere enjoy!”
Yunjin thanked him brightly, her cheeks already a little flushed with excitement, and steered you and Soobin further into the crowded house. The interior was packed wall to wall with people.
Students were laughing loudly, dancing in the middle of the living room, playing intense games of beer pong, and making out in dimly lit corners. The music was loud but not yet overwhelming, colorful lights flashing across the walls and bodies.
For the first few minutes, the three of you stuck close together, weaving through the crowd while sipping your drinks. Soobin stayed protectively near your side, occasionally leaning down to say something quiet and reassuring whenever he noticed you looking a bit overwhelmed by the chaos.
Then you felt it. That familiar, annoying prickle on the back of your neck, like someone was watching you. You turned your head slightly, and there he was.
Heeseung was leaning casually against the wall near the staircase, a red cup dangling from his fingers. He was surrounded by a small group of his closest friends—Beomgyu laughing at something on his phone, Jake with his usual bright smile, and Jay nursing his own drink while scanning the room.
Heeseung looked effortlessly good tonight in a black button up with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, exposing his toned forearms, and dark jeans that sat low on his hips. His hair was styled in that signature messy but perfect way.
The moment his dark eyes found you across the crowded room, his conversation with the guys stopped mid sentence.
His gaze dragged slowly and shamelessly down your body, taking in the short black mini skirt that hugged your hips and thighs, the sheer shirt that teased the black bralette underneath, the way the outfit accentuated your curves before snapping back up to your face.
For once, his usual cocky smirk didn’t appear instantly. Instead, there was a flash of genuine surprise, followed by something darker, more heated, and appreciative.
He pushed off the wall and started walking straight toward your group, completely ignoring whatever Beomgyu was saying behind him.
“Well, well, well,” Heeseung drawled when he was close enough, his voice cutting smoothly through the music. His eyes were still shamelessly roaming over you. “Look who decided to show up. Miss morals in a mini skirt i almost didn’t recognize you damn.”
You felt your stomach twist with that familiar mix of irritation and unwanted warmth. Before you could even open your mouth to snap back, Yunjin jumped in defensively, stepping slightly in front of you with a bright but sharp smile.
“Excuse me, Heeseung? She looks amazing, and she doesn’t need your backhanded compliments,” Yunjin said, tilting her head with fake sweetness.
“Unlike some people who only know how to throw loud parties and bring random girls over during midterms, maybe focus on your own game instead of commenting on her outfit.”
Heeseung chuckled lowly, clearly amused by Yunjin’s quick defense, but his eyes never left you. Jake, Beomgyu, and Jay were now watching the exchange from a few feet away, Beomgyu smirking like he was enjoying the show and Jake looking mildly entertained.
“Relax, Yunjin,” Heeseung replied smoothly, taking a sip from his cup. “I’m just saying that she cleaned up dangerous tonight, didn’t think our neighbor owned anything shorter than ankle length. Beomgyu, Jake, Jay back me up here. She looks good, right?”
Beomgyu grinned and raised his cup in a lazy toast. “Yeah, she do be looking fire tonight.”Jake nodded with a bright laugh. “For real, new look suits you.”Jay just shook his head with a small smile, staying quiet but clearly entertained.
You rolled your eyes, lifting your red solo cup to your lips to hide the flush creeping up your cheeks. “Don’t start with me tonight, Heeseung i’m only here for one hour, and I’d rather not spend it dealing with your nonsense.”
Heeseung tilted his head, that signature cocky smirk fully back in place now as he took another slow step closer. The way he was looking at you made the noisy room feel suddenly ten degrees warmer.
“Gonna dance tonight, or are you just here to supervise everyone else’s fun like usual, miss morals?”
You didn’t even give Heeseung the satisfaction of a proper reply. Instead, you flipped him off with a sharp middle finger, turned on your heel, and grabbed Yunjin’s arm. “Come on, let’s go.”
Yunjin laughed loudly, clearly proud of your reaction, and let you drag her deeper into the crowded house while Heeseung’s low chuckle followed behind you. Beomgyu, Jake, and Jay were already teasing him in the background, but you refused to look back.
For the first half hour, the party actually felt manageable. You stuck close to Yunjin and Soobin, sipping from your red solo cup and people watching from a quieter corner of the living room.
The music was loud, the lights flashed in rhythm with the bass, and the alcohol slowly started to loosen the tight knot of stress that midterms had left in your chest. Then Sunghoon appeared again.
He approached your group with that easy, charming smile, eyes mostly locked on Yunjin. “Hey want to dance?”Yunjin’s face lit up like he’d just offered her the moon. She turned to you quickly, squeezing your hand. “You’ll be okay for a bit, right? I’ll be right back!”
Before you could even answer, she was gone, disappearing into the sea of bodies on the dance floor with Sunghoon’s hand on her waist, now it was just you and Soobin.
You tried to keep the conversation light, but the longer you stood there, the more the party energy started to pull at you. The drink in your cup was strong and sweet, and after two weeks of pure academic hell, the idea of letting loose felt dangerously tempting.
“Fuck it,” you muttered under your breath. You downed the rest of your drink in one go, the burn sliding warmly down your throat. Then you grabbed another cup from a passing tray and started sipping again. Why not? Midterms were over. You deserved this.
Soobin noticed and raised an eyebrow, but he didn’t judge. He stayed beside you, chatting quietly, making sure you weren’t completely alone. But after a while, you started feeling guilty. He was sweet, always listening, always there and here he was babysitting you instead of enjoying the party.
“Go talk to your friends,” you told him, giving him a gentle push toward a group of guys waving at him from across the room. “Seriously, Soobin i’ll be fine, i don’t want you wasting your night stuck with me. Go have fun i’ll text you if I need anything.”
He hesitated, looking concerned, but you begged him with your best pleading eyes until he finally nodded. “Okay but stay safe, text me if anything feels off.”
Once Soobin walked away to join his friends, you let yourself drift toward the dance floor. The alcohol was hitting nicely now a warm, fuzzy buzz that made the music feel better and your body lighter.
You moved to the edge of the crowd first, swaying gently, then slowly worked your way deeper into the pulsing bodies.
You didn’t notice him at first. But Heeseung had been watching you the entire time. From the moment Yunjin disappeared with Sunghoon, his eyes had followed you. He watched you down your drinks. He watched you convince Soobin to leave.
And now he watched as you finally stepped fully onto the dance floor, hips moving to the heavy beat, the short black mini skirt riding up just enough to draw attention, the sheer shirt catching the flashing lights.
Heeseung set his cup down and started moving through the crowd toward you, slow and deliberate. When he was close enough, he didn’t just grab you like most guys would. Instead, he leaned in slightly, voice low and surprisingly respectful against the loud music.
“Hey can I dance with you?”
You turned your head, alcohol making you bold. Your eyes met his, and for once, you didn’t immediately snap at him. The buzz in your veins, the way he was looking at you like he couldn’t look away…it made something reckless spark inside you.
You nodded “Yeah okay.” Only then did Heeseung step closer. The moment he did, the space between you disappeared. His body pressed lightly against yours at first, hands hovering respectfully before you started moving together.
The music was sensual, slow and heavy, and your bodies naturally fell into rhythm. It didn’t stay innocent for long. Heeseung’s hands gradually grew bolder one sliding to your waist, the other brushing up your side, fingers grazing the sheer fabric of your shirt.
You moved closer, hips rolling against his, the short skirt brushing against his thighs. His touch grew hotter, palms sliding down to grip your hips, then slowly roaming over the curve of your ass, pulling you flush against him.
The air between you thickened. Your breathing grew heavier. Every brush of his body sent sparks through your skin. Heeseung leaned in, lips brushing the shell of your ear as he spoke, voice low. “fuck, not being able to kiss you right now is actual torture.”
The words hit you like a shot of pure heat. The alcohol, the weeks of built up tension, the way his hands felt all over your body everything crashed together in one reckless moment.
You didn’t think, you just acted. turning your head as you grabbed the front of his shirt, and crashed your lips against his.
The kiss was messy, desperate, and instantly wild. Heeseung groaned into your mouth the second your lips met, one hand flying up to cup the back of your neck while the other tightened possessively on your waist, pulling you even harder against him.
You kissed like you were angry at each other—teeth clashing, tongues sliding hot and deep, lips moving with raw hunger.
Heeseung kissed like he’d been waiting for this exact moment. His mouth was demanding, devouring, tilting your head to kiss you deeper. You moaned softly against him, fingers threading into his hair and tugging, which only made him kiss you harder.
The dance floor disappeared around you. The music faded into background noise. There was only the heat of his body, the taste of alcohol on his tongue, and the way his hands roamed greedily over your curves sliding up your back under the sheer shirt, gripping your hips, pressing you so close you could feel exactly how much he wanted you.
The makeout was crazy sloppy, passionate, breathless. You bit his lower lip, and he responded with a low growl, sucking on your tongue before kissing you even harder.
Your bodies moved together to the beat, grinding slowly while your mouths stayed locked in a heated battle.
When you finally pulled back for air, both of you were panting, lips swollen and shiny. Heeseung’s eyes were dark, pupils blown wide as he stared down at you like he wanted to devour you right there on the dance floor.
“Shit” he breathed, forehead resting against yours. “You’re going to kill me tonight.”The kiss finally broke, both of you breathing hard, lips swollen and glistening under the flashing party lights.
Heeseung’s forehead rested against yours, his hands still gripping your hips like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go.
His eyes were dark, pupils blown with want, and the way he looked at you sent another rush of heat straight through your body.
You didn’t think. The alcohol, the weeks of hating him, the way his hands had felt all over you everything made you reckless. You leaned in closer, voice low and breathless against his ear. “Wanna go back to your apartment?”
Heeseung pulled back just enough to look at you, a dangerous smirk tugging at his swollen lips. For a split second, surprise flashed across his face, but it quickly melted into pure hunger.
“Fuck yes”
He didn’t waste another second. His hand slid down to grab yours firmly, fingers lacing tight as he started pulling you through the crowded dance floor. People moved out of the way as Heeseung cut a path toward the front door, his grip on you possessive and urgent.
You barely had time to register anything else Yunjin and Soobin were somewhere in the house, but right now, none of that mattered.The cool night air hit your flushed skin the moment you stepped outside, but it did nothing to calm the fire burning in your veins.
Heeseung’s car was parked a little down the street. He didn’t let go of your hand the entire way, and the second you reached the passenger side, he opened the door for you with surprising speed before rounding the car and sliding into the driver’s seat.
The moment the doors closed, the tension exploded again. Heeseung started the engine, but you were already growing impatient. The short drive back to your apartment building felt too long. Every red light, every stop sign made the ache between your legs worse.
You kept stealing glances at him his jaw tight, hands gripping the steering wheel, the way his shirt was slightly undone from your earlier tugging. At the third red light, you couldn’t hold it in anymore.“Fuck this,” you muttered.
Before Heeseung could react, you unbuckled your seatbelt, climbed over the center console, and straddled his lap in one swift motion. The mini skirt rode up high on your thighs as you settled on top of him, your hands immediately cupping his face as you crashed your lips back onto his.
Heeseung groaned loudly into the kiss, his hands flying to your waist to steady you. The kiss was even wilder than on the dance floor desperate, messy, all tongue and teeth. You rocked your hips against him, grinding down slowly at first, then harder, feeling him harden beneath you through his jeans.
His hands roamed greedily, one sliding up under your sheer shirt to palm your breast over the bralette, the other gripping your ass and pulling you tighter against his growing bulge.
“Shit you’re driving me crazy,” he muttered against your mouth between kisses, voice rough and wrecked.
You moaned softly, grinding down harder, the friction sending sparks through your entire body. The car windows started to fog up as you moved together, lips never leaving each other for long.
Heeseung’s tongue slid against yours, deep and filthy, while his hips bucked up to meet your movements, the steering wheel pressing into your back.
You were completely lost in him hands in his hair, tugging, lips sucking on his bottom lip, hips rolling in desperate circles when the sharp sound of honking suddenly pierced through the haze.
Once, twice, then a chorus of angry car horns blaring behind you reality crashed back in.
You pulled away from the kiss with a gasp, lips shiny and swollen, breathing ragged. The light had turned green, and the cars lined up behind you were laying on their horns, some drivers shouting out their windows.
Heeseung let out a breathless laugh, his hands still gripping your thighs tightly. His eyes were dark, hair messy from your fingers, lips red and kiss bitten.“Fuck,” he rasped, voice hoarse. “We’re gonna cause an accident if you keep this up.”
You quickly scrambled back into the passenger seat, heart pounding, cheeks burning with a mix of embarrassment and lingering arousal.
Your skirt was hiked up dangerously high, and you tugged it down with shaky hands while Heeseung adjusted himself in his seat, clearly struggling to focus on the road.
He shot you a heated sideways glance, smirk returning as he pressed the gas pedal.“Almost home,” he said, voice low and promising. “Try not to jump me again until we’re inside or don’t. I'm not complaining.”
The rest of the short drive was torturous. The air in the car was thick with tension, both of you stealing glances, the memory of your grinding still fresh and electric.
When Heeseung finally pulled into the parking spot outside your shared apartment building, he killed the engine and turned to you, eyes blazing.
The second you were both out of the car, he grabbed your hand again and practically dragged you toward the entrance, the promise of what was about to happen hanging heavy between you.
The second the door to Heeseung’s apartment slammed shut behind you, all restraint vanished.He had you pinned against the wood before you could even catch your breath, mouth crashing back onto yours in a filthy, open mouthed kiss.
His hands were everywhere one sliding up under your sheer shirt to palm your breast roughly, the other gripping your ass and yanking your hips flush against the hard line of his cock already straining in his jeans.
“Been thinking about this since you walked in wearing that tiny fucking skirt,” he growled against your lips, biting your bottom lip hard enough to make you moan. “Look at you acting like such a good girl all semester and now you’re begging to get fucked in my bed.”
You didn’t deny it you couldn’t. The alcohol and weeks of pent up hatred had turned into pure, desperate need. You tugged at his shirt buttons, popping a few open in your haste, and Heeseung chuckled darkly before ripping the rest off himself.
The shirt hit the floor. Yours followed a second later, then your bralette, leaving your tits exposed to the cool air of his apartment.
Heeseung’s mouth was on your neck instantly, sucking a mark right below your jaw while his hands squeezed your breasts, thumbs flicking over your nipples until they were hard and aching. “So fucking pretty when you’re needy like this,” he muttered, voice low and rough. “Bet you’re already soaked for me, huh?”
You whimpered when he shoved the mini skirt up around your waist and cupped you over your panties. His fingers pressed against the soaked fabric, rubbing slow circles over your clit.
“Shit you are dripping already.” He smirked against your throat. “Such a dirty little secret you’ve been hiding, miss morals.”
You didn’t have time to snap back. Heeseung dropped to his knees right there in the entryway, hooked your panties to the side, and buried his face between your thighs without warning. His tongue dragged a long, nasty stripe up your pussy, groaning at the taste of you.
“Oh my god—” Your head thunked back against the door as he licked and sucked like a man starved, two fingers sliding inside you easily because you were so wet.
He curled them perfectly, pumping fast while his tongue flicked mercilessly over your clit. The sounds were obscene wet, sloppy, loud and he didn’t care. He ate you like he wanted to ruin you.
You came hard on his tongue within minutes, thighs shaking, fingers yanking at his hair as you cried out his name. Heeseung didn’t stop until you were trembling and pushing at his head, then he stood up, lips shiny with your arousal, and kissed you deep so you could taste yourself.
“Bedroom now,” he ordered.
He didn’t wait for you to walk. He grabbed the back of your thighs and lifted you like you weighed nothing, carrying you down the short hallway while your legs wrapped around his waist.
Your skirt was still bunched around your hips, panties shoved to the side. You could feel his cock pressing against your soaked core with every step.
The second he kicked his bedroom door open, he dropped you onto the bed. You barely had time to bounce before he was stripping the rest of his clothes off. His jeans and boxers hit the floor and his cock sprang free—thick, hard, and already leaking at the tip.
Your mouth watered at the sight. Heeseung climbed over you, caging you in with his arms. “You want this?” he asked, voice dark, one hand stroking his cock slowly as he looked down at you. “Tell me you want it.”
“I want it,” you breathed, reaching down to wrap your hand around him. “Fuck me, Heeseung.”That was all it took.
He shoved your legs apart wider, lined himself up, and pushed in with one long, brutal thrust. You gasped at the stretch, nails digging into his shoulders as he bottomed out inside you, so deep you swore you could feel him in your stomach.
“Fuck, so tight,” he groaned, forehead dropping to yours. “Taking me so well already.”Then he started moving hard fast and filthy.
The headboard slammed against the wall with every thrust, the same wall that separated your apartments. The irony wasn’t lost on you, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care.
Heeseung fucked you like he’d been imagining this exact moment for months.Deep, punishing strokes that made your tits bounce and your breath hitch.
He grabbed one of your legs and hooked it over his shoulder, folding you in half so he could fuck you even deeper. The new angle made you cry out, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing through the room.
“Look at you,” he rasped, eyes locked on where his cock was disappearing inside you. “Taking every inch like a good little slut, who would’ve thought the girl next door gets this fucking nasty?”
The degradation was light, just enough to make your pussy clench harder around him. You moaned louder, hips trying to meet his thrusts.
Heeseung’s hand slid between your bodies, thumb rubbing tight circles on your clit while he pounded into you.
“Come on, baby. Come on my cock again, wanna feel you squeezing me.” You shattered for the second time, back arching, walls fluttering around his thick length as your orgasm crashed through you. Heeseung fucked you through it, hips never slowing, chasing his own release.
“Fuck— I’m close,” he growled, voice strained. “Where do you want it?” He asked, “Inside,” you gasped, still riding the high. “Come inside me.”
Heeseung cursed loudly, thrusting a few more brutal times before he buried himself to the hilt and came hard. You felt every pulse, every hot spurt filling you up as he groaned your name against your neck, hips jerking through the aftershocks.
For a moment the only sounds were both of you breathing hard, bodies slick with sweat.
Heeseung stayed inside you for a long minute, forehead pressed to yours, before he finally pulled out slowly. A trickle of his cum leaked out of you onto the sheets, and he watched it with dark, satisfied eyes then collapsed beside you.
Instead of pulling away, Heeseung immediately reached for you. He wrapped one strong arm around your waist and tugged you against his chest, your back flush to his front in a tight, warm hug. His other hand gently pulled the duvet up over both of you, cocooning your naked bodies in soft warmth.
You were still sticky with sweat and cum, thighs trembling, but the way he held you possessive yet surprisingly gentle made something soft flutter in your chest despite everything.
Heeseung pressed a lazy kiss to the back of your shoulder, his breath warm against your skin.“Stay,” he murmured, voice already thick with sleep as he tightened his arm around you. “Just stay.”
Exhausted, fucked out, and strangely comforted by his warmth, you let your eyes drift shut. His steady heartbeat against your back and the heavy duvet wrapped around you lulled you quickly into sleep, safe in Heeseung’s arms for the night.
ꪆ୧ ─── ドラマ. next morning !
The first thing you registered was the pounding in your head. Your eyes fluttered open slowly, the dim light filtering through unfamiliar curtains making everything feel hazy. The digital clock on the nightstand glowed red 4:28 a.m.
Your mouth was dry, throat scratchy, and a dull throb pulsed behind your temples the unmistakable aftermath of too many drinks and not nearly enough sleep. You shifted slightly under the heavy duvet, and that’s when you felt it.
A warm, solid body pressed against your back. An arm draped heavily over your waist, holding you close skin against skin. The faint scent of cologne, sweat, and something distinctly masculine filled your senses.
Your heart slammed against your ribs. Memories from last night crashed over you like ice water.
The party, the red solo cup dancing. Heeseung’s hands all over your body on the dance floor. The reckless invitation. The car ride where you’d climbed into his lap like you had no shame.
The way he’d pinned you against his door, dropped to his knees in the entryway, fucked you hard on his bed until you were crying out his name. The filthy sounds. The way he’d filled you up. The way he’d pulled you against his chest afterward, hugging you tight under the duvet as you both drifted off.
You had fucked Lee Heeseung
You had fucked your loud, cocky, insufferable neighbor the basketball captain you’d spent months complaining about, the one who called you “Miss Morals” like it was the funniest joke in the world.
Mortification burned hot through your entire body. Your stomach twisted violently. What the hell had you been thinking? The alcohol had stripped away every ounce of common sense, and now you were lying naked in his bed, his cum still faintly sticky between your thighs, his arm wrapped around you like you belonged there.
Heeseung was still sound asleep behind you, breathing deep and even, his chest rising and falling steadily against your back. His face was relaxed in sleep no smirk, no cocky grin but you knew the second he woke up, everything would change.
He would never let you live this down. The teasing would be relentless. “Miss morals” would turn into something far worse. He’d smirk every time he saw you in the hallway, make dirty little comments about how loud you’d been, how desperate you’d sounded begging for him.
The walls between your apartments were thin he’d probably bring it up every time you complained about his noise again. Your life next door would become a living hell.You couldn’t stay here.
Panic clawed up your throat. You had to leave before he woke up. Before this became real. Before he opened his eyes and looked at you with that knowing, satisfied smirk.
Carefully, so carefully, you lifted his arm from your waist. He stirred slightly but didn’t wake, murmuring something incoherent under his breath. Your heart hammered as you slowly slid out from under the duvet, the cool air hitting your naked skin and raising goosebumps.
You moved like a ghost around his room, gathering your scattered clothes as quietly as possible. Your sheer black shirt, the black bralette, the dangerously short mini skirt, your panties all crumpled on the floor where they’d been tossed in the heat of the moment.
You dressed as fast as you could, fingers trembling as you buttoned the sheer shirt and tugged the mini skirt down your thighs. Your hair was a mess, makeup probably smudged, but you didn’t care. You just needed to get out.
Barefoot, shoes in hand, you tiptoed toward the bedroom door. Every creak of the floorboards felt deafening. You glanced back once at Heeseung still asleep, one arm now stretched across the empty space where you’d been, dark hair messy against the pillow.
A strange, unwelcome pang twisted in your chest, but you shoved it down hard. This never happened.
You slipped out of his bedroom, quietly closing the door behind you. The living room was dark and silent. You navigated through the unfamiliar space, heart racing, until you reached the front door. The lock clicked softly as you turned it.
The hallway was empty and dimly lit when you stepped outside. The cool air felt like freedom. You didn’t even bother putting your shoes on yet you just hurried the few steps to your own apartment door next door, fumbling with your keys until they finally slid into the lock.
The moment you were inside, you locked the door behind you, leaned against it, and slid down to the floor, breathing hard.
Your body still ached in the best and worst ways. Thighs sore, a faint bruise forming on your hip from his grip, the ghost of his touch lingering everywhere. You could still feel him inside you, still taste the heat of his mouth.
You buried your face in your hands, mortified beyond words. What had you done?You had slept with the one person you couldn’t stand and now you had to live right next door to him, pretending it never happened.
Because if Heeseung ever found out you’d run away like this, the teasing would only get worse much, much worse. You spent the rest of that early morning in a haze of denial.
Your phone vibrated then again. You reached for it with a heavy sigh, squinting at the bright screen.
yunjin ( 3 new messages )
yunjin : babe where did u go?? one second u were dancing and then u disappeared 😭
yunjin : sunghoon said he saw u leave with someone?? pls tell me ur okay
yunjin : im worried call me when u wake up!!
soobin ( 4 new messages )
soobin : hey, you okay? you left pretty suddenly last night without telling both of us yunjin’s freaking out a bit
soobin : let me know if you got home safe
soobin : if you need anything or want to talk, i’m here no pressure
soobin : hope you’re resting well ❤️
You stared at the messages, throat tightening. The kindness in Soobin’s texts and Yunjin’s worried energy made fresh tears prick at your eyes. They had no idea what you had done. No idea you had spent the night in Heeseung’s bed, letting him touch you, kiss you, fuck you like you’d lost all common sense.
You typed back with trembling fingers, keeping it short and vague
you : got home safe, just drank too much and needed to leave early sorry for worrying you guys i’m okay, just tired talk later ❤️
You sent it and immediately turned your phone on silent, burying your face in your hands the memories wouldn’t stop replaying. Heeseung’s hands on your hips, his mouth on your neck. The way he had groaned your name when he came inside you.
How safe and warm his arms had felt when he pulled you under the duvet afterward. You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to push it all away this never happened.
After sliding down your front door and sitting on the cold floor for what felt like hours, you finally dragged yourself to the shower.
You scrubbed your skin until it was raw, trying to wash away every trace of Heeseung his scent, his touch, the sticky evidence of what you’d done between your thighs. The hot water did nothing to erase the soreness or the vivid flashbacks that kept playing on loop in your head.
By the time the sun came up, you had made a decision this never happened. You would bury it so deep that even you would start to believe it. No one needed to know. Not Yunjin, not Soobin, not even yourself on most days.
You would go back to normal go to classes, focus on your art curator projects, complain about the noise next door like always. And most importantly, you would avoid Lee Heeseung at all costs.
ꪆ୧ ─── ドラマ. flashback !
Heeseung stepped out of his apartment with a half empty water bottle in hand, planning to grab the last box from his car before the evening practice. The hallway was quiet until it wasn’t.
A girl came rushing around the corner, arms overloaded with a massive cardboard box that completely blocked her line of sight. She collided straight into his chest with a startled gasp.
The box flew out of her hands and crashed to the floor, spilling books, notebooks, and what looked like art supplies everywhere across the hallway carpet. Heeseung instinctively reached out and grabbed her arms to keep her from stumbling backward.
She looked up at him, flushed and clearly annoyed, strands of hair falling across her face from the chaotic move. She was pretty, sharp eyes, determined expression the kind of girl who didn’t seem impressed by campus status.
A smirk tugged at his lips before he could stop it.“Easy there, neighbor,” he drawled, voice laced with amusement. “You always run into people like you’re trying to tackle them, or am I just lucky?”
She blinked, then quickly crouched down to gather her scattered belongings, avoiding his gaze.“Sorry,” she muttered, tone tight and clipped. “Didn’t see you.”
Heeseung crouched down as well, picking up a thick book on museum curation that had slid toward his foot. He turned it over in his hands, raising an eyebrow.“Art stuff, huh?” he asked casually. “You moving in next door?”
“Yeah just today,” she replied shortly, snatching the book back from him with a little more force than necessary.
He stood up first and leaned against the wall, arms crossing over his chest as he watched her struggle to reorganize everything into the box. Most girls would have smiled, maybe even recognized him as the basketball captain.
This one? She looked like she already wanted nothing to do with him.“I’m Heeseung,” he said, flashing his most charming grin. “Lee Heeseung, your new neighbor. Need help carrying that? Looks heavy.” He offered,
“I’m good thanks,” she answered without even looking up, standing quickly and slinging the tote over her shoulder.
Heeseung didn’t move out of the way. Instead, he tilted his head, studying her with open curiosity. There was something refreshing about her indifference that it made him want to push a little harder.
“Just so you know,” he added, voice dropping into a teasing tone, “The walls here are pretty thin, try not to be too loud when you’re studying or doing whatever it is, serious art curator girls do at night.”Her eyes finally snapped up to his, narrowing with clear irritation.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” she said flatly. “And maybe you can try keeping your parties down some people actually have to study to pass their classes.”
Heeseung let out a low, genuine laugh that echoed down the empty hallway. She had bite and he liked that.
“Welcome to the building, miss morals,” he called after her as she turned toward her door, the nickname slipping out naturally. She didn’t respond. She fumbled with her keys, unlocked her apartment, and slipped inside without another word, the door shutting with a firm click.
Heeseung stood there for a moment longer, still grinning to himself. The girl next door already hated him, and he hadn’t even thrown his first party yet. This was going to be interesting.
The gym echoed with the sharp squeak of sneakers and the rhythmic bounce of basketballs. Afternoon practice was in full swing, but during a water break, Heeseung leaned against the bleachers, towel draped over his shoulders, a cocky grin already plastered on his face.
Jay tossed him a bottle of water. “You look way too happy for someone who just ran suicides.”Heeseung laughed, taking a long sip before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Can’t help it ran into the new neighbor again this morning.”
Beomgyu perked up immediately, spinning the ball on his finger. “The girl next door? The one who already hates your guts?”
“miss morals herself,” Heeseung confirmed, his smirk widening. “I was just leaving for practice when she came out, i told her the walls are thin and she should try not to be too loud at night. You should’ve seen her face, she looked like she wanted to throw her coffee at me.”
Jake, who was stretching nearby, let out a loud laugh. “Dude, you’re obsessed! that’s like the third time this week you’ve mentioned her.”
“I’m not obsessed,” Heeseung shot back, but his grin betrayed him. “It’s just too easy. She gets so worked up over the smallest things. Last week I had a couple of people over, nothing crazy and she banged on my door at midnight like the apartment was on fire, called me an entitled asshole who only passes because ‘daddy pays for everything.’”
The group burst into laughter. Sunghoon shook his head, amused. “She’s got balls, most girls on campus would be throwing themselves at you the second they find out you’re the captain.”
“Exactly,” Heeseung said, tossing the towel aside. “That’s what makes it fun, she doesn’t give a single fuck who I am. No flirty smiles, no asking for tickets to games, nothing. She just glares at me like I personally ruined her life by existing next door it’s hilarious.”
Beomgyu grinned mischievously. “So what’s your plan? Keep annoying her until she moves out?”
“Nah,” Heeseung replied, bouncing the ball once. “I’m just getting started, next time the music’s on, I might turn it up a little louder to see how long it takes before she comes marching over again. Bet she’ll have that cute little angry face on.”
Jake, who had been quietly listening while stretching his hamstrings, suddenly straightened up with a knowing look.“Don’t you think you’re in love with her or something?” he asked casually, but loud enough for the whole group to hear.
The gym went quiet for half a second before the guys exploded with laughter and teasing whistles. Heeseung nearly choked on his water. “What the fuck, Jake?”
Jake shrugged, completely unfazed. “Think about it, she’s literally the only girl who doesn’t give a shit about you no ego stroking, no chasing after the basketball star. She treats you like any other annoying neighbor and instead of leaving her alone, you keep poking at her like a kid with a new toy. That sounds like a crush to me.”
“Bullshit,” Heeseung scoffed, but his ears turned slightly red. He dribbled the ball harder than necessary, trying to play it cool. “I’m not in love with her, she’s just entertaining. It's fun watching her get all riled up, that’s it.”
Jay raised an eyebrow, smirking. “Sure ‘Entertaining.’ that’s why you bring her up every single practice.”
“Exactly,” Jake added with a grin. “If she suddenly started being nice to you, you’d probably be bored in a week but because she ignores you and calls you out, you can’t stop thinking about her.”
Heeseung pointed the ball at Jake threateningly, though his smirk was fighting to stay hidden. “Keep talking and I’ll make you run extra laps, Sim.”
The team laughed again, but Jake just held up his hands in surrender, still smiling. “I’m just saying, man. One day you’re gonna realize you’re not annoying her because it’s funny, you’re doing it because you like the way she fights back.”
Heeseung rolled his eyes and turned away, dribbling the ball toward the court to end the conversation. But as practice resumed and he sank a clean three pointer, Jake’s words lingered in the back of his mind longer than he wanted to admit.
Maybe there was a tiny bit of truth to it. Or maybe he just really, really enjoyed getting on your nerves.
The laughter from the team slowly died down as practice resumed. Heeseung shook off Jake’s teasing comment, channeling the slight irritation into sharper shots. He sank another clean three pointer, the ball swishing through the net with satisfying precision.
For a few minutes, the court felt like the only place where everything made sense no annoying neighbors, no complicated feelings, just the game. Then the gym doors swung open with a loud bang.
Everyone turned as a tall, sharply dressed man in a tailored coat strode in, his presence immediately sucking the casual energy out of the room. Coach paused mid instruction, nodding respectfully.
Heeseung’s stomach dropped the moment he recognized the figure his father. Mr. Lee didn’t smile. He never did when he showed up unannounced like this. His eyes scanned the court with cold calculation, lingering on Heeseung with clear disapproval.
“Take five, boys,” Coach called out, sensing the shift in atmosphere. Heeseung wiped the sweat from his brow and walked over, jaw already tight. “Dad what are you doing here?”Mr. Lee stopped a few feet away, arms folded behind his back. His voice was low but carried easily across the quiet gym.
“I came to see if my son is actually putting in the work that’s supposed to get him into the NBA,” he said flatly. “From what I’ve been hearing, it doesn’t look like it.”Heeseung’s friends lingered nearby, pretending to drink water but clearly listening.
“I’ve been at every practice,” Heeseung replied, keeping his tone even. “Coach said my shooting percentage is up this week—”
“Don’t make excuses,” his father cut him off sharply. “Your brother Heedo was never this distracted at your age, he was laser focused top scorer captainfull ride to the best program in the country. And you? You’re out here laughing with your little friends during water breaks, probably thinking about parties and girls instead of the game.”
Heeseung’s grip tightened on the basketball until his knuckles turned white.“I’m not distracted,” he said through gritted teeth. Mr.Lee stepped closer, voice dropping into that familiar, cutting tone that always found its mark.
“You’re good for nothing if you can’t even focus on what matters. All that talent wasted because you’d rather play around and act like some campus king. You think the scouts care about your popularity? they don’t, you will never be enough if you keep this up and you will certainly never be better than your brother.”
The words landed like punches. Heedo — the golden child. The one who had already made it pro overseas. The one their father never stopped comparing him to.Heeseung’s jaw clenched so hard it ached. He wanted to snap back, to defend himself, but years of this had taught him it was useless. His father never listened.
Mr. Lee straightened his coat, expression unchanging. “Fix it or don’t bother coming home for the holidays, i didn’t raise a failure.”Without waiting for a reply, he turned and walked out of the gym, the heavy doors swinging shut behind him with a final, echoing thud. The silence that followed was uncomfortable.
Heeseung stood there for a moment, staring at the floor, chest tight with anger and something heavier he refused to name. The team slowly went back to practice, but the energy had shifted. Jake shot him a concerned look, but Heeseung ignored it, dribbling the ball harder than necessary as he moved back onto the court.
Inside, the familiar bitterness churned.His father’s words echoed louder than any cheering crowd ever could. You will never be enough. You will never be better than your brother. Heeseung sank another shot, but this time it didn’t feel satisfying.
All he could think about was how easy it was to annoy the girl next door because at least when she glared at him and called him an entitled asshole, he felt something other than this hollow, crushing weight.
The heavy gym doors swung shut behind Mr. Lee, leaving an awkward silence in his wake. The team tried to resume practice, but the atmosphere had soured.
Heeseung stood frozen for a few seconds, staring at the spot where his father had been. The familiar sting of those words good for nothing, never enough, never better than your brother settled heavy in his chest like lead.
Jake jogged over, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “Hey, man don’t let him get to you, your dad’s always been like that you’re killing it out here.”
“Yeah,” Beomgyu added, spinning the ball on his finger. “Ignore him, you’re the one who’s gonna make it to the NBA, not Heedo.” Jay nodded. “Come on, let’s run some more plays we’ll crush the next game.”Heeseung forced a half smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah sure.”
He went through the motions for the rest of practice dribbling, shooting, defending but he was quiet. No cocky jokes no teasing his teammates no loud laughter. Every time someone tried to pull him into conversation or hype him up after a good play, he gave short, one word replies and kept his head down. The usual spark was gone.
Even Coach noticed, shooting him concerned glances but saying nothing.The moment practice officially ended, Heeseung grabbed his bag and left first, ignoring the calls from his friends asking if he wanted to grab food. He needed air. He needed to get away from the echoes of his father’s voice.
He walked aimlessly for a while, the cool evening air doing little to clear his head. Eventually, his feet carried him toward the small café just off campus the one with decent coffee and quiet corners where he sometimes went to think.He pushed open the door, the bell jingling softly, and scanned the room out of habit and then he saw you.
You were sitting alone at a corner table near the window, surrounded by textbooks, notes, and your laptop. Your hair was tied up messily, a pen between your teeth as you frowned at something on the screen. You looked focused serious and annoyingly cute in that concentrated way of yours.
A small, familiar spark ignited in his chest the one that always appeared whenever he spotted you. Before he could think better of it, Heeseung walked straight over and slid into the seat across from you without asking.You looked up, startled at first, then your expression quickly shifted into pure annoyance.
“What the hell are you doing here?” you asked, voice sharp but low enough not to disturb the other customers. You closed your laptop slightly, glaring at him. “This is my table, go sit somewhere else.”
Heeseung leaned back in the chair, crossing his arms, that signature smirk slowly returning despite the heavy weight still sitting in his stomach. Seeing your irritated face felt lighter somehow. Easier than dealing with everything else.
“Relax, miss morals,” he said, voice teasing. “I’m not here to ruin your precious study time. Just saw you and thought I’d say hi to my favorite neighbor.”
You rolled your eyes so hard it was almost impressive. “Favorite? We barely tolerate each other and I’m trying to work unlike some people who can afford to slack off because ‘daddy can pay for everything.’”
The jab should’ve stung more, especially after his father’s visit, but instead it made Heeseung’s smirk widen. There, it was that fire. That complete lack of care for who he was or what people usually said to him. You didn’t tiptoe around him. You didn’t try to impress him. You just called him out.
It felt strangely nice. Not in a romantic way, just refreshing ( liar liar liar he is totally in love with her ) He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the table. “Ouch straight for the throat today. What are you working on that’s got you so grumpy? Another museum thing? Planning to curate an exhibit called ‘Why Heeseung Should Shut Up’?”
You gave him a flat look, clearly not amused. “It’s for my capstone project and yes, if it helps keep loud neighbors quiet, I might include a whole section on it.”
Heeseung chuckled softly, the sound genuine even if it was quiet. For the first time since his dad had shown up, the tight knot in his chest loosened just a fraction. He realized something in that moment. Your company wasn’t bad.
In fact, sitting here watching you get all annoyed and snappy at him felt better than sitting alone with his father’s words ringing in his head. It was simple predictable in the best way. You gave him a reaction real, unfiltered and for a few minutes, it made everything else fade into the background.
He loved annoying you. Not because he wanted to hurt you but because when you pushed back, it reminded him he was still here. Still capable of feeling something other than pressure and disappointment.
“Fine,” he said, raising his hands in mock surrender, though he made no move to leave. “I’ll behave for now but only if you tell me what that exhibit is actually about.” You narrowed your eyes suspiciously, clearly debating whether to kick him out or just ignore him. Heeseung waited, smirk still in place, secretly hoping you’d keep arguing with him a little longer.
ꪆ୧ ─── ドラマ. heeseung’s pov !
Heeseung woke up to a heavy, unfamiliar silence.
His eyes opened slowly, the soft gray morning light filtering through the curtains. His body felt sore in places that reminded him immediately of last night a dull ache in his shoulders, the faint stickiness between the sheets, the faint scent of sex still hanging in the air.
He turned his head to the side the bed was empty. The spot where you had been lying was cold, the pillow slightly dented but untouched now. No clothes scattered on the floor no shoes by the door nothing.
Heeseung sat up slowly, rubbing his face with both hands. The memories came back in quiet, unflinching flashes the party you in that short black skirt.The heated dancing that turned into something reckless.The desperate makeout in his car while horns blared behind you.
How he’d carried you inside, how urgently you both had moved against each other against the door, then on this bed.The way you had moaned his name.The way he had finished inside you.
And how, afterward, he had pulled you close under the duvet, your back against his chest, both of you falling asleep in silence.
Now you were gone. He glanced at the clock. 7:23 a.m. You must have woken up in a panic sometime in the early hours and slipped out while he was still asleep. The realization settled in his stomach like a stone heavy, uncomfortable, and strangely final.
Heeseung let out a long, tired breath and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He sat there for a moment, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor. This was a mistake, a stupid, drunken mistake.
You had always made it clear how much you couldn’t stand him. The constant complaints about his noise, the glares in the hallway, the way you called him entitled behind his back.
Last night had been nothing more than too much alcohol and bad judgment on both sides. You waking up and running away only confirmed it.He didn’t blame you. If anything, he felt a quiet wave of regret wash over him. He should have known better.
He should have stopped things before they went that far. Now things between you two were already tense, this was going to be even more awkward.
Heeseung stood up and walked to the bathroom. While the shower heated up, he looked at himself in the mirror. There were faint scratch marks on his shoulders and a small bruise near his collarbone. Physical proof that last night had really happened.
He stepped under the hot water, letting it run over his face and shoulders. It never happened, he told himself. That was the only way forward.He would forget about it. Pretend the entire night was a blur he couldn’t quite remember.
No teasing no comments in the hallway no bringing it up ever again. You clearly wanted to erase it, and honestly so did he. The last thing he needed right now was more complications in his life especially with someone who lived right next door.
After the shower, he got dressed in a simple black t-shirt and sweatpants. He made coffee in the kitchen, moving on autopilot. The apartment felt too quiet now.
Heeseung leaned against the counter, sipping the bitter drink, and stared at the wall that separated his place from yours.From now on, things would go back to normal. You would keep avoiding him like you always did.
He would keep his music at a reasonable volume when he remembered. And neither of you would ever speak about what happened last night. It was better this way, cleaner and simpler.
He finished his coffee, rinsed the mug, and set it in the sink. Last night was a mistake and as far as Heeseung was concerned, it was already forgotten.
For the next two weeks, you turned your life into a carefully orchestrated mission of avoidance while your body slowly started betraying you in ways you couldn’t ignore. The mantra remained the same this never happened.
Every morning began the same way. Your alarm went off at 6:15 a.m., pulling you from restless sleep. The moment you sat up, a familiar wave of nausea rolled through your stomach, not violent, but persistent and queasy, making the room feel slightly off balance.
You’d sit on the edge of the bed for a few minutes, breathing slowly through your nose, waiting for it to pass. Some mornings it did. Others, you’d rush to the bathroom and dry heave over the sink, nothing coming up except bitter bile and a metallic taste that lingered on your tongue.
Once the worst of it subsided, you’d quickly get ready, choosing simple, comfortable clothes that wouldn’t draw attention. Then came the listening part. You’d press your ear to the front door, heart beating a little too fast, straining to hear any sound from Heeseung’s apartment next door.
If you caught even the faintest click of his lock or the low murmur of his voice on a phone call, you’d wait sometimes ten minutes, sometimes twenty pretending to reorganize your bag or check your notes until the hallway was silent again.
Leaving became a tactical exercise. You slipped out as quietly as possible, taking the side staircase instead of the main hallway whenever you spotted his car in the parking lot. The fatigue hit hardest during these moments.
Your legs felt heavier than usual, and by the time you reached campus, you were already drained, needing to sit down in the library for a few minutes just to catch your breath. Coming home was even more stressful.
You started timing your returns obsessively. If practice usually ended around 6 p.m., you’d stay late at the library or in an empty classroom, working on your capstone exhibition proposal until you were sure Heeseung was either out with friends or already inside. One evening, the dizziness caught you off guard.
You had just turned the corner into your hallway when the world tilted slightly. You had to lean against the wall, breathing shallowly, while a strong wave of nausea made your stomach churn.
The faint scent of someone’s dinner cooking nearby sent you rushing the last few steps to your door. The moment you got inside, you barely made it to the toilet before vomiting actual, forceful vomiting that left you trembling on the cold tile floor.
You told yourself it was stress. The constant hyper vigilance. The lack of proper sleep. The emotional weight of pretending that night had never occurred. But the symptoms kept creeping in, growing harder to dismiss.
Smells became your enemy. The aroma of coffee from the café near campus, which you used to love, now made your stomach revolt. You switched to plain crackers and ginger tea, keeping a secret stash in your bag.
Even the scent of your own shampoo sometimes triggered a gag reflex. Food tasted strange too salty, too sweet, or completely off. You lost interest in meals altogether, surviving on small portions that you could keep down.
The fatigue settled deep in your bones. You’d come home from classes, collapse on the couch, and wake up hours later feeling like you hadn’t rested at all.
Your breasts felt tender and slightly swollen, brushing against your shirt making you wince. Mood swings hit at random. One minute you were focused on your work, the next you felt inexplicably teary or irritable. All of this made the avoidance even more draining.
One Thursday night, your timing failed you had stayed late at the library, hoping Heeseung would already be inside. When you finally dragged your tired body back to the building, the hallway lights felt blindingly bright.
Just as you reached your door, fumbling with your keys, you heard the unmistakable click of his lock opening.Panic surged through you. Your hands shook so badly that the keys nearly dropped. You managed to slip inside just as his door opened, pressing your back against the wood, heart hammering wildly.
You held your breath, listening to his footsteps pass by. The moment they faded, the nausea hit like a wave. You barely made it to the bathroom before throwing up again, knees weak, tears stinging your eyes from the force of it.
Afterward, you sat on the bathroom floor with your forehead resting on your knees, breathing shakily. This was getting worse.You were exhausted from the constant calculation when to leave, when to return, which route to take, how long to wait in the stairwell. The thin wall between your apartments felt like a constant threat.
You’d hear him moving around sometimes. The low sound of his music ( mercifully quieter these days ), the murmur of his voice when he was on the phone, the occasional laugh. Every sound made your stomach twist with anxiety and unwelcome memories.
You became hyper aware of everything. You avoided cooking anything with strong smells. You did laundry at 2 a.m. when you were sure he was asleep. You even changed the time you took showers, worried the sound of running water might coincide with him coming home.
Yunjin and Soobin noticed the changes. “You’ve been canceling plans a lot,” Yunjin said during one quick lunch. “And you look really tired, are you sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine,” you lied, forcing a weak smile while fighting the nausea brought on by the smell of her food. “Just stressed about the capstone deadline it’s taking everything out of me.”
Soobin watched you quietly, concern clear in his eyes, but he didn’t push. Inside your apartment, the symptoms continued to build.
Mornings were brutal. You’d wake up with tender breasts and that persistent queasy feeling. Some days the vomiting was so bad you had to keep a small bucket discreetly by your bed.
The fatigue made it hard to focus during lectures. You'd find yourself zoning out, head heavy, fighting the urge to lay your head on the desk. Yet you refused to connect the dots .It’s just stress, you told yourself repeatedly. The avoidance the guilt the lack of sleep.
You pushed through, continuing your careful dance of avoidance. You timed every exit and entry with military precision. You became an expert at predicting Heeseung’s schedule ( she should become a dispatch employee )
You kept your headphones on to drown out any sound from next door. You buried yourself in your art curator work, sketching exhibition layouts late into the night until your eyes burned.Two full weeks passed in this strange limbo.
You were pale, exhausted, and constantly on edge. The nausea came in unpredictable waves. The fatigue made simple tasks feel monumental. And the fear of accidentally seeing Heeseung in the hallway kept you trapped in this self imposed isolation.
Deep down, a small, terrified voice in the back of your mind whispered that something was very wrong. But you silenced it the same way you silenced every memory of that night this never happened.
You would keep avoiding him. You would keep pretending everything was normal.Even as your body screamed louder and louder that nothing was normal anymore.
One ordinary afternoon, everything shifted. You were sitting in the small campus café with Yunjin and Soobin, the three of you squeezed around a corner table. Yunjin was dramatically slumped in her chair, one hand pressed to her lower stomach, complaining loudly.
“Ugh, my period is literally killing me today,” she groaned, stirring her iced latte with a pout. “Cramps are so bad, I can barely sit straight why does it always hit the worst during the worst season? I swear my uterus hates me.”
Soobin chuckled softly, offering her a sympathetic smile. “Do you want me to grab you some painkillers from the convenience store?” You tried to smile and nod along, but the words barely registered.
Her period is killing her…..
The sentence echoed in your head like a siren your own period. You mentally counted the days. It should have come a full week ago. Seven days late. Maybe more.
You had been so caught up in avoiding Heeseung, dealing with the constant nausea, fatigue, and vomiting that you hadn’t even noticed the date slipping by. Your heart started beating faster.
You pulled out your phone under the table and quietly opened your cycle tracking app. The screen glowed with the familiar calendar. A bright red notification stared back at you
period : 7 days late
You stared at the words until they blurred. No no, no, no. You tried to push the thought away immediately. It had to be stress. The irregular sleep, the constant anxiety of avoiding Heeseung, the vomiting all of it could easily throw your cycle off. That was normal right?
But then the symptoms started flashing through your mind like warning lights. The persistent nausea every morning. The vomiting that left you weak on the bathroom floor. The crushing fatigue that made it hard to stay awake in lectures.
The dizziness, sensitivity to smells, tender, swollen breasts. Your stomach dropped, could you be pregnant?
The word felt foreign and terrifying in your head. No. Absolutely not. You wouldn’t get pregnant from one night. One reckless, stupid night. People had unprotected sex all the time and nothing happened.
You were on the pill…wait, were you? You had been so stressed with midterms that you couldn’t even remember if you had taken it properly that week. The thought made bile rise in your throat again.
Across the table, Yunjin and Soobin were still talking something about upcoming assignments and a group project. Their voices sounded far away, like you were underwater.You couldn’t focus on a single word they were saying. Your mind was spinning, heart pounding so hard you were sure they could hear it.
Yunjin waved a hand in front of your face. “Hello? Earth to you! you’ve been spacing out the entire time are you okay?”You blinked, forcing yourself back to the present. Your mouth felt dry.
“I—yeah, sorry just tired,” you mumbled. “Guys, I think I’m gonna head home early today my head’s killing me.”Soobin frowned, concern clear in his eyes. “Do you want me to walk you back?”“No, it’s fine,” you said quickly, already standing up and grabbing your bag. “I’ll text you later promise.”
You left the café before they could protest, walking fast, then almost jogging once you were out of sight. The nausea was back, stronger now, mixing with pure terror. Your hands were shaking as you headed straight for the small convenience store two blocks away.
Inside the store, you felt like every camera was watching you. You moved quickly through the aisles, heart hammering, until you found the family planning section. There were several pregnancy test kits.
You grabbed the most reliable looking one with trembling fingers, not even reading the brand properly. The cashier gave you a neutral look as you paid, but you couldn’t meet her eyes.
Bag clutched tightly to your chest, you practically ran the entire way back to your apartment building. You took the side stairs again, praying Heeseung wasn’t around. The moment you were inside your own apartment, you locked the door twice and leaned against it, breathing hard.
You pulled the kit out of the bag with shaking hands. The box felt heavy dangerous. You read the instructions carefully, twice. Pee on the stick. Wait three minutes. One line = not pregnant. Two lines = pregnant simple but terrifying.
You went to the bathroom, heart pounding so loudly it echoed in your ears. You followed every step exactly, hands trembling so badly you almost dropped the test. When you were done, you placed the stick on the counter and set a timer on your phone three minutes.
You paced the small bathroom, arms wrapped tightly around yourself. Every second felt like an hour. The nausea was back, but this time it had nothing to do with morning sickness. It was pure fear.
What if it was positive?
What if you were actually pregnant with Heeseung’s baby?
The thought made your knees weak. You slid down the wall until you were sitting on the cold tile floor, staring at the test on the counter like it was a bomb about to go off.The timer was still counting down.
Two minutes left. You hugged your knees to your chest, eyes fixed on the small plastic stick that now, held your entire future in two little lines. You were so scared.
The timer on your phone hit zero with a soft chime that felt deafening in the small bathroom. You stayed frozen on the cold tile floor for several long seconds, knees drawn to your chest, staring at the pregnancy test lying face up on the counter like it was a live grenade.
Slowly, you pushed yourself up on shaky legs and stepped closer. One line was already dark and clear the control line. The second line was faint at first, but unmistakable. A pale pink line slowly darkening right beside the first one.
two lines = positive
You blinked hard, once, twice, as if the result would magically change if you stared long enough.“No…” you whispered, voice cracking. “No, that can’t be right.”Denial crashed over you like a wave. You snatched the test off the counter and held it closer to the light, turning it at different angles. Maybe it was a faulty test.
Maybe the line was an evaporation line. Maybe you had read the instructions wrong. You grabbed the box again and reread the instructions three more times, your hands trembling so badly the paper shook.
But no matter how many times you checked, the two lines stared back at you, clear and undeniable. It was positive. You were pregnant. The reality slammed into you all at once.
Your knees buckled. You sank back down to the bathroom floor, the test still clutched tightly in your hand. A sob tore out of your throat before you could stop it. Hot tears spilled down your cheeks as the full weight of what this meant crashed over you.
You were pregnant with Heeseung’s baby. The boy you couldn’t stand. The neighbor you had spent months avoiding. The one person you had sworn to pretend never touched you.
A broken sound escaped you half sob, half laugh of pure disbelief. Your free hand moved instinctively to your stomach, pressing lightly against the still flat surface. There was a life growing inside you right now. A tiny, real consequence of one reckless, drunken night.
The crying came harder. You curled in on yourself, forehead resting on your knees as sobs wracked your body. All the symptoms you had tried to blame on stress the nausea, the vomiting, the fatigue, the dizziness suddenly made perfect, terrifying sense.
You were going to have a baby. And the father was the last person on earth you wanted to be tied to. After several long minutes, the tears slowed, leaving you drained and hollow. You wiped your face with the back of your hand, staring blankly at the two pink lines.
You made a decision right there on the bathroom floor. You were not telling Heeseung anything, not a single word.He didn’t need to know. He would never know. Telling him would only make everything worse the teasing, the drama, the forced proximity, the endless complications with someone you already couldn’t stand.
You could barely handle living next door to him as it was. Bringing a child into that mess was unthinkable. This was your problem. Your body, your choice. You would handle it quietly. You would get rid of it.The thought made fresh tears sting your eyes, but you forced them back. There was no other option.
You were still in school, chasing your dream of becoming an art curator. Your life was barely stable right now. A baby, especially one with Heeseung as the father would ruin everything.
You stayed on the floor for a long time, clutching the test, letting the weight of the decision settle over you.
Eventually, you stood up on unsteady legs. You wrapped the test in toilet paper and hid it deep in the trash can under some tissues. You washed your face with cold water until the redness in your eyes faded a little.
You looked at your reflection pale, exhausted, terrified and whispered to yourself “This never happened.” You would schedule an. appointment. You would end this quietly.You would move on with your life and never speak of that night again.
But as you turned off the bathroom light and stepped into your silent apartment, the weight in your chest felt heavier than ever. You were pregnant. And for the first time since that night, the wall between you and Heeseung felt like it was closing in.
The decision sat heavy in your chest like a stone. You weren’t going to tell Heeseung. You were going to end this quietly and move on with your life. The very next morning, you tried to make the appointment.
You sat on your bed with your laptop open, hands shaking as you searched for clinics near campus that offered termination services. Your stomach was already churning with nausea again, but you forced yourself to focus.
You found a few options a women’s health clinic downtown and a Planned Parenthood branch about twenty minutes away. You clicked on the booking page for the first one. The form asked for your name, date of birth, contact number, and reason for visit.
Your fingers hovered over the keyboard for a long time. You couldn’t do it. Every time you tried to type your real information, panic surged through you. What if someone recognized your name? What if the clinic called or sent confirmation texts while you were near Heeseung?
What if the appointment somehow got back to campus gossip? The thought of walking into a clinic alone, explaining your situation to a stranger, and going through with it made your throat close up.
You closed the laptop without saving anything. You told yourself you’d try again tomorrow when you felt calmer. But tomorrow came and went. Then the next day. And the next. Meanwhile, the symptoms grew worse.
The nausea was no longer just morning sickness it hit you at random times throughout the day. The smell of food in the cafeteria made you gag. Even walking past the coffee shop near campus triggered violent waves that left you rushing to the nearest bathroom.
You started carrying saltine crackers and a small bottle of ginger ale everywhere, but they barely helped anymore.
Vomiting became more frequent. One afternoon during a lecture, you had to excuse yourself midway through and barely made it to the restroom before throwing up.
You returned to class pale and sweaty, mumbling something about food poisoning when Yunjin looked at you worriedly.
Fatigue wrapped around you like a heavy blanket. You fell asleep in the library twice that week, waking up with your cheek stuck to your notebook. Simple tasks like climbing the stairs to your apartment left you breathless and dizzy.
Your breasts were constantly tender, and your mood swung wildly one moment you were numb, the next you felt like crying over nothing. Yunjin and Soobin started noticing. During lunch on Thursday, Yunjin set her chopsticks down and stared at you.
“Okay, something is seriously wrong,” she said, voice firm but concerned. “You’ve been looking like a ghost for days, you barely eat anything, you keep disappearing to the bathroom, and you look exhausted even when you say you slept are you sick? Is it stress? Talk to us.”
Soobin nodded, his gentle eyes filled with worry. “You’ve been canceling plans and spacing out a lot. If something’s going on, you don’t have to deal with it alone. We’re here.”You forced a weak smile, pushing your untouched food around your plate. The smell of it was making you nauseous again.
“I’m okay, really,” you lied, voice quieter than usual. “Just… really behind on my capstone. The deadline is stressing me out more than I thought. I’ll be fine once I catch up.”
They didn’t look convinced, but they let it drop for the moment. Still, you could feel their eyes on you for the rest of the meal. Even Heeseung started noticing something was off.
You had managed to avoid direct contact with him for weeks, but it was impossible to hide everything when you lived next door.
One evening, you were coming home later than usual after another failed attempt to book the appointment online. You felt dizzy and nauseous, moving slowly up the hallway with your keys already in hand. As you reached your door, Heeseung’s door opened.
He stepped out, wearing a simple black hoodie, hair slightly messy like he’d just come back from practice. His eyes landed on you immediately.
You froze for half a second, then quickly turned your face away and fumbled with your lock, trying to get inside before he could say anything. But Heeseung didn’t tease you this time.
Instead, he paused in his doorway, brow slightly furrowed as he watched you. You looked pale. Thinner. There were dark circles under your eyes, and the way you moved seemed off fragile.
He opened his mouth, then closed it again. For once, the usual cocky remark didn’t come.“You good?” he asked quietly, voice lacking its normal edge.
You didn’t answer. You finally got the door open and slipped inside without looking at him, shutting it quickly behind you
Heeseung stood there for a moment longer, staring at your closed door with a strange, unsettled feeling in his chest. Something wasn’t right with you. He could see it.But after everything after that night you both had silently agreed to forget he didn’t know if he had the right to ask.
Inside your apartment, you leaned against the door, breathing hard. Fresh tears stung your eyes as another wave of nausea hit you. You slid down to the floor, hugging your knees. You still hadn’t been able to book the appointment.
The symptoms were getting worse every day, your friends were worried and now even Heeseung had noticed something was wrong. You pressed your forehead to your knees, whispering to yourself again and again
“This never happened… this never happened…” But the lie was starting to feel impossible to keep. Heeseung had noticed. For the past two weeks, it had become painfully obvious that you were avoiding him like the plague.
At first, he thought it was the usual the cold shoulder after that night you both had silently agreed to forget. But it quickly went beyond that. You timed your movements with military precision.
He would hear your door open and close at odd hours, always when he was either inside or already gone. You took the side stairs. You left earlier than usual in the mornings and came back much later at night.
Even at university, catching a glimpse of you had become nearly impossible. You seemed to disappear into the library or empty classrooms the moment practice ended.It was clear you were doing everything in your power to never cross paths with him.
Heeseung told himself it didn’t bother him. He had decided to forget that night too. No teasing. No bringing it up. Just normal or as normal as things could be when you lived right next door
But something was wrong. You looked terrible lately. He first noticed it in passing the dark circles under your eyes, the way your shoulders seemed to slump with exhaustion. Then it got worse you moved slower.
Your face was paler than usual. You barely left your apartment except for classes, and even then you looked like you were running on empty.
One evening, after a long basketball practice, Heeseung was walking back to the apartment building, gym bag slung over his shoulder. The sun had already set, and the streetlights cast long shadows on the path. That’s when he saw you.
You were a few meters ahead, heading toward the entrance. Your steps were unsteady, one hand pressed lightly against the wall for support.
Even from behind, he could tell something was very wrong. Your posture was slumped, your breathing looked shallow, and you looked like you were barely holding yourself upright.
Heeseung’s stomach tightened. He quickened his pace without thinking and caught up to you just as you reached the building door.“Hey,” he said, voice low and serious, no trace of his usual teasing tone. “Are you alright?”
You turned your head slightly, eyes glassy and tired. The moment you recognized him, your expression hardened.“I don’t have time for your teasing right now, Heeseung,” you muttered weakly, trying to push past him toward the elevator.
Heeseung felt a flash of annoyance, not because you were dismissing him, but because he was genuinely worried and you clearly didn’t believe it.“I’m not teasing,” he said, more sharply than he intended. “You look like you’re about to pass out.”
You didn’t respond, just kept walking toward the elevator. Heeseung followed, stepping in right after you. The doors closed, trapping the two of you in the small space. The silence was thick and uncomfortable. He could hear your breathing too fast, too shallow.
When the elevator reached your floor, you stepped out first. But the moment your feet hit the hallway, your legs buckled. You swayed dangerously, one hand reaching out blindly for the wall as the world spun around you. Heeseung moved fast.
He dropped his gym bag and caught you before you could hit the floor, one arm wrapping around your waist, the other supporting your back. Your body went limp against him for a few terrifying seconds.
“Shit—” he muttered, heart pounding. “Hey, stay with me.” You were half conscious, mumbling something incoherent about being fine. Heeseung didn’t waste time arguing. He adjusted his grip and lifted you carefully into his arms in bridal style, your head lolling against his shoulder.
Your apartment was right next to his. He fumbled for a moment with your keys ( which had fallen from your hand ) until he managed to unlock the door. He carried you inside, kicking the door shut behind him, and headed straight for your bedroom.
The room was neat but clearly lived in textbooks stacked on the desk, a half finished sketch on the table, a small trash can near the bed. Heeseung gently laid you down on the bed, pulling the blanket over you. Your face was pale, forehead slightly damp with sweat.
He stood there for a moment, unsure what to do. You looked so small and fragile like this. Nothing like the fiery girl who used to bang on his door and call him an entitled asshole.
Heeseung grabbed a glass of water from the kitchen and placed it on your nightstand. Then he pulled up the chair from your desk and sat down beside the bed, watching you carefully.
Your breathing slowly evened out. The tension in your face relaxed as you slipped into a deeper sleep. Heeseung stayed there, elbows on his knees, running a hand through his hair. He didn’t know what was going on with you.
He didn’t know why you looked so sick. He didn’t even know if you’d want him here when you woke up. But right now, leaving you alone didn’t feel like an option. So he stayed quietly waiting.
Until your breathing became steady and deep, and he was sure you were fully asleep. Heeseung stayed. He told himself he’d only wait until you fell into a proper sleep, but the longer he sat there watching your pale face and shallow breathing, the harder it became to leave.
You looked exhausted, truly exhausted in a way that went beyond simple tiredness. Dark circles under your eyes, lips slightly chapped, skin lacking its usual color. Something was clearly wrong, and the protective instinct he didn’t know he had kept him rooted to the chair.
After almost an hour, when your breathing had deepened into steady, even inhales, Heeseung stood up quietly. He couldn’t just sit there doing nothing. He moved silently through your apartment, careful not to make noise.
Your kitchen was small and neat, but the fridge was nearly empty a few bottles of water, some crackers, and not much else. Heeseung frowned. No wonder you looked so drained. He opened the cupboards and found rice, a couple of eggs, and some ginger.
Simple gentle on the stomach. He decided to make congee something light that his mom used to make for him when he was sick.
He worked quietly, chopping what little he could find, boiling water, and stirring the pot on low heat. The smell of ginger and warm rice slowly filled the small apartment. He hoped it would help when you woke up. Maybe it would make you feel a little better.
He kept glancing toward the bedroom every few minutes, making sure you were still resting. Almost two hours later, you started stirring.
Heeseung was just turning off the stove when he heard movement from the bedroom. He poured some congee into a bowl, added a bit of water to make it lighter, and was about to bring it to you when
You bolted upright in bed, eyes wide with sudden panic. The smell of the food hit you like a wave. Your face went even paler, hand flying to your mouth as nausea surged violently. Heeseung’s eyes widened. “Hey—”
You didn’t wait. You scrambled off the bed on shaky legs and ran straight to the bathroom, barely making it in time.
Heeseung followed right behind you, worry spiking through his chest. He reached the bathroom door just as you dropped to your knees in front of the toilet and started throwing up violently.
“Shit—” He moved quickly, kneeling beside you without hesitation. One hand gently gathered your hair, holding it back from your face. His other hand rubbed slow, soothing circles on your back. “It’s okay I’ve got you, just breathe.”
You retched again, body trembling with the force of it. Heeseung stayed right there, murmuring quiet reassurances, his hand never stopping its gentle motion on your back.
When the worst of it seemed to pass, he reached over and flushed the toilet, then grabbed a clean towel from the rack and dampened it with cool water.“Here,” he said softly, handing you the towel. “Wipe your face.”
You took it with trembling hands, still breathing hard. Heeseung stood up briefly to get a glass of water from the sink and brought it back to you.“Small sips,” he instructed, crouching down again. “Don’t drink too fast.”
While you rinsed your mouth and took careful sips, Heeseung’s eyes wandered around the small bathroom, looking for anything that might help. His gaze landed on the trash can beside the sink. Something white and plastic was poking out from under some tissues.
Curious, he reached down and pulled it out, it was a pregnancy test. Two distinct red lines stared back at him clear, unmistakable, and positive. Heeseung froze.
His brain short circuited for a second. The test felt heavy in his hand as the reality sank in. Positive you were pregnant. He slowly turned his head toward you. You were already looking at him.
Your eyes were wide with pure terror, face drained of all color, lips parted in shock. You looked caught completely and utterly caught like the worst secret in the world had just been ripped open. The glass of water trembled in your hand.
Heeseung’s mouth opened, but no words came out at first. His gaze flicked between the test in his hand and your terrified expression.
The pieces clicked together horribly fast the avoidance, the exhaustion, the vomiting, the way you looked like you were barely holding yourself together for the past two weeks.
This wasn’t just stress this was because of that night because of him. Heeseung swallowed hard, his voice coming out quieter than he expected.
“…Is this yours?” The bathroom fell into a heavy, suffocating silence. You were still staring at him, tears already gathering in your eyes again, looking like you wanted the floor to swallow you whole.
Heeseung didn’t know what to say. He only knew that everything had just changed. Heeseung stared at the two red lines on the pregnancy test for what felt like an eternity.
The bathroom was deathly quiet except for your shaky breathing. When he finally looked up at you, your face was pale, eyes wide with pure terror, tears already spilling down your cheeks. He swallowed hard, his throat tight.
“…Are you pregnant?” he asked, voice low and rough. You didn’t speak at first. Your lips trembled as fresh tears rolled down your face. Then you gave a small, barely noticeable nod.
Heeseung felt something twist sharply in his chest. He looked back down at the test, then at you again. His next question came out quieter, almost hesitant.
“Is the baby mine?” The moment the words left his mouth, your face crumpled completely. You broke into heavy, broken sobs, shoulders shaking as you tried to cover your mouth with one hand.
“I’m sorry…” you choked out between cries. “I’m so sorry… I didn’t want this to happen, i never meant for any of this, it was just one stupid night and I— I’m planning on getting rid of it. I won’t bother you with any of this, i won’t get in your way. You don’t have to worry about anything, i’ll handle it quietly.”
Heeseung’s expression shifted the instant you said those words. Hurt flashed across his face raw, unguarded hurt. His brows drew together, jaw tightening as he processed what you were saying.
The idea that you were planning to terminate the pregnancy without even telling him felt like a punch to the gut. His hand holding the test lowered slowly to his side. You kept crying, words tumbling out faster now, desperate and apologetic.
“I’m really sorry. I know you didn’t ask for this. I didn’t ask for this either, i’ll take care of everything. You can just forget about it…i promise I won’t drag you into anything.”
Heeseung stayed silent for a long moment, staring at you as you sat on the bathroom floor, looking small and devastated.
The hurt in his chest mixed with something heavier confusion, disbelief, and a strange ache he couldn’t quite name. Finally, his voice came out low and strained.
୨ৎ Summary : Jungwon’s love overflows—soft hands, needy touches, and a hunger for closeness that never quite fades. The more he has you, the more he wants, until every moment together blurs into something warm, consuming, and impossible to resist.
୨ৎ Pairing : husband! Jungwon x wife! reader
୨ৎ Wordcount : 1,6K
୨ৎ Warning : explicit scene, softdom!Jungwon, creampie, cumplay, unprotected sex (DON'T do it guys)
In the soft hush of your shared bedroom, lamplight casting golden hues over the rumpled sheets, your husband, Yang Jungwon, gazes at you with that familiar tenderness, his dark eyes brimming with unwavering devotion. He's always been respectful and soft with you. Gentle hands tracing your skin like you're fragile porcelain, whispers of love murmured against your temple before every kiss. But there's one obsession that burns quietly beneath his calm exterior: the primal need to cum inside your pussy every single time you have sex.
He cradles your face now, thumb brushing your lower lip as he leans in, voice a husky promise. "Let me fill you up tonight, love," he breathes, already hard and pressing against your thigh, his cock twitching with anticipation for that deep, claiming release only you can give him.
You melt into his touch, a soft whimper escaping as his thumb parts your lips, your tongue flicking out to taste you.
“Jungwon…” you murmur, your hand sliding down his chest to feel his abs.
The thick bulge starts straining in his boxers. He groans low, hips bucking, but his free hand catches your wrist gently. He shifts over you, pinning you lightly beneath his warm weight.
“Ssh, patience, my love,” he whispers, lips brushing yours in a featherlight kiss that deepens instantly, his tongue sweeping in to tangle with yours. The kiss was slow and thorough, while his fingers trailed down your neck, over the swell of your breasts, thumb circling your hardening nipple until you arch up with a gasp. He breaks the kiss to mouth along your jaw, down to suckle at your throat, leaving faint marks.
“My perfect girl,” he whispers against your mouth, voice thick with need.
You whimper softly, your fingers digging into his shoulders, pulling him closer. His hard cock presses against your thigh, already leaking precum that smears hotly on your skin.
"Jungwon... please," you breathe, arching up to meet him.
He smiles that tender, possessive smile, lining himself up before notching the fat head of his cock at your entrance, rubbing it through your wetness before pushing in slow, inch by inch. Your pussy clenches around him, greedy for every veiny ridge, and he hisses through his teeth, forehead pressing to yours.
"So tight for me... always taking me so well," he praises, voice rough with restraint as he bottoms out, his balls snug against your ass. The outline of his cock presses visibly against your lower belly, where his cock presses deep inside, and he groans, palm flattening over it.
“Look at that,” he praises, eyes locked on the swell. “You take me so well, love. So tight and perfect for my cock...” His hips rock forward in a slow thrust, the bulge shifting with each movement, making you gasp at the fullness. He starts a steady rhythm, pulling out halfway before sliding back in, grinding deep to hit that spot that makes your toes curl.
You cling to him, nails scraping his back as pleasure builds in waves. His mouth finds your neck, sucking softly, leaving faint marks of ownership. "That's it, baby," he murmurs, pace quickening just a touch. "Let me feel you squeeze me.”
He angles his hips, thrusting harder now, the bulge in your belly more pronounced with every plunge. Your clit grinds against his pelvis, sparks flying up your spine. "Wonnie—," you cry out, overwhelmed.
He kisses you messily, swallowing your moans, his free hand pinching your nipple gently before soothing it with his thumb.
"Cum for me, sweetheart," he urges, voice husky. "I want to feel you soak my cock." The praise tips you over, your orgasm crashing through you. He moans loudly, hips stuttering as he chases his release.
"Fuck, yes—take my cum," he growls softly, burying himself deep. Hot spurts fill your pussy, his cock pulsing as he empties inside you, until it overflows, leaking out around him. He doesn't pull out, staying seated as he catches his breath, kissing your forehead, your cheeks, your lips.
But he's not done. That needy glint returns to his eyes. "Need you again," he whispers, starting to move once more. His cock is still hard and slick with your mixed juices. You whine, oversensitive, but your hips buck up instinctively. He fucks you slower this time, savoring every drag, the bulge reappearing as he bottoms out.
"So good for me," he praises between thrusts. "My wrecked little wife, pussy full of my cum.” His mouth finds your breast, tongue laving your nipple before he sucks hard, teeth grazing just enough to make you cry out.
The pressure coils tight in your core, his cock hitting that spot inside that makes stars burst behind your eyes. "That's it, my perfect girl," he murmurs against your skin, lips trailing kisses everywhere he can reach. "Squirt for me, soak my cock before I breed you full."
Your walls spasm wildly, gushing around him in hot spurts that drench his pelvis and the sheets. You squirt hard, body shaking as he fucks you through it, the bulge in your belly shifting with every plunge. "Fuck, yes—wrecked for me," he growls softly, pride lacing his tone, and then he's following, cock swelling as he buries deep and unloads. Thick ropes of cum paint your insides.
Jungwon doesn't let you go for long. With a renewed, predatory hunger, he doesn't start with soft kisses this time. Instead, he spreads your legs wide, pinning your knees back toward your shoulders so your pussy is completely exposed, glistening and open to his gaze.
He reaches down, sliding two fingers into your drenched heat to stretch you, making a wet, squelching sound that echoes in the quiet room. "Look at you," he rasps, his voice thick and vulgar. He pulls his fingers out with a loud pop and replaces them with his cock.
He drives himself home in one heavy, brutal thrust that makes you gasp, your back arching off the mattress. He bottoms out completely, his balls slapping hard against your ass. He shifts his weight, propping himself up on his elbows so he can look down. He wants to see it. He watches with an obsessed intensity as his thick shaft disappears into your folds, the skin of your pussy stretching taut and translucent around him.
"I can feel my cock hitting your womb. I'm going to fill you so full you won't be able to walk."
“Won–” The friction becomes unbearable, your walls clamping down on him in desperate, rhythmic pulses. You're sobbing his name, your head tossing from side to side, as he picks up the speed. He's drilling into you now, short, fast stabs that target your G-spot with surgical precision.
He growls, his own climax hitting him like a freight train. He lets out a guttural moan, his hips locking against yours as he pumps a massive, pulsing load deep into your cervix. He doesn't pull out; he stays buried, grinding his pelvis into you, ensuring every single drop of his thick cum is forced deep inside.
The third orgasm rips through you violently, squirting harder, soaking his thighs. He follows with a guttural moan, pumping yet another load into you, cum dripping down your legs now. You're utterly wrecked, limbs heavy, pussy throbbing, mind hazy with bliss. He stays inside, plugging you full, his body curled protectively around yours.
After a few minutes of heavy breathing, he slowly, agonizingly withdraws. He stays hovering over you, watching with a smirk of pure possession as the seal breaks. A thick, creamy mixture of his seed and your juices begins to overflow, leaking slowly from your gaping hole and trailing down your thighs in white streaks.
Jungwon pulls you up, guiding you to sit astride him while he leans back against the headboard, his legs spread and his sculpted abs on full display, glistening with a thin sheen of sweat.
"Come here," he murmurs, his voice a low, vibrating rumble.
You sink onto him, but not in the way you usually do. He guides you so that you're riding his torso, your pussy pressed directly against the hard, defined ridges of his stomach.
Jungwon lets out a shaky breath, his hands gripping your hips to hold you firmly against him. He loves the sight of your drenched, swollen, heat-smeared across his toned abs. He begins to move you, grinding your pussy slowly and deliberately against his abs. The friction is electric, the wetness of his seed acting as a lubricant as you slide over his muscles.
"You're painting me with your mess. My cum is all over my stomach because you couldn't hold a single drop of it."
He watches your expression, loving how wrecked and sensitive you are, your breath hitching as he marks himself with the evidence of how thoroughly he's filled you.
As the intensity begins to mellow, the predatory hunger in his eyes softens back into that familiar, overwhelming devotion. He shifts, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you flush against his chest, his lips migrating from your mouth to your jaw, then your neck, showering you in a relentless stream of tender, lingering kisses.
"You did so well for me, baby," he praises, his voice returning to that soft, melodic tone that makes your heart melt.
He eventually helps you up, his movements gentle and supportive, and leads you toward the bathroom. In the shower, the atmosphere shifts from raw lust to pure, domestic bliss. The warm water cascades over both of you, washing away the salt and the seed, but Jungwon doesn't stop touching you.
He soaps your skin with slow, reverent strokes, his hands lingering on your curves as if he's memorizing them. He kisses every inch of your shoulder, your collarbone, and the slope of your breast, whispering sweet nothings and promises of forever against your skin. He holds you under the spray, forehead pressed against yours, his eyes full of an adoration that is just as intense as his obsession.
"I love you so much," he breathes, kissing your eyelids and the tip of your nose. "I'm never letting you go."
S u m m a r y : Jungwon runs a quiet flower shop named Eden’s Garden, where business is slow, and life is ordinary—until a crash in the greenhouse after closing leads him to a wounded flower fairy with torn wings and nowhere to go.
P a i r i n g : florist! Jungwon x fairy! fem reader
W o r d c o u n t : 7,8K
W a r n i n g s : fairy! reader, fluff, slow burn
divider credit : @uzmacchiato
Nothing Jungwon loved more than flowers. Ever since he was young, he had dreamed of owning a little flower shop of his own. Nothing too fancy nor shabby, just a warm place with color and life. After graduating with a degree in agriculture, he decided to turn his dream into a reality. His parents had been dismissive at first, doubtful that flowers alone could build a future, but after seeing how tirelessly their son worked for it, they finally chose to support him.
Most people noticed Eden’s Garden by its flowers long before they noticed the man who tended them. Tucked between an old bakery and a tailor shop at the corner of a quiet street, the little florist was easy to miss. The flower shop originally was a greenhouse owned by an old man, then Jungwon decided to buy it and turned it into what Eden’s Garden is now.
Jungwon stood behind the counter with his sleeves rolled neatly to his elbows, fingers moving with practiced ease as he arranged a bouquet for the old lady waiting patiently across from him. She had come in every Friday for the past three months, always asking for something ‘pretty enough to make an old man smile’.
Today, he chose pale pink carnations, cream roses, and small sprays of baby’s breath, tying them together with soft brown paper and a ribbon the color of fresh milk. He adjusted the stem once, then twice, tilting his head as he examined the balance of it.
“Your husband likes warm colors more,” he murmured, gently replacing one white rose with a peach one.
The old lady chuckled. “You remember better than I do.”
Jungwon only smiled, shy and quiet, before offering the finished bouquet to her with both hands.
The bell above the door chimed softly as morning sunlight spilled across the shop floor, catching in the glass jars and petals around him. For a moment, with flowers in his hands and laughter filling the room, Jungwon looked exactly where he belonged.
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The bell above the door jingled so violently that Jungwon barely had time to look up before someone stumbled inside. It was Doctor Jake from the hospital across the street. Still in his navy scrubs, his glasses a bit tilted on the side, hair a mess like he had run all the way here. He looked as though he had just escaped a medical emergency.
“Jungwon,” he gasped, hands on his knees. “I need flowers.”
Jungwon set down the ribbon in his hand. “Good morning, Doctor.”
“My relationship is in critical condition.”
Jungwon only hummed softly as he tossed the ribbon scraps into the nearby bin.
“That sounds serious.”
“It is serious,” Jake said, straightening up. “She said she needs space.”
Jungwon glanced at him. “And what did you do?”
“I gave her space.”
A pause.
“Physically?”
“Yes.”
“No, I mean what did you do to make her say that?”
Jungwon let out a quiet sigh, already walking toward the flower cooler.
“Yesterday?” he asked over his shoulder. Jake’s silence was answer enough.
“Mm.” Jungwon opened the glass door and scanned the rows of fresh blooms. “You came here instead of writing your will. Interesting choice.”
“Can you focus?” Jake groaned. “I’m trying to save my future.”
“I’m tough.” Jungwon reached for a bundle of tulips. “You’re the one panicking in my store before ten in the morning.”
Jake dragged a hand down his face. “I had a night shift.”
Another quiet sigh slipped past Jungwon’s lips. As if Jake had never worked a night shift before. Difficult as it must be, exhaustion was hardly an excuse for forgetting something like that.
“You’ve had night shift before,” Jungwon said flatly, selecting a few cream roses next. “Yet somehow this is the first time you’ve sprinted in here looking divorced.”
“I’m not divorced.”
“Not yet.”
Jake stared at him. “You’re unbelievably unsupportive for someone helping me.”
Jungwon merely smiled to himself as he gathered cream roses, pale tulips, and sprigs of baby’s breath into his arms.
“No red roses,” he said.
“Why not?”
“Because red roses say I panicked and stopped at the nearest flower shop.”
Jake frowned. “That is exactly what happened.”
Jungwon paused for a moment, then looked at him with mild disbelief. For someone trusted to make life-or-death decisions at a hospital, Jake could be remarkably foolish in matters of romance.
“Well,” Jungwon said dryly, returning to his bouquet, “good thing you came to a professional.”
Jungwon gathered the stems into one hand and began trimming them with sharp, efficient snips, his expression calm even as disbelief simmered beneath it. Honestly, he could not understand why this had somehow become part of his job. He had opened a flower shop because he loves flowers, not to clean up after an irresponsible boyfriend with poor memory and worse planning. Yet here he was, at nine in the morning, barely sipping his coffee in peace, repairing damage caused by a grown man.
Jake hovered nearby, watching every moment like an anxious intern.
“Can you make it look expensive?” he asked.
“Can you try looking sincere?”
Jake winced. “Right. Sorry.”
With another quiet sigh, Jungwon returned to his work, layering tulips beside cream roses and soft greenery. Somewhere along the years, he had become less of a florist and more of a crisis manager for careless men in love.
“I should start charging emotional hazard fees,” he muttered.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
After the bouquet finished, Jake rushed out as dramatically as he had arrived. Bouquet clutched to his chest and phone already in hand, nearly colliding with the doorframe on his way out. The bell above the entrance jingled wildly behind him before settling back into silence.
“Flower shop owner,” he continued under his breath, adjusting a crooked vase. “Part-time relationship counselor. Full-time cleaner of other people’s messes.” The corner of his mouth twitched despite himself.
Jungwon dusted stray leaves from the counter and reached for the next stack of wrapping paper, irritation still lingering beneath his calm expression.
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Jungwon expected many things when he stayed past closing. Last-minute customers were unfortunately one of them.
The bell above the door rang just as he was about to flip the sign to 'closed,' and a young man in a wrinkled suit hurried inside with a guilty expression on his face, a look Jungwon knew far too well by now.
“Please,” the stranger said, breathless. “Do you still have tulips?”
Jungwon glanced at the clock. Two minutes past eight. Of course.
“I do,” he replied evenly, already turning back toward the cooler. “Who did you disappoint?”
The man blinked. “My wife.”
“Hm.” Jungwon selected a bundle of pink tulips. “Honesty. Rare.”
“It’s our date night,” the man admitted. “I got stuck at work.”
Jungwon wrapped the flowers neatly in kraft paper, fingers swift and practiced despite the annoyance tugging at his patience. He hated rushing. Hated the way people treated flowers like emergency repairs for problems they had neglected all week.
Still, the bouquet came out lovely. It always did.
“That’ll be twenty-three thousand,” he said.
The man paid, bowed gratefully, and hurried out with promises to do better. Jungwon doubted it.
Once the door shut behind him, silence finally settled over Eden’s Garden. Jungwon exhaled through his nose, locked the front door, and turned the sign to closed with more satisfaction than necessary. He dimmed the front light one by one, gathered ribbon scraps from the counter, and then headed toward the back to check the greenhouse before leaving.
He expected many things when he heard the sudden crash from behind the glass doors. Stray cats, fallen pots, another loose windowpane. What he did not expect was a girl lying among overturned orchids, breathing hard, with torn wings trembling behind her like broken glass.
Jungwon stopped where he stood.
For a moment, his mind refused to make sense of what he was seeing. The greenhouse lights cast a warm glow over the shattered pots and scattered soil, over the pale shape of a girl curled carefully on the floor—and over the pair of delicate wings folded weakly behind her. They shimmered faintly, dusted in silver, the edges cracked and bent as though made from glass.
A fairy.
The thought came absurdly, impossibly clear.
He had heard stories as a child of spirits hiding in old forests and winged beings blessing the garden in spring. He had long since grown out of believing them. Yet there was no other word for the creature struggling to sit upright among his orchids.
You noticed him then.
Your eyes widened, and for a second, you looked more startled than he felt. Slowly, carefully, you lowered your gaze and bowed your head despite the pain tightening your face.
“I’m terribly sorry,” you said softly. Your voice was light as wind through leaves. “I didn’t mean to damage your flowers.”
Jungwon only stared.
You glanced at the broken pots beside you and seemed to shrink further in embarrassment.
“I tried to land more gracefully,” you admitted in a small voice. “It did not go as planned.”
Still, Jungwon said nothing. You looked back up at him, hesitant now.
“Are humans always this quiet when surprised?”
That finally snapped him out of it. Jungwon blinked once, then twice.
“No,” he said slowly. “Usually we scream first.”
A faint, apologetic smile touched your lips before you winced and reached for your wing. Only then did Jungwon move forward, kneeling beside you as disbelief gave way to concern.
“You’re hurt,” he murmured.
“A little,” you said, though the tremble in your voice suggested otherwise. “I’m sorry for troubling you.”
Jungwon glanced around at the ruined orchids, the feathers scattered like moonlight, and the fairy trying to apologize while barely able to sit upright. Somehow, this was not how he imagined ending his night.
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Jungwon returned a moment later with a small first-aid kit tucked under one arm and a clean towel draped over the other. He had also, for reasons he did not care to examine too closely, brought a cushion from the front of the shop.
You were still where he had left you, sitting carefully among the overturned pots with your injured wing drawn close. Your expression brightened a little when you saw him return, though pain still lingered around your eyes.
“I wasn’t sure you would come back,” you admitted softly.
Jungwon set the cushion down in front of you. “It’s my greenhouse,” he said. “Hard to abandon it.”
Then, after a pause, he added, “You too, I guess.”
A shy smile touched your lips. He helped you shift onto the cushion, movement cautious and surprisingly gentle for someone who looked perpetually unimpressed by the world. Once you were settled, he knelt behind you to inspect the damage more closely.
“Tell me if this hurts.”
“It already hurts,” you said honestly. “But I’ll let you know if it becomes dramatic.”
A quiet huff of laughter escaped him before he could stop it.
Using warm water and a soft cloth, Jungwon carefully cleaned the dirt from the fractured edges of your wing. Up close, the structure was delicate and intricate, each translucent feather threaded with a faint silver vein that pulsed like moonlight. He handled it with the same patience he used when pruning fragile blooms.
You shivered once when his fingers brushed a sensitive spot.
“Sorry,” he murmured immediately.
“It’s all right,” you said, voice smaller now. “You’re very gentle.”
Something unreadable crossed his face. He focused harder on wrapping a strip of gauze around the split near the base. When he finished, he leaned back on his heels to study his work.
“There. Not perfect, but it should keep it stable for tonight.”
You turned your head enough to look at him, wonder softening your features. “Humans know how to mend wings?”
“We don’t,” Jungwon said. “I’m improvising.”
“That may be even more impressive.”
He looked away first. Then his gaze flicked back to you, lingering on how pale you’d gone.
“Are you hungry?” he asked, as though the question had surprised even him.
“Hungry?”
“You crashed through my greenhouse,” he said flatly. “I assume that takes energy.”
A tiny laugh slipped from you. “Yes,” you confessed. “Very much so.”
Jungwon rose to his feet.
“Stay there. Don’t touch anything expensive.”
As he headed toward the shop kitchen, you watched him go with a smile that felt strangely warm in the quiet greenhouse.
Jungwon returned carrying what looked like a tray assembled through reluctant thoughtfulness. A small saucer no bigger than his palm held a few berries, torn petals of edible flowers, and a single cube of honeycomb. Beside it sat a thimble-sized cup of water and half of a steamed bun from the baker next door.
You blinked at the offering, then at him.
“You prepared this?”
“I guessed,” he said, setting it carefully on the potting table. “You’re smaller than most of my customers.”
A soft laugh escaped you. “That’s true.”
He dragged a stool over and sat across from you, arms folded.
“Eat.”
You climbed a little closer to the tray, wings tucked carefully behind you, and picked up one berry with both hands. The fruit looked oversized against your palms. After one bite, your eyes widened with delight.
“This is wonderful.”
“It’s a blueberry.”
“It’s a perfect blueberry,” you corrected gently. “Sweet, cool, and sun-warmed.”
Jungwon watched as you nibbled another bite with the concentration of someone tasting treasure. Then you reached for the honeycomb. The moment the golden sweetness touched your tongue, you let out the tiniest sigh of happiness. He stared.
“Is honey always this good?” you asked.
“Yes,” Jungwon said slowly. “Have you never had it before?”
“Not from human shops.” You took another careful bite. “Everything here tastes heavier. Richer. It lingers.”
He did not know what that meant, but nodded as though he did. You sampled the bun next, tearing off a piece no larger than a petal.
“Warm bread,” you whispered, visibly moved.
“It’s from next door.”
“Then your neighboring kingdom is also blessed.”
Jungwon looked away to hide the smile threatening his mouth. When you reached for the tiny cup of water made out of a bottle cap, your injured wing twitched painfully. You winced. He was beside you before thinking, steadying the cup so it would not tip. Your fingers brushed his. You both paused.
“Thank you,” you said softly.
“It’s just water.”
“And yet,” you murmured, looking up at him with bright eyes, “you keep saving me with simple things.”
Jungwon straightened too quickly and returned to fixing overturned pots. Behind him, he could still hear your small, delighted hums over berries and bread. Somehow, in the middle of a ruined greenhouse and a very long night, the sound made the place feel warmer than it had all day.
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The next morning arrived quietly, washed in pale gold sunlight that filtered through the glass panes of the greenhouse. Jungwon unlocked the back door with a yawn, balancing a tray of watering tools in one hand and a paper cup of coffee in the other. He had almost convinced himself that the events of last night were some elaborate exhaustion-induced dream. An injured fairy in his greenhouse sounded far less believable in daylight.
Then he stepped inside. And there you were. Fast asleep on the makeshift bed he had arranged from folded blankets, spare cushions, and an old linen cloth usually used for wrapping pots. You had curled into yourself near the row of hydrangeas, one tiny hand tucked beneath your cheek. Your wings, carefully bandaged by his own clumsy hands, were folded close behind you, catching the morning light in soft silver hues.
Jungwon stopped in the doorway. For a moment, he simply stared. In sleep, you looked even smaller than he remembered. A few loose petals had gathered around your bed during the night, as though the flowers had crept closer to watch over you.
He had spent years trying to keep this greenhouse alive, and somehow, overnight, it had decided to adopt a fairy. The floor creaked beneath his shoe. Your nose scrunched first. Then your lashes fluttered open slowly, heavy with sleep. For a second, you only blinked up at him in confusion before memory returned.
“Oh,” you murmured, voice soft and rough with sleep. “Good morning.”
Jungwon looked away too quickly, clearing his throat.
“You’re drooling.”
You sat up at once, horrified. “I am?”
“No.”
You stared. A beat passed before he took a sip of coffee, expression unreadable.
“That was mean,” you said quietly.
“It was funny,” Jungwon replied, already moving toward the watering cans so you wouldn’t see the corner of his mouth lift.
Jungwon busied himself with the watering cans, pretending he had not just lied to an injured fairy before breakfast. Behind him, he heard the rustle of blankets and the soft shift of wings as you carefully sat straighter on the makeshift bed.
For a few quiet moments, the greenhouse was filled only with the sound of running water and morning birds beyond the glass. Then, your voice drifted over, gentle and curious.
“What is it that you do for a living?”
Jungwon glanced back. You were watching him with open interest, knees tucked beneath the blanket, hair still mussed from sleep. He frowned slightly. “You mean right now?”
“In general,” you said, smiling a little. “Humans seem to spend much of their time doing things for a living.”
He considered that. “I own this place.” He gestured around the greenhouse. “The flower shop out front, too. I arrange bouquets, sell plants, keep everything alive.”
Your eyes widened with genuine admiration. “You care for flowers every day?”
“That’s the job.”
“Thats sounds lovely.”
“It’s mostly dirt, invoices, and people who remember anniversaries too late.”
You laughed softly, the sound bright enough to make him pause mid-pour.
“I think it suits you,” you said. “You have gentle hands.”
Jungwon nearly overwatered a fern. He set the can down with unnecessary care.
“Mm.”
Then, because he needed the subject away from himself immediately, he turned back to you.
“What about you?” he asked. “Why did the accident happen?”
Your smile faded. Fingers curled lightly into the blanket over your lap. For a moment, you looked down at your bandaged wing.
“My home was destroyed,” you said quietly.
Jungwon stilled.
You glanced toward the glass roof, eyes distant now. “It was a garden. Full of blooming flowers. Vines, ponds, trees older than memory.” A small breath left you. “It’s gone now.”
He said nothing, sensing there was little to say.
“I had nowhere to return to,” you continued softly. “So I wandered, looking for another place where I might stay.”
Your fingers tightened around the blanket.
“Then a hunting creature found me.”
Jungwon frowned. “What kind of creature?”
You hesitated. “Small. Round face. Sharp eyes. Very smug.”
He blinked once. “A cat?”
You looked offended. “It was vicious.”
Jungwon had to look away to hide the smile threatening his mouth.
“It chased me through the alleyways,” you said with wounded dignity. “I flew faster than I should have. Then I saw this greenhouse full of flowers and thought I could hide here.”
His eyes moved slowly over the broken pots, spilled soil, and bent orchid stand.
“You then flew directly into my shelves.”
“I lost control,” you murmured. “At the last moment.”
“You crashed through three pots.”
“Two and a half.”
Jungwon let out a quiet breath that was almost laughter.
Despite the absurdity of it, something in your voice lingered with him—the way you spoke of a ruined home, of wandering alone, of choosing his greenhouse because it was full of flowers.
He reached for another watering can, tone calmer when he spoke again.
“Well,” he said, not looking at you, “until your wing heals… You can stay here.”
For a moment, the greenhouse went completely still. Even the faint rustle of leaves seemed to pause. You looked at him as though you were not certain you had heard correctly.
“…I may stay?”
Jungwon kept his attention fixed on the row of ferns in front of him. “Temporarily.”
Your voice turned smaller, softer. “Here?”
“Until your wing heals,” he repeated.
For a heartbeat, you simply stared at him. Then your eyes began to shine in a way that caught him entirely off guard.
“It’s not a place invitation, it’s a spare corner in a greenhouse.”
But you were already pushing yourself carefully to your feet, clutching the blanket around your shoulders.
“This is the kindest thing anyone has done for me in a very long time.”
The sincerity in your voice made him glance over despite himself. You looked genuinely overwhelmed by something he considered practical at best.
“Thank you, Jungwon.”
His name sounded different in your mouth. Soft, careful, almost precious. Jungwon forgot, briefly, what he had been doing. You bowed your head over his hands, though it was something worthy of reverence, then looked up at him with such open gratitude that he had to clear his throat and look away.
“You’re making this weird,” he said quietly.
A tiny laugh escaped you, bright as wind chimes. He risked another glance and immediately regretted it. You were smiling at him like he had handed you the world instead of an unused corner and some blankets. Ridiculous. And, annoyingly, kind of cute.
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Later that morning, once the front sign had been turned to open, Jungwon guided you into the narrow space behind a tall shelf of potted hydrangeas near the doorway between the shop and greenhouse. From there, hidden between leaves and ribbons, you had a clear view of the counter.
“This is your spot,” he said. “Stay quiet, stay hidden, and don’t reveal yourself to strangers.”
You nodded solemnly. “I shall be invisible.”
“You are currently sparkling.”
You looked down in alarm and quickly tucked your wings closer. Jungwon sighed and went to unlock the front door. The bell chimed only minutes later. An elderly woman entered first, leaning on a cane with careful steps. Before she could even speak, Jungwon had already moved around the counter.
“Good morning, Mrs. Han,” he said, taking the basket from her hand. “The daisies lasted longer this week?”
Her face brightened. “You remembered.”
“You complained about them twice,” he said mildly.
You watched, wide-eyed, as he selected fresh stems and adjusted them to a height easier for her to carry. He even tied the ribbon loosely so arthritic fingers could undo it without trouble. When she left smiling, you pressed both hands to your mouth. He knew her flowers. He knew her hands.
The bell rang again. This time, a nervous student came in asking for ‘something pretty, but cheap’.
Jungwon did not laugh. He simply asked, “For apology or confession?”
The boy flushed crimson. “Confession.”
“Then yellow tulips. They’re hopeful without being arrogant.”
You nearly gasped aloud. He could read hearts from a flower request alone.
Throughout the morning, customers came and went. A mother with a crying toddler received a free carnation to distract the child. A tired office worker was offered water before discussing the colors of the bouquet. A young woman is uncertain about caring for succulents left with written instructions and Jungwon’s promise that she could return if she killed them accidentally.
Each time, he remained calm, steady, a little dry in humor—but attentive in ways so small most people probably missed them. He noticed trembling hands, tired eyes, wedding rings, and ink stains, as well as sadness hidden beneath smiles. And he responded gently every time.
From behind the hydrangeas, you could only stare. When the shop finally emptied for a moment, Jungwon began reorganizing ribbon at the counter. You slipped out from hiding before remembering you were supposed to stay hidden.
“You’re astonishing,” you blurted.
He looked up slowly. “That sounds suspicious.”
“You care for them the way you care for flowers.”
Jungwon blinked once. “I sell them flowers.”
“No,” you said, stepping closer. “You make them feel seen.”
The ribbon in his hand stilled. For once, he had nothing dry or clever to say. You smiled at him with shining admiration. Jungwon looked down at the ribbons again, ears faintly pink.
“Get back behind the hydrangeas before someone walks in.”
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That afternoon slowed into a gentle lull. Sunlight poured through the front windows in warm strips, turning the shop golden and quiet. No customers came for nearly half an hour, leaving only the soft hum of the refrigerator cooler and the distant sound of traffic outside.
Jungwon used the silence to sort a shipment of fresh stems at the worktable near the greenhouse door. Roses, lisianthus, eucalyptus, peonies–ordinary things, familiar things. Easy to understand.
You, meanwhile, were not.
He glanced over to find you perched on the edge of a wooden crate, legs swinging idly as you studied a sunflower that was bigger and taller than you. Your injured wing was tucked carefully behind you, bandages neat from where he had changed them earlier. The other wing caught the light each time it moved, scattering tiny flecks of shimmer across the floor.
You reached out with both hands and cupped the sunflower’s face with reverence.
“It follows the sun,” you whispered, delighted. “How loyal.”
Jungwon stared for a moment too long before looking back down at the stems in his hands.
“It’s called heliotropism,” he said.
You turned immediately. “You know the language of flowers scientifically and emotionally. That feels unfair.”
He nearly cut the eucalyptus crooked. A few minutes later, he looked up again. You had discovered the ribbon drawer. Lengths of satin and organza were spread around you like treasure while you held a spool of green ribbon above your head.
“This one matches your aura,” you announced.
“I don’t have an aura.”
“Everyone has an aura.” You squinted at him thoughtfully. “Yours is moss after rain.”
Jungwon had no idea what that meant. Yet somehow, hearing it made his chest feel strange. He went back to trimming stems. Then came a soft gasp. He looked up sharply.
You were standing beside a vase of unopened lilies, hands clasped under your chin. Before his eyes, the tight buds slowly loosened, petals unfolding one by one as if waking from sleep.
Jungwon straightened. “Did you do that?”
You blinked at him. “A little.”
“That’s possible?”
“You talk to flowers with water and patience,” you said simply. “I talk to them differently.”
He walked closer without meaning to, gaze fixed on the lilies now fully open and fragrant. All his life, flowers had been work. Beautiful work, yes–but still predictable in their own ways. Soil, sunlight, pruning, seasons. Cause and effect.
But you stood among them like something from a story, smiling shyly because you thought opening lilies was ordinary. Jungwon looked at your face, then your bandaged wing, then the petals blooming around you.
Ridiculous. Impossible. Entirely inconvenient. And he couldn’t stop looking.
You tilted your head. “Why are humans always so quiet when surprised?”
He blinked, caught.
“…Because sometimes,” he said slowly, “we don’t know what to say.”
Your smile softened. For the rest of the afternoon, Jungwon found himself glancing up every few minutes—just to make sure you were still there.
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Days slipped into one another so quietly that Jungwon did not notice when caring for you became part of his routine.
At first, he told himself it was temporary. You were an injured guest, nothing more. A strange responsibility that had fallen into his greenhouse like broken weather. He was only helping until your wing healed.
Then, somehow, mornings began with looking for you first.
He would unlock the greenhouse and find you asleep in a nest of blankets, petals gathered around your hair, or sitting cross-legged by the window, whispering to seedlings until they stood a little taller. Sometimes you would already be awake, waiting for him with a bright, “Good morning, Jungwon,” spoken as though his arrival was the best part of your day.
He never admitted how much he liked hearing it.
You learned the rhythm of the shop quickly. When a customer came, you hid in the back room or behind the taller plants, peeking through leaves with scandalous curiosity. When the store emptied, you emerged to ask endless questions.
Why did humans apologize with flowers?
Why did some people buy roses only after making mistakes?
Why did Jungwon frown when concentrating, but smile at lilies?
He had no answer for the last one.
You followed him everywhere your wing allowed. If he watered the orchids, you carried the spray bottle two-handed behind him. If he trimmed stems, you sorted discarded leaves into neat little piles. If he rearranged displays, you offered opinions no one asked for.
“That vase is insecure,” you declared once.
“It’s ceramic.”
“It knows what it did.”
Jungwon laughed so suddenly that he startled himself. That happened more often now. You had a way of filling quiet spaces without making them loud. The greenhouse, once peaceful in a lonely sort of way, now felt warm with your presence. There was always the soft rustle of wings, the hum of your voice, the occasional gasp of delight over something ordinary. Bread. Rain. Fresh peonies. The fact that pencils could be sharpened.
You made the world seem newer than he remembered it being. And you notice him in ways others did not.
You left flowers beside his register ‘because they matched his mood’. You reminded him to eat when lunch hours grew busy. You scolded him gently when he worked too late. You thanked him every single night for letting you stay, as though he had not already lost count of how many times he would say yes.
One afternoon, while tying ribbons for an order, Jungwon realized he was smiling before you had even entered the room. He had heard your footsteps in the hall and smiled automatically. The realization unsettled him. He set the ribbon down and stared at nothing for a long moment. Then you appeared in the doorway carrying a strawberry twice the size of your face.
“Look what I found,” you announced proudly.
Jungwon looked at you, ridiculous and radiant in the late sunlight, and felt the strange tightness in his chest again.
“Wash it first,” he said.
You beamed as though he had said something tender.
Maybe, Jungwon thought as he watched you hurry to the sink, he was growing used to having a fairy around. Maybe that was all it was. But when you laughed from the kitchen a second later, bright and familiar, even he knew he was lying to himself.
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It happened on an afternoon so ordinary that Jungwon almost missed how impossible it was.
Rain tapped softly against the greenhouse glass, customers were scarce, and the shop smelled of damp earth and fresh eucalyptus. Jungwon was in the back room sorting inventory sheets while muttering about missing ribbon spools. You had been strangely quiet for nearly twenty minutes. That alone was suspicious.
He looked up from the papers. “What are you doing?”
No answer. Jungwon frowned and pushed back his chair. “If you’re using magic on the stock again, I’m charging rent.”
Still nothing.
He followed the faint rustling sound toward the greenhouse, stepping around buckets and crates until he reached the row of climbing roses near your makeshift bed. Then he stopped so abruptly that the clipboard nearly slipped from his hand. You were standing in the middle of the aisle. Not perched on a crate. Not small enough to fit in his palm-sized blankets. Standing. Human-sized.
Your head nearly reached his shoulder now, wings spread carefully behind you in a softened shimmer. The loose shirt he had left folded nearby hung off one shoulder, its sleeves too long for his arms, the hem brushing the tops of his thighs. Bare legs, tousled hair, startled eyes. You looked just as shocked to see him as he was to see you. For a long moment, neither of you spoke. Jungwon’s brain, usually dependable and practical, offered nothing useful.
“...What,” he said finally, “is this?”
You clutched the oversized shirt tighter. “I can explain.”
“I would love that.”
Your gaze dropped to the floor. “Fairies can shift forms.”
“You could do this the whole time?”
“No!” you said quickly. “Not properly. It requires strength, and my wing has been damaged.”
You flexed your fingers uncertainly, as if surprised by their length. “I only just regained enough magic to hold it.”
Jungwon stared. This explained many things. None of them helped.
“You mean to tell me,” he said slowly, “that for days I’ve been making you tiny fruit plates when you could one day become…” He gestured helplessly at all of you. “...this?”
You bit your lip. “The fruit plates were very sweet.”
His eyes caught on the way the borrowed shirt slipped lower on your shoulder. He looked away so fast it almost hurt.
“And you chose now to mention this because?”
“I wanted to surprise you.”
“You’ve succeeded.”
A pause.
“Are you upset?” you asked softly.
Jungwon looked back then. You stood there, nervous and hopeful, bare feet against his greenhouse floor, wrapped in one of his shirt like it belonged to you. Somewhere in the distance, thunder rolled.
“No,” he said after too long. His voice came out rougher than intended. “Just… unprepared.”
Your expression brightened instantly. “Then you’re not angry?”
“I didn’t say that.”
You laughed, warm and relieved, taking one step toward him. The movement made your still-healing wing wobble. Jungwon was beside you before thinking, hand catching your waist to steady you. Both of you froze. His palm burned through the thin fabric. Yours caught lightly at his wrist. Up close, you smelled like rainwater and flowers. Jungwon cleared his throat and stepped back at once.
“Sit down,” he said. “Before you break something else.”
You smiled in a way that made his pulse deeply uncooperative. You only nodded. He turned sharply and walked back toward the stockroom. Behind him, he heard your soft laughter echo through the greenhouse. He did not return for five full minutes.
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The discovery of your human-sized form changed surprisingly little. Jungwon had expected complications. More blankets, larger meals, perhaps an entirely new category of headaches. Instead, by the next morning, he opened the greenhouse to find you exactly as usual—small again, curled atop a folded towel beside the basil pots, one wing draped over your face to block the sunlight. He stared down at you.
“You can become human-sized,” he said. “And yet you choose to sleep in a herb tray.”
Your wing twitched. Then you peeked out at him with one sleepy eye.
“It smells nice.”
“That is not an answer.”
“I like being light. I like fitting into warm places. I like hearing flowers from close by.”
That was such a fairy sentence that he did not know how to respond. So instead, he handed you the lid of his coffee cup, now emptied and rinsed, filled with fresh water.
“Drink this before you start saying stranger things.”
You accept it happily.
You followed Jungwon through the shop perched on his shoulder like an inquisitive ornament, asking questions from sunrise to closing.
“Why do humans brush their teeth every morning if they become dirty again?”
“Because that’s how cleaning works.”
“Why do people stare at glowing rectangles while ignoring flowers?”
“Phones.”
“That did not answer the question.”
You rode in his apron pocket while he restocked ribbon, peering over the edge like a suspicious manager. You sat cross-legged on the register while he counted change, watching coins stack with fascination. You once spent twenty minutes observing the receipt printer as if it were a mystical beast.
“It screams paper,” you whispered in awe.
“It prints receipts.”
When business was slow, you demanded lessons on ‘human daily rituals’. Jungwon showed you how to make tea. You insisted the kettle was too aggressive. He demonstrated sweeping. You called brooms ‘floor combs’.
He tried explaining taxes once. You stared at him in silence before declaring, ‘That cannot be real’.
“What do fairies even do all day?”
You blinked. “Excuse me?”
“You keep interrogating humans. I’m asking back.”
You considered it seriously.
“We greet flowers in the morning,” you said. “We collect dew. We nap in warm petals. We sing to roots when they are sad.”
Jungwon stared. “Roots get sad?”
“Sometimes.”
“What else?”
“We chase dragonflies. We braid grass. We gossip.”
“With who?”
“The bees, mostly.”
He rubbed a hand over his face. “Of course.”
“What do humans do for fun?”
The question came while Jungwon was trimming wilted leaves from a row of daisies near closing time. He did not look up.
“Depends on the human.”
You sat cross-legged on the counter, chin in your hands, wings flicking lazily behind you. “What do you do for fun?”
“I enjoy silence.”
“That cannot be the whole answer.”
“It’s a strong one.”
You frowned at him. “No festivals? No dances? No moonlit flower gatherings?”
“We have bills,” Jungwon said dryly.
You gasped softly, scandalized. “That is tragic.”
He continued clipping stems, pretending not to notice the way you were now staring at him with obvious pity.
“I think,” you declared, “you have forgotten how to enjoy life.”
“I think,” Jungwon replied, “you’ve been alive in my greenhouse too long.”
When the last customer left, he locked the front door, flipped the sign to closed, and began counting the register. Behind him, you sighed dramatically every few seconds. He lasted three minutes.
You perked up at once. “What?”
“You wanted to know what humans do for fun.” He grabbed his coat from the hook. “Come on.”
Your wings fluttered so fast they blurred. “We are going on an adventure?”
“We are walking three blocks.”
“That is still an adventure.”
Ten minutes later, you were tucked safely inside the deep pocket of his coat, only your head peeking out as he walked down the quiet evening street. The city glowed in warm shop lights and passing headlights, rainwater still shining on the pavement from earlier. You stared at everything.
“The world sparkles at night,” you whispered.
“It’s puddles.”
“It’s magic puddles.”
He took you to the convenience store first.
You nearly fainted at the snack aisle.
“So many colors,” you breathed. “So many shapes. Why is that bread smiling?”
“It’s a mascot.”
“It knows something.”
Jungwon bought you a small honey candy after five full minutes of you pressing your face to the packaging displays. Outside, he unwrapped it and handed it over.
You held it like a jewel. “For me?”
“You were becoming a public spectacle.”
You licked the candy once and gasped. “Humans are geniuses.”
He looked away to hide the smile tugging at his mouth.
Next, he took you through the small night market near the station. Steam rose from food stalls. Music drifted from somewhere unseen. People laughed, bargained, and hurried past. From his pocket, you watched it all with shining eyes.
“So this is fun,” you said softly.
“This is crowds and overpriced snacks.”
“This,” you insisted, “is life happening everywhere at once.”
Jungwon glanced down at you. Your face was lit by lantern glow, wonder written plainly across it. Something in his chest shifted again. later , on the walk home, you grew quieter, sleepy from excitement. You leaned against the inside of his pocket, clutching the candy wrapper like treasure.
“Jungwon?”
“Mm?”
“Thank you for showing me human fun.”
He kept his gaze on the road ahead.
“It wasn’t a big deal.”
“It was to me.”
A pause.
Then, softer—already half asleep:
“You make ordinary things feel safe.”
Jungwon’s steps slowed for just a second. When he reached Eden’s Garden, you were asleep in his pocket, warm and trusting. He stood outside the shop door longer than necessary before unlocking it, strangely unwilling to disturb you.
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A week later, Jungwon noticed it before you did.
You were hovering. Only an inch above the greenhouse floor, wobbling dangerously near a bucket of fertilizer. Jungwon set down the watering can at once. “Get down.”
“I’m flying,” you corrected, voice full of triumph.
You drifted sideways, clipped a hanging fern, and landed in a pot of basil.
“A temporary setback,” you said from the leaves. But he had already crossed the room, crouching beside you with an expression caught somewhere between concern and disbelief.
“Are you hurt?”
“No.” You sat up, leaves in your hair, grinning so brightly it almost annoyed him. “Did you see?”
He had.
More than that, he had seen the way your wings moved now without trembling, the silver fractures nearly gone, the old stiffness replaced by clean, smooth light. The bandages he had changed day after day were no longer needed.
Jungwon reached out before thinking, fingertips brushing the edge of your wing. It was whole. You went still at the touch.
“They healed,” he murmured.
Your smile softened. “Because you cared for them.”
“I wrapped gauze badly and fed you fruit.”
“You stayed.”
The simple answer left him strangely quiet. You stepped out of the basil pot and spread your wings carefully. Morning light poured through the greenhouse glass, catching every translucent panel until they shimmered like water.
“May I try again?” you asked.
He should have said no, told you to rest, to wait, to be careful. Instead, Jungwon only nodded once. You bent your knees, then lifted. This time, there was no wobble. No crash. No panicked grab for nearby shelves. You rose smoothly into the warm air, higher and higher until you circled above the hanging ivy with a laugh so bright it filled the entire greenhouse.
Jungwon stood motionless below, head tilted back. You were beautiful like this. Weightless. Made for the sky in a way the earth could never keep. The realization hit harder than expected. You dipped lower, spinning once before landing lightly in front of him, cheeks flushed with joy.
“I did it!”
He looked at your shining face, then at the wings now strong enough to carry you anywhere.
“Yes,” he said quietly. “You did.”
You stepped closer, excitement fading as you noticed something in his expression.
“Jungwon?”
He turned away first, reaching for the watering can he no longer needed.
“Don’t break anything on your victory lap.”
But the greenhouse suddenly felt too small, and far too empty.
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The morning your wings fully healed, the greenhouse felt inextricably bright.
You had risen laughing into the air at sunrise, circling the rafters with effortless grace before landing in a spill of golden light. There was no tremble now, no hesitation, no pain. Only freedom.
Jungwon had smiled. Just not for very long. For the rest of the day, he buried himself in work. He rearranged bouquets that did not need to be rearranged, polished shelves already clean, and spent ten full minutes glaring at the ribbon spool as though it had offended him personally. You noticed, of course. You always did.
When closing time came, you found him in the greenhouse stacking empty pots with unnecessary focus.
“My wings are better,” you said softly.
“So I’ve heard.”
You stood there for a moment, hands clasped behind your back.
“I think… I should go soon.”
The pot in his hands nearly slipped. He set it down carefully before answering.
“Probably.”
Your smile dimmed. “Probably?”
“You wanted to travel.” He kept his eyes on the shelf. “Find somewhere new. Bigger than this place.”
The silence that followed felt heavier than it should have. Then you nodded once. “I see.”
He did not look at you. That night, Jungwon barely slept. The next morning, he opened the shop to find your makeshift bed neatly folded. The tiny cup you liked to drink from had been washed and left upside down to dry. The ribbon drawer was organized by color.
You were gone.
For a full minute, Jungwon simply stood there. The greenhouse was quiet again. Too quiet. No humming. No questions. No soft voice asking why humans enjoyed bitter bean water. His chest tightened painfully. He lasted seven minutes.
Then he was out the door.
He found you on the rooftop of the building across the street, standing at the ledge where the morning wind tugged at your hair. In your human-sized form, your wings gleamed behind you, strong and radiant beneath the sky.
You turned when you heard him.
“I forgot to say goodbye properly,” you said.
Jungwon was slightly out of breath, hands shoved into the pockets of his coat.
“Don’t go.”
The words came rough, immediate, and far too honest. Your eyes widened. He swallowed once. “I know your wings are healed. I know you can leave whenever you want.” He looked away briefly, jaw tight. “But I don’t want you to.”
The wind moved softly between you. Jungwon forced himself to continue.
“This place was quiet before you came.” He gave a short, humorless laugh. “Too quiet. Now every corner reminds me of you. The basil tray. My pocket. The fact that I apparently buy honey candy now.”
A watery smile touched your lips. He stepped closer.
“I don’t know when it happened,” he said quietly. “But somewhere between fixing your wing and arguing about taxes, you became…”
He exhaled.
“…home.”
Your eyes filled at once.
“Jungwon…”
“If you still want to travel, then go,” he said, voice gentler now. “If you want the sky, I won’t stop you.”
“But if you’d like to stay…” He met your gaze fully. “Stay with me.”
You crossed the space between you so quickly that he barely had time to brace before your arms wrapped around him. This time, human-sized and warm and laughing through tears.
“I was waiting,” you whispered into his shoulder. “I was waiting for you to ask.”
Jungwon held you tightly, face buried in your hair.
“You are impossible,” he muttered.
“And staying,” you replied.
He pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes soft in a way he no longer bothered hiding.
“Good.”
Then he kissed you there beneath the open sky, gentle and certain, while your wings shimmered in the morning light.
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Months later, customers often whispered that Eden’s Garden bloomed more beautifully than any florist in the city. Flowers opened overnight. Wilted stems revived by morning. The whole place seemed touched by luck. Jungwon, tying ribbons behind the counter, only sighed when tiny laughter came from the tulips.
“I said no magic on inventory.”
“No promises,” came your cheerful voice.
And Eden’s Garden, at last, had become home to you.
S u m m a r y : Jungwon runs a quiet flower shop named Eden’s Garden, where business is slow, and life is ordinary—until a crash in the greenhouse after closing leads him to a wounded flower fairy with torn wings and nowhere to go.
P a i r i n g : florist! Jungwon x fairy! fem reader
W o r d c o u n t : 7,8K
W a r n i n g s : fairy! reader, fluff, slow burn
divider credit : @uzmacchiato
Nothing Jungwon loved more than flowers. Ever since he was young, he had dreamed of owning a little flower shop of his own. Nothing too fancy nor shabby, just a warm place with color and life. After graduating with a degree in agriculture, he decided to turn his dream into a reality. His parents had been dismissive at first, doubtful that flowers alone could build a future, but after seeing how tirelessly their son worked for it, they finally chose to support him.
Most people noticed Eden’s Garden by its flowers long before they noticed the man who tended them. Tucked between an old bakery and a tailor shop at the corner of a quiet street, the little florist was easy to miss. The flower shop originally was a greenhouse owned by an old man, then Jungwon decided to buy it and turned it into what Eden’s Garden is now.
Jungwon stood behind the counter with his sleeves rolled neatly to his elbows, fingers moving with practiced ease as he arranged a bouquet for the old lady waiting patiently across from him. She had come in every Friday for the past three months, always asking for something ‘pretty enough to make an old man smile’.
Today, he chose pale pink carnations, cream roses, and small sprays of baby’s breath, tying them together with soft brown paper and a ribbon the color of fresh milk. He adjusted the stem once, then twice, tilting his head as he examined the balance of it.
“Your husband likes warm colors more,” he murmured, gently replacing one white rose with a peach one.
The old lady chuckled. “You remember better than I do.”
Jungwon only smiled, shy and quiet, before offering the finished bouquet to her with both hands.
The bell above the door chimed softly as morning sunlight spilled across the shop floor, catching in the glass jars and petals around him. For a moment, with flowers in his hands and laughter filling the room, Jungwon looked exactly where he belonged.
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The bell above the door jingled so violently that Jungwon barely had time to look up before someone stumbled inside. It was Doctor Jake from the hospital across the street. Still in his navy scrubs, his glasses a bit tilted on the side, hair a mess like he had run all the way here. He looked as though he had just escaped a medical emergency.
“Jungwon,” he gasped, hands on his knees. “I need flowers.”
Jungwon set down the ribbon in his hand. “Good morning, Doctor.”
“My relationship is in critical condition.”
Jungwon only hummed softly as he tossed the ribbon scraps into the nearby bin.
“That sounds serious.”
“It is serious,” Jake said, straightening up. “She said she needs space.”
Jungwon glanced at him. “And what did you do?”
“I gave her space.”
A pause.
“Physically?”
“Yes.”
“No, I mean what did you do to make her say that?”
Jungwon let out a quiet sigh, already walking toward the flower cooler.
“Yesterday?” he asked over his shoulder. Jake’s silence was answer enough.
“Mm.” Jungwon opened the glass door and scanned the rows of fresh blooms. “You came here instead of writing your will. Interesting choice.”
“Can you focus?” Jake groaned. “I’m trying to save my future.”
“I’m tough.” Jungwon reached for a bundle of tulips. “You’re the one panicking in my store before ten in the morning.”
Jake dragged a hand down his face. “I had a night shift.”
Another quiet sigh slipped past Jungwon’s lips. As if Jake had never worked a night shift before. Difficult as it must be, exhaustion was hardly an excuse for forgetting something like that.
“You’ve had night shift before,” Jungwon said flatly, selecting a few cream roses next. “Yet somehow this is the first time you’ve sprinted in here looking divorced.”
“I’m not divorced.”
“Not yet.”
Jake stared at him. “You’re unbelievably unsupportive for someone helping me.”
Jungwon merely smiled to himself as he gathered cream roses, pale tulips, and sprigs of baby’s breath into his arms.
“No red roses,” he said.
“Why not?”
“Because red roses say I panicked and stopped at the nearest flower shop.”
Jake frowned. “That is exactly what happened.”
Jungwon paused for a moment, then looked at him with mild disbelief. For someone trusted to make life-or-death decisions at a hospital, Jake could be remarkably foolish in matters of romance.
“Well,” Jungwon said dryly, returning to his bouquet, “good thing you came to a professional.”
Jungwon gathered the stems into one hand and began trimming them with sharp, efficient snips, his expression calm even as disbelief simmered beneath it. Honestly, he could not understand why this had somehow become part of his job. He had opened a flower shop because he loves flowers, not to clean up after an irresponsible boyfriend with poor memory and worse planning. Yet here he was, at nine in the morning, barely sipping his coffee in peace, repairing damage caused by a grown man.
Jake hovered nearby, watching every moment like an anxious intern.
“Can you make it look expensive?” he asked.
“Can you try looking sincere?”
Jake winced. “Right. Sorry.”
With another quiet sigh, Jungwon returned to his work, layering tulips beside cream roses and soft greenery. Somewhere along the years, he had become less of a florist and more of a crisis manager for careless men in love.
“I should start charging emotional hazard fees,” he muttered.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
After the bouquet finished, Jake rushed out as dramatically as he had arrived. Bouquet clutched to his chest and phone already in hand, nearly colliding with the doorframe on his way out. The bell above the entrance jingled wildly behind him before settling back into silence.
“Flower shop owner,” he continued under his breath, adjusting a crooked vase. “Part-time relationship counselor. Full-time cleaner of other people’s messes.” The corner of his mouth twitched despite himself.
Jungwon dusted stray leaves from the counter and reached for the next stack of wrapping paper, irritation still lingering beneath his calm expression.
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Jungwon expected many things when he stayed past closing. Last-minute customers were unfortunately one of them.
The bell above the door rang just as he was about to flip the sign to 'closed,' and a young man in a wrinkled suit hurried inside with a guilty expression on his face, a look Jungwon knew far too well by now.
“Please,” the stranger said, breathless. “Do you still have tulips?”
Jungwon glanced at the clock. Two minutes past eight. Of course.
“I do,” he replied evenly, already turning back toward the cooler. “Who did you disappoint?”
The man blinked. “My wife.”
“Hm.” Jungwon selected a bundle of pink tulips. “Honesty. Rare.”
“It’s our date night,” the man admitted. “I got stuck at work.”
Jungwon wrapped the flowers neatly in kraft paper, fingers swift and practiced despite the annoyance tugging at his patience. He hated rushing. Hated the way people treated flowers like emergency repairs for problems they had neglected all week.
Still, the bouquet came out lovely. It always did.
“That’ll be twenty-three thousand,” he said.
The man paid, bowed gratefully, and hurried out with promises to do better. Jungwon doubted it.
Once the door shut behind him, silence finally settled over Eden’s Garden. Jungwon exhaled through his nose, locked the front door, and turned the sign to closed with more satisfaction than necessary. He dimmed the front light one by one, gathered ribbon scraps from the counter, and then headed toward the back to check the greenhouse before leaving.
He expected many things when he heard the sudden crash from behind the glass doors. Stray cats, fallen pots, another loose windowpane. What he did not expect was a girl lying among overturned orchids, breathing hard, with torn wings trembling behind her like broken glass.
Jungwon stopped where he stood.
For a moment, his mind refused to make sense of what he was seeing. The greenhouse lights cast a warm glow over the shattered pots and scattered soil, over the pale shape of a girl curled carefully on the floor—and over the pair of delicate wings folded weakly behind her. They shimmered faintly, dusted in silver, the edges cracked and bent as though made from glass.
A fairy.
The thought came absurdly, impossibly clear.
He had heard stories as a child of spirits hiding in old forests and winged beings blessing the garden in spring. He had long since grown out of believing them. Yet there was no other word for the creature struggling to sit upright among his orchids.
You noticed him then.
Your eyes widened, and for a second, you looked more startled than he felt. Slowly, carefully, you lowered your gaze and bowed your head despite the pain tightening your face.
“I’m terribly sorry,” you said softly. Your voice was light as wind through leaves. “I didn’t mean to damage your flowers.”
Jungwon only stared.
You glanced at the broken pots beside you and seemed to shrink further in embarrassment.
“I tried to land more gracefully,” you admitted in a small voice. “It did not go as planned.”
Still, Jungwon said nothing. You looked back up at him, hesitant now.
“Are humans always this quiet when surprised?”
That finally snapped him out of it. Jungwon blinked once, then twice.
“No,” he said slowly. “Usually we scream first.”
A faint, apologetic smile touched your lips before you winced and reached for your wing. Only then did Jungwon move forward, kneeling beside you as disbelief gave way to concern.
“You’re hurt,” he murmured.
“A little,” you said, though the tremble in your voice suggested otherwise. “I’m sorry for troubling you.”
Jungwon glanced around at the ruined orchids, the feathers scattered like moonlight, and the fairy trying to apologize while barely able to sit upright. Somehow, this was not how he imagined ending his night.
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Jungwon returned a moment later with a small first-aid kit tucked under one arm and a clean towel draped over the other. He had also, for reasons he did not care to examine too closely, brought a cushion from the front of the shop.
You were still where he had left you, sitting carefully among the overturned pots with your injured wing drawn close. Your expression brightened a little when you saw him return, though pain still lingered around your eyes.
“I wasn’t sure you would come back,” you admitted softly.
Jungwon set the cushion down in front of you. “It’s my greenhouse,” he said. “Hard to abandon it.”
Then, after a pause, he added, “You too, I guess.”
A shy smile touched your lips. He helped you shift onto the cushion, movement cautious and surprisingly gentle for someone who looked perpetually unimpressed by the world. Once you were settled, he knelt behind you to inspect the damage more closely.
“Tell me if this hurts.”
“It already hurts,” you said honestly. “But I’ll let you know if it becomes dramatic.”
A quiet huff of laughter escaped him before he could stop it.
Using warm water and a soft cloth, Jungwon carefully cleaned the dirt from the fractured edges of your wing. Up close, the structure was delicate and intricate, each translucent feather threaded with a faint silver vein that pulsed like moonlight. He handled it with the same patience he used when pruning fragile blooms.
You shivered once when his fingers brushed a sensitive spot.
“Sorry,” he murmured immediately.
“It’s all right,” you said, voice smaller now. “You’re very gentle.”
Something unreadable crossed his face. He focused harder on wrapping a strip of gauze around the split near the base. When he finished, he leaned back on his heels to study his work.
“There. Not perfect, but it should keep it stable for tonight.”
You turned your head enough to look at him, wonder softening your features. “Humans know how to mend wings?”
“We don’t,” Jungwon said. “I’m improvising.”
“That may be even more impressive.”
He looked away first. Then his gaze flicked back to you, lingering on how pale you’d gone.
“Are you hungry?” he asked, as though the question had surprised even him.
“Hungry?”
“You crashed through my greenhouse,” he said flatly. “I assume that takes energy.”
A tiny laugh slipped from you. “Yes,” you confessed. “Very much so.”
Jungwon rose to his feet.
“Stay there. Don’t touch anything expensive.”
As he headed toward the shop kitchen, you watched him go with a smile that felt strangely warm in the quiet greenhouse.
Jungwon returned carrying what looked like a tray assembled through reluctant thoughtfulness. A small saucer no bigger than his palm held a few berries, torn petals of edible flowers, and a single cube of honeycomb. Beside it sat a thimble-sized cup of water and half of a steamed bun from the baker next door.
You blinked at the offering, then at him.
“You prepared this?”
“I guessed,” he said, setting it carefully on the potting table. “You’re smaller than most of my customers.”
A soft laugh escaped you. “That’s true.”
He dragged a stool over and sat across from you, arms folded.
“Eat.”
You climbed a little closer to the tray, wings tucked carefully behind you, and picked up one berry with both hands. The fruit looked oversized against your palms. After one bite, your eyes widened with delight.
“This is wonderful.”
“It’s a blueberry.”
“It’s a perfect blueberry,” you corrected gently. “Sweet, cool, and sun-warmed.”
Jungwon watched as you nibbled another bite with the concentration of someone tasting treasure. Then you reached for the honeycomb. The moment the golden sweetness touched your tongue, you let out the tiniest sigh of happiness. He stared.
“Is honey always this good?” you asked.
“Yes,” Jungwon said slowly. “Have you never had it before?”
“Not from human shops.” You took another careful bite. “Everything here tastes heavier. Richer. It lingers.”
He did not know what that meant, but nodded as though he did. You sampled the bun next, tearing off a piece no larger than a petal.
“Warm bread,” you whispered, visibly moved.
“It’s from next door.”
“Then your neighboring kingdom is also blessed.”
Jungwon looked away to hide the smile threatening his mouth. When you reached for the tiny cup of water made out of a bottle cap, your injured wing twitched painfully. You winced. He was beside you before thinking, steadying the cup so it would not tip. Your fingers brushed his. You both paused.
“Thank you,” you said softly.
“It’s just water.”
“And yet,” you murmured, looking up at him with bright eyes, “you keep saving me with simple things.”
Jungwon straightened too quickly and returned to fixing overturned pots. Behind him, he could still hear your small, delighted hums over berries and bread. Somehow, in the middle of a ruined greenhouse and a very long night, the sound made the place feel warmer than it had all day.
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The next morning arrived quietly, washed in pale gold sunlight that filtered through the glass panes of the greenhouse. Jungwon unlocked the back door with a yawn, balancing a tray of watering tools in one hand and a paper cup of coffee in the other. He had almost convinced himself that the events of last night were some elaborate exhaustion-induced dream. An injured fairy in his greenhouse sounded far less believable in daylight.
Then he stepped inside. And there you were. Fast asleep on the makeshift bed he had arranged from folded blankets, spare cushions, and an old linen cloth usually used for wrapping pots. You had curled into yourself near the row of hydrangeas, one tiny hand tucked beneath your cheek. Your wings, carefully bandaged by his own clumsy hands, were folded close behind you, catching the morning light in soft silver hues.
Jungwon stopped in the doorway. For a moment, he simply stared. In sleep, you looked even smaller than he remembered. A few loose petals had gathered around your bed during the night, as though the flowers had crept closer to watch over you.
He had spent years trying to keep this greenhouse alive, and somehow, overnight, it had decided to adopt a fairy. The floor creaked beneath his shoe. Your nose scrunched first. Then your lashes fluttered open slowly, heavy with sleep. For a second, you only blinked up at him in confusion before memory returned.
“Oh,” you murmured, voice soft and rough with sleep. “Good morning.”
Jungwon looked away too quickly, clearing his throat.
“You’re drooling.”
You sat up at once, horrified. “I am?”
“No.”
You stared. A beat passed before he took a sip of coffee, expression unreadable.
“That was mean,” you said quietly.
“It was funny,” Jungwon replied, already moving toward the watering cans so you wouldn’t see the corner of his mouth lift.
Jungwon busied himself with the watering cans, pretending he had not just lied to an injured fairy before breakfast. Behind him, he heard the rustle of blankets and the soft shift of wings as you carefully sat straighter on the makeshift bed.
For a few quiet moments, the greenhouse was filled only with the sound of running water and morning birds beyond the glass. Then, your voice drifted over, gentle and curious.
“What is it that you do for a living?”
Jungwon glanced back. You were watching him with open interest, knees tucked beneath the blanket, hair still mussed from sleep. He frowned slightly. “You mean right now?”
“In general,” you said, smiling a little. “Humans seem to spend much of their time doing things for a living.”
He considered that. “I own this place.” He gestured around the greenhouse. “The flower shop out front, too. I arrange bouquets, sell plants, keep everything alive.”
Your eyes widened with genuine admiration. “You care for flowers every day?”
“That’s the job.”
“Thats sounds lovely.”
“It’s mostly dirt, invoices, and people who remember anniversaries too late.”
You laughed softly, the sound bright enough to make him pause mid-pour.
“I think it suits you,” you said. “You have gentle hands.”
Jungwon nearly overwatered a fern. He set the can down with unnecessary care.
“Mm.”
Then, because he needed the subject away from himself immediately, he turned back to you.
“What about you?” he asked. “Why did the accident happen?”
Your smile faded. Fingers curled lightly into the blanket over your lap. For a moment, you looked down at your bandaged wing.
“My home was destroyed,” you said quietly.
Jungwon stilled.
You glanced toward the glass roof, eyes distant now. “It was a garden. Full of blooming flowers. Vines, ponds, trees older than memory.” A small breath left you. “It’s gone now.”
He said nothing, sensing there was little to say.
“I had nowhere to return to,” you continued softly. “So I wandered, looking for another place where I might stay.”
Your fingers tightened around the blanket.
“Then a hunting creature found me.”
Jungwon frowned. “What kind of creature?”
You hesitated. “Small. Round face. Sharp eyes. Very smug.”
He blinked once. “A cat?”
You looked offended. “It was vicious.”
Jungwon had to look away to hide the smile threatening his mouth.
“It chased me through the alleyways,” you said with wounded dignity. “I flew faster than I should have. Then I saw this greenhouse full of flowers and thought I could hide here.”
His eyes moved slowly over the broken pots, spilled soil, and bent orchid stand.
“You then flew directly into my shelves.”
“I lost control,” you murmured. “At the last moment.”
“You crashed through three pots.”
“Two and a half.”
Jungwon let out a quiet breath that was almost laughter.
Despite the absurdity of it, something in your voice lingered with him—the way you spoke of a ruined home, of wandering alone, of choosing his greenhouse because it was full of flowers.
He reached for another watering can, tone calmer when he spoke again.
“Well,” he said, not looking at you, “until your wing heals… You can stay here.”
For a moment, the greenhouse went completely still. Even the faint rustle of leaves seemed to pause. You looked at him as though you were not certain you had heard correctly.
“…I may stay?”
Jungwon kept his attention fixed on the row of ferns in front of him. “Temporarily.”
Your voice turned smaller, softer. “Here?”
“Until your wing heals,” he repeated.
For a heartbeat, you simply stared at him. Then your eyes began to shine in a way that caught him entirely off guard.
“It’s not a place invitation, it’s a spare corner in a greenhouse.”
But you were already pushing yourself carefully to your feet, clutching the blanket around your shoulders.
“This is the kindest thing anyone has done for me in a very long time.”
The sincerity in your voice made him glance over despite himself. You looked genuinely overwhelmed by something he considered practical at best.
“Thank you, Jungwon.”
His name sounded different in your mouth. Soft, careful, almost precious. Jungwon forgot, briefly, what he had been doing. You bowed your head over his hands, though it was something worthy of reverence, then looked up at him with such open gratitude that he had to clear his throat and look away.
“You’re making this weird,” he said quietly.
A tiny laugh escaped you, bright as wind chimes. He risked another glance and immediately regretted it. You were smiling at him like he had handed you the world instead of an unused corner and some blankets. Ridiculous. And, annoyingly, kind of cute.
.
.
.
.
Later that morning, once the front sign had been turned to open, Jungwon guided you into the narrow space behind a tall shelf of potted hydrangeas near the doorway between the shop and greenhouse. From there, hidden between leaves and ribbons, you had a clear view of the counter.
“This is your spot,” he said. “Stay quiet, stay hidden, and don’t reveal yourself to strangers.”
You nodded solemnly. “I shall be invisible.”
“You are currently sparkling.”
You looked down in alarm and quickly tucked your wings closer. Jungwon sighed and went to unlock the front door. The bell chimed only minutes later. An elderly woman entered first, leaning on a cane with careful steps. Before she could even speak, Jungwon had already moved around the counter.
“Good morning, Mrs. Han,” he said, taking the basket from her hand. “The daisies lasted longer this week?”
Her face brightened. “You remembered.”
“You complained about them twice,” he said mildly.
You watched, wide-eyed, as he selected fresh stems and adjusted them to a height easier for her to carry. He even tied the ribbon loosely so arthritic fingers could undo it without trouble. When she left smiling, you pressed both hands to your mouth. He knew her flowers. He knew her hands.
The bell rang again. This time, a nervous student came in asking for ‘something pretty, but cheap’.
Jungwon did not laugh. He simply asked, “For apology or confession?”
The boy flushed crimson. “Confession.”
“Then yellow tulips. They’re hopeful without being arrogant.”
You nearly gasped aloud. He could read hearts from a flower request alone.
Throughout the morning, customers came and went. A mother with a crying toddler received a free carnation to distract the child. A tired office worker was offered water before discussing the colors of the bouquet. A young woman is uncertain about caring for succulents left with written instructions and Jungwon’s promise that she could return if she killed them accidentally.
Each time, he remained calm, steady, a little dry in humor—but attentive in ways so small most people probably missed them. He noticed trembling hands, tired eyes, wedding rings, and ink stains, as well as sadness hidden beneath smiles. And he responded gently every time.
From behind the hydrangeas, you could only stare. When the shop finally emptied for a moment, Jungwon began reorganizing ribbon at the counter. You slipped out from hiding before remembering you were supposed to stay hidden.
“You’re astonishing,” you blurted.
He looked up slowly. “That sounds suspicious.”
“You care for them the way you care for flowers.”
Jungwon blinked once. “I sell them flowers.”
“No,” you said, stepping closer. “You make them feel seen.”
The ribbon in his hand stilled. For once, he had nothing dry or clever to say. You smiled at him with shining admiration. Jungwon looked down at the ribbons again, ears faintly pink.
“Get back behind the hydrangeas before someone walks in.”
.
.
.
.
That afternoon slowed into a gentle lull. Sunlight poured through the front windows in warm strips, turning the shop golden and quiet. No customers came for nearly half an hour, leaving only the soft hum of the refrigerator cooler and the distant sound of traffic outside.
Jungwon used the silence to sort a shipment of fresh stems at the worktable near the greenhouse door. Roses, lisianthus, eucalyptus, peonies–ordinary things, familiar things. Easy to understand.
You, meanwhile, were not.
He glanced over to find you perched on the edge of a wooden crate, legs swinging idly as you studied a sunflower that was bigger and taller than you. Your injured wing was tucked carefully behind you, bandages neat from where he had changed them earlier. The other wing caught the light each time it moved, scattering tiny flecks of shimmer across the floor.
You reached out with both hands and cupped the sunflower’s face with reverence.
“It follows the sun,” you whispered, delighted. “How loyal.”
Jungwon stared for a moment too long before looking back down at the stems in his hands.
“It’s called heliotropism,” he said.
You turned immediately. “You know the language of flowers scientifically and emotionally. That feels unfair.”
He nearly cut the eucalyptus crooked. A few minutes later, he looked up again. You had discovered the ribbon drawer. Lengths of satin and organza were spread around you like treasure while you held a spool of green ribbon above your head.
“This one matches your aura,” you announced.
“I don’t have an aura.”
“Everyone has an aura.” You squinted at him thoughtfully. “Yours is moss after rain.”
Jungwon had no idea what that meant. Yet somehow, hearing it made his chest feel strange. He went back to trimming stems. Then came a soft gasp. He looked up sharply.
You were standing beside a vase of unopened lilies, hands clasped under your chin. Before his eyes, the tight buds slowly loosened, petals unfolding one by one as if waking from sleep.
Jungwon straightened. “Did you do that?”
You blinked at him. “A little.”
“That’s possible?”
“You talk to flowers with water and patience,” you said simply. “I talk to them differently.”
He walked closer without meaning to, gaze fixed on the lilies now fully open and fragrant. All his life, flowers had been work. Beautiful work, yes–but still predictable in their own ways. Soil, sunlight, pruning, seasons. Cause and effect.
But you stood among them like something from a story, smiling shyly because you thought opening lilies was ordinary. Jungwon looked at your face, then your bandaged wing, then the petals blooming around you.
Ridiculous. Impossible. Entirely inconvenient. And he couldn’t stop looking.
You tilted your head. “Why are humans always so quiet when surprised?”
He blinked, caught.
“…Because sometimes,” he said slowly, “we don’t know what to say.”
Your smile softened. For the rest of the afternoon, Jungwon found himself glancing up every few minutes—just to make sure you were still there.
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.
.
Days slipped into one another so quietly that Jungwon did not notice when caring for you became part of his routine.
At first, he told himself it was temporary. You were an injured guest, nothing more. A strange responsibility that had fallen into his greenhouse like broken weather. He was only helping until your wing healed.
Then, somehow, mornings began with looking for you first.
He would unlock the greenhouse and find you asleep in a nest of blankets, petals gathered around your hair, or sitting cross-legged by the window, whispering to seedlings until they stood a little taller. Sometimes you would already be awake, waiting for him with a bright, “Good morning, Jungwon,” spoken as though his arrival was the best part of your day.
He never admitted how much he liked hearing it.
You learned the rhythm of the shop quickly. When a customer came, you hid in the back room or behind the taller plants, peeking through leaves with scandalous curiosity. When the store emptied, you emerged to ask endless questions.
Why did humans apologize with flowers?
Why did some people buy roses only after making mistakes?
Why did Jungwon frown when concentrating, but smile at lilies?
He had no answer for the last one.
You followed him everywhere your wing allowed. If he watered the orchids, you carried the spray bottle two-handed behind him. If he trimmed stems, you sorted discarded leaves into neat little piles. If he rearranged displays, you offered opinions no one asked for.
“That vase is insecure,” you declared once.
“It’s ceramic.”
“It knows what it did.”
Jungwon laughed so suddenly that he startled himself. That happened more often now. You had a way of filling quiet spaces without making them loud. The greenhouse, once peaceful in a lonely sort of way, now felt warm with your presence. There was always the soft rustle of wings, the hum of your voice, the occasional gasp of delight over something ordinary. Bread. Rain. Fresh peonies. The fact that pencils could be sharpened.
You made the world seem newer than he remembered it being. And you notice him in ways others did not.
You left flowers beside his register ‘because they matched his mood’. You reminded him to eat when lunch hours grew busy. You scolded him gently when he worked too late. You thanked him every single night for letting you stay, as though he had not already lost count of how many times he would say yes.
One afternoon, while tying ribbons for an order, Jungwon realized he was smiling before you had even entered the room. He had heard your footsteps in the hall and smiled automatically. The realization unsettled him. He set the ribbon down and stared at nothing for a long moment. Then you appeared in the doorway carrying a strawberry twice the size of your face.
“Look what I found,” you announced proudly.
Jungwon looked at you, ridiculous and radiant in the late sunlight, and felt the strange tightness in his chest again.
“Wash it first,” he said.
You beamed as though he had said something tender.
Maybe, Jungwon thought as he watched you hurry to the sink, he was growing used to having a fairy around. Maybe that was all it was. But when you laughed from the kitchen a second later, bright and familiar, even he knew he was lying to himself.
.
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.
.
It happened on an afternoon so ordinary that Jungwon almost missed how impossible it was.
Rain tapped softly against the greenhouse glass, customers were scarce, and the shop smelled of damp earth and fresh eucalyptus. Jungwon was in the back room sorting inventory sheets while muttering about missing ribbon spools. You had been strangely quiet for nearly twenty minutes. That alone was suspicious.
He looked up from the papers. “What are you doing?”
No answer. Jungwon frowned and pushed back his chair. “If you’re using magic on the stock again, I’m charging rent.”
Still nothing.
He followed the faint rustling sound toward the greenhouse, stepping around buckets and crates until he reached the row of climbing roses near your makeshift bed. Then he stopped so abruptly that the clipboard nearly slipped from his hand. You were standing in the middle of the aisle. Not perched on a crate. Not small enough to fit in his palm-sized blankets. Standing. Human-sized.
Your head nearly reached his shoulder now, wings spread carefully behind you in a softened shimmer. The loose shirt he had left folded nearby hung off one shoulder, its sleeves too long for his arms, the hem brushing the tops of his thighs. Bare legs, tousled hair, startled eyes. You looked just as shocked to see him as he was to see you. For a long moment, neither of you spoke. Jungwon’s brain, usually dependable and practical, offered nothing useful.
“...What,” he said finally, “is this?”
You clutched the oversized shirt tighter. “I can explain.”
“I would love that.”
Your gaze dropped to the floor. “Fairies can shift forms.”
“You could do this the whole time?”
“No!” you said quickly. “Not properly. It requires strength, and my wing has been damaged.”
You flexed your fingers uncertainly, as if surprised by their length. “I only just regained enough magic to hold it.”
Jungwon stared. This explained many things. None of them helped.
“You mean to tell me,” he said slowly, “that for days I’ve been making you tiny fruit plates when you could one day become…” He gestured helplessly at all of you. “...this?”
You bit your lip. “The fruit plates were very sweet.”
His eyes caught on the way the borrowed shirt slipped lower on your shoulder. He looked away so fast it almost hurt.
“And you chose now to mention this because?”
“I wanted to surprise you.”
“You’ve succeeded.”
A pause.
“Are you upset?” you asked softly.
Jungwon looked back then. You stood there, nervous and hopeful, bare feet against his greenhouse floor, wrapped in one of his shirt like it belonged to you. Somewhere in the distance, thunder rolled.
“No,” he said after too long. His voice came out rougher than intended. “Just… unprepared.”
Your expression brightened instantly. “Then you’re not angry?”
“I didn’t say that.”
You laughed, warm and relieved, taking one step toward him. The movement made your still-healing wing wobble. Jungwon was beside you before thinking, hand catching your waist to steady you. Both of you froze. His palm burned through the thin fabric. Yours caught lightly at his wrist. Up close, you smelled like rainwater and flowers. Jungwon cleared his throat and stepped back at once.
“Sit down,” he said. “Before you break something else.”
You smiled in a way that made his pulse deeply uncooperative. You only nodded. He turned sharply and walked back toward the stockroom. Behind him, he heard your soft laughter echo through the greenhouse. He did not return for five full minutes.
.
.
.
.
The discovery of your human-sized form changed surprisingly little. Jungwon had expected complications. More blankets, larger meals, perhaps an entirely new category of headaches. Instead, by the next morning, he opened the greenhouse to find you exactly as usual—small again, curled atop a folded towel beside the basil pots, one wing draped over your face to block the sunlight. He stared down at you.
“You can become human-sized,” he said. “And yet you choose to sleep in a herb tray.”
Your wing twitched. Then you peeked out at him with one sleepy eye.
“It smells nice.”
“That is not an answer.”
“I like being light. I like fitting into warm places. I like hearing flowers from close by.”
That was such a fairy sentence that he did not know how to respond. So instead, he handed you the lid of his coffee cup, now emptied and rinsed, filled with fresh water.
“Drink this before you start saying stranger things.”
You accept it happily.
You followed Jungwon through the shop perched on his shoulder like an inquisitive ornament, asking questions from sunrise to closing.
“Why do humans brush their teeth every morning if they become dirty again?”
“Because that’s how cleaning works.”
“Why do people stare at glowing rectangles while ignoring flowers?”
“Phones.”
“That did not answer the question.”
You rode in his apron pocket while he restocked ribbon, peering over the edge like a suspicious manager. You sat cross-legged on the register while he counted change, watching coins stack with fascination. You once spent twenty minutes observing the receipt printer as if it were a mystical beast.
“It screams paper,” you whispered in awe.
“It prints receipts.”
When business was slow, you demanded lessons on ‘human daily rituals’. Jungwon showed you how to make tea. You insisted the kettle was too aggressive. He demonstrated sweeping. You called brooms ‘floor combs’.
He tried explaining taxes once. You stared at him in silence before declaring, ‘That cannot be real’.
“What do fairies even do all day?”
You blinked. “Excuse me?”
“You keep interrogating humans. I’m asking back.”
You considered it seriously.
“We greet flowers in the morning,” you said. “We collect dew. We nap in warm petals. We sing to roots when they are sad.”
Jungwon stared. “Roots get sad?”
“Sometimes.”
“What else?”
“We chase dragonflies. We braid grass. We gossip.”
“With who?”
“The bees, mostly.”
He rubbed a hand over his face. “Of course.”
“What do humans do for fun?”
The question came while Jungwon was trimming wilted leaves from a row of daisies near closing time. He did not look up.
“Depends on the human.”
You sat cross-legged on the counter, chin in your hands, wings flicking lazily behind you. “What do you do for fun?”
“I enjoy silence.”
“That cannot be the whole answer.”
“It’s a strong one.”
You frowned at him. “No festivals? No dances? No moonlit flower gatherings?”
“We have bills,” Jungwon said dryly.
You gasped softly, scandalized. “That is tragic.”
He continued clipping stems, pretending not to notice the way you were now staring at him with obvious pity.
“I think,” you declared, “you have forgotten how to enjoy life.”
“I think,” Jungwon replied, “you’ve been alive in my greenhouse too long.”
When the last customer left, he locked the front door, flipped the sign to closed, and began counting the register. Behind him, you sighed dramatically every few seconds. He lasted three minutes.
You perked up at once. “What?”
“You wanted to know what humans do for fun.” He grabbed his coat from the hook. “Come on.”
Your wings fluttered so fast they blurred. “We are going on an adventure?”
“We are walking three blocks.”
“That is still an adventure.”
Ten minutes later, you were tucked safely inside the deep pocket of his coat, only your head peeking out as he walked down the quiet evening street. The city glowed in warm shop lights and passing headlights, rainwater still shining on the pavement from earlier. You stared at everything.
“The world sparkles at night,” you whispered.
“It’s puddles.”
“It’s magic puddles.”
He took you to the convenience store first.
You nearly fainted at the snack aisle.
“So many colors,” you breathed. “So many shapes. Why is that bread smiling?”
“It’s a mascot.”
“It knows something.”
Jungwon bought you a small honey candy after five full minutes of you pressing your face to the packaging displays. Outside, he unwrapped it and handed it over.
You held it like a jewel. “For me?”
“You were becoming a public spectacle.”
You licked the candy once and gasped. “Humans are geniuses.”
He looked away to hide the smile tugging at his mouth.
Next, he took you through the small night market near the station. Steam rose from food stalls. Music drifted from somewhere unseen. People laughed, bargained, and hurried past. From his pocket, you watched it all with shining eyes.
“So this is fun,” you said softly.
“This is crowds and overpriced snacks.”
“This,” you insisted, “is life happening everywhere at once.”
Jungwon glanced down at you. Your face was lit by lantern glow, wonder written plainly across it. Something in his chest shifted again. later , on the walk home, you grew quieter, sleepy from excitement. You leaned against the inside of his pocket, clutching the candy wrapper like treasure.
“Jungwon?”
“Mm?”
“Thank you for showing me human fun.”
He kept his gaze on the road ahead.
“It wasn’t a big deal.”
“It was to me.”
A pause.
Then, softer—already half asleep:
“You make ordinary things feel safe.”
Jungwon’s steps slowed for just a second. When he reached Eden’s Garden, you were asleep in his pocket, warm and trusting. He stood outside the shop door longer than necessary before unlocking it, strangely unwilling to disturb you.
.
.
.
.
A week later, Jungwon noticed it before you did.
You were hovering. Only an inch above the greenhouse floor, wobbling dangerously near a bucket of fertilizer. Jungwon set down the watering can at once. “Get down.”
“I’m flying,” you corrected, voice full of triumph.
You drifted sideways, clipped a hanging fern, and landed in a pot of basil.
“A temporary setback,” you said from the leaves. But he had already crossed the room, crouching beside you with an expression caught somewhere between concern and disbelief.
“Are you hurt?”
“No.” You sat up, leaves in your hair, grinning so brightly it almost annoyed him. “Did you see?”
He had.
More than that, he had seen the way your wings moved now without trembling, the silver fractures nearly gone, the old stiffness replaced by clean, smooth light. The bandages he had changed day after day were no longer needed.
Jungwon reached out before thinking, fingertips brushing the edge of your wing. It was whole. You went still at the touch.
“They healed,” he murmured.
Your smile softened. “Because you cared for them.”
“I wrapped gauze badly and fed you fruit.”
“You stayed.”
The simple answer left him strangely quiet. You stepped out of the basil pot and spread your wings carefully. Morning light poured through the greenhouse glass, catching every translucent panel until they shimmered like water.
“May I try again?” you asked.
He should have said no, told you to rest, to wait, to be careful. Instead, Jungwon only nodded once. You bent your knees, then lifted. This time, there was no wobble. No crash. No panicked grab for nearby shelves. You rose smoothly into the warm air, higher and higher until you circled above the hanging ivy with a laugh so bright it filled the entire greenhouse.
Jungwon stood motionless below, head tilted back. You were beautiful like this. Weightless. Made for the sky in a way the earth could never keep. The realization hit harder than expected. You dipped lower, spinning once before landing lightly in front of him, cheeks flushed with joy.
“I did it!”
He looked at your shining face, then at the wings now strong enough to carry you anywhere.
“Yes,” he said quietly. “You did.”
You stepped closer, excitement fading as you noticed something in his expression.
“Jungwon?”
He turned away first, reaching for the watering can he no longer needed.
“Don’t break anything on your victory lap.”
But the greenhouse suddenly felt too small, and far too empty.
.
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.
.
The morning your wings fully healed, the greenhouse felt inextricably bright.
You had risen laughing into the air at sunrise, circling the rafters with effortless grace before landing in a spill of golden light. There was no tremble now, no hesitation, no pain. Only freedom.
Jungwon had smiled. Just not for very long. For the rest of the day, he buried himself in work. He rearranged bouquets that did not need to be rearranged, polished shelves already clean, and spent ten full minutes glaring at the ribbon spool as though it had offended him personally. You noticed, of course. You always did.
When closing time came, you found him in the greenhouse stacking empty pots with unnecessary focus.
“My wings are better,” you said softly.
“So I’ve heard.”
You stood there for a moment, hands clasped behind your back.
“I think… I should go soon.”
The pot in his hands nearly slipped. He set it down carefully before answering.
“Probably.”
Your smile dimmed. “Probably?”
“You wanted to travel.” He kept his eyes on the shelf. “Find somewhere new. Bigger than this place.”
The silence that followed felt heavier than it should have. Then you nodded once. “I see.”
He did not look at you. That night, Jungwon barely slept. The next morning, he opened the shop to find your makeshift bed neatly folded. The tiny cup you liked to drink from had been washed and left upside down to dry. The ribbon drawer was organized by color.
You were gone.
For a full minute, Jungwon simply stood there. The greenhouse was quiet again. Too quiet. No humming. No questions. No soft voice asking why humans enjoyed bitter bean water. His chest tightened painfully. He lasted seven minutes.
Then he was out the door.
He found you on the rooftop of the building across the street, standing at the ledge where the morning wind tugged at your hair. In your human-sized form, your wings gleamed behind you, strong and radiant beneath the sky.
You turned when you heard him.
“I forgot to say goodbye properly,” you said.
Jungwon was slightly out of breath, hands shoved into the pockets of his coat.
“Don’t go.”
The words came rough, immediate, and far too honest. Your eyes widened. He swallowed once. “I know your wings are healed. I know you can leave whenever you want.” He looked away briefly, jaw tight. “But I don’t want you to.”
The wind moved softly between you. Jungwon forced himself to continue.
“This place was quiet before you came.” He gave a short, humorless laugh. “Too quiet. Now every corner reminds me of you. The basil tray. My pocket. The fact that I apparently buy honey candy now.”
A watery smile touched your lips. He stepped closer.
“I don’t know when it happened,” he said quietly. “But somewhere between fixing your wing and arguing about taxes, you became…”
He exhaled.
“…home.”
Your eyes filled at once.
“Jungwon…”
“If you still want to travel, then go,” he said, voice gentler now. “If you want the sky, I won’t stop you.”
“But if you’d like to stay…” He met your gaze fully. “Stay with me.”
You crossed the space between you so quickly that he barely had time to brace before your arms wrapped around him. This time, human-sized and warm and laughing through tears.
“I was waiting,” you whispered into his shoulder. “I was waiting for you to ask.”
Jungwon held you tightly, face buried in your hair.
“You are impossible,” he muttered.
“And staying,” you replied.
He pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes soft in a way he no longer bothered hiding.
“Good.”
Then he kissed you there beneath the open sky, gentle and certain, while your wings shimmered in the morning light.
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.
Months later, customers often whispered that Eden’s Garden bloomed more beautifully than any florist in the city. Flowers opened overnight. Wilted stems revived by morning. The whole place seemed touched by luck. Jungwon, tying ribbons behind the counter, only sighed when tiny laughter came from the tulips.
“I said no magic on inventory.”
“No promises,” came your cheerful voice.
And Eden’s Garden, at last, had become home to you.
it’s almost 9pm and the office is nearly empty. you’re still at your desk when jungwon knocks on your doorframe, holding a folder.
“manager,” he says, voice soft, “i brought the updated slides.”
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀( click⠀ ˊ ᯅ ˋ ⠀more )
you wave him in. “thanks. just put them here.”
he walks over but doesn’t drop the files and leave. instead he stops right beside your chair, leaning down to point at one of the pages. his arm brushes lightly against your shoulder.
“i changed the colors on this chart,” he murmurs. “thought it looked cleaner. what do you think?”
you scan the slide. “yeah… it’s better. good job.”
jungwon hums, but doesn’t move away. “you always say that. i’m starting to think you’re too nice to me.”
you glance up at him. he’s giving you that innocent little smile again, the one that makes it hard to tell if he’s being serious or not.
“someone has to be nice to you,” you reply. “you stay late every single day.”
he tilts his head, eyes playful. “maybe i like staying late. especially when you’re still here.”
your fingers pause on the mouse. jungwon leans in a little more, pretending to look at the screen while his voice drops.
“plus… it’s quieter. no one around to interrupt.”
you turn your head slightly. “interrupt what?”
he shrugs, still smiling. “just… work stuff.”
he reaches over to adjust the laptop screen so you can see better, his chest lightly brushing your shoulder. “sorry,” he says quietly, even though he doesn’t sound sorry at all.
you stay still, very aware of how close he is. “jungwon…”
he murmurs softly, eyes still on the screen. “yes, manager?”
there’s a tiny playful lilt in his voice whenever he says “manager” that makes your heart skip. you turn your head to look at him and he’s already watching you, faces only a few inches apart.
“since when do you stand this close to people?” you ask carefully.
he blinks once, then smiles. “am i close? didn’t notice.”
you raise an eyebrow. “you didn’t notice.”
“not really,” he says, voice light. “maybe i just like being near you.”
jungwon lets out a small, shy laugh and finally steps back a little, but not enough to create real distance. he rubs the back of his neck.
“i’m just trying to take care of you.” he says, voice soft.
“you work really hard. someone has to look out for you.” the way he says it makes your chest feel warm. you look down at the files again, trying to hide your expression.
“thanks,” you murmur.
he stays quiet for a moment, then leans down again, closer than before. his voice is barely above a whisper this time.
“anytime.” his fingers brush against yours as he points at another line on the document. “i’ll always stay as late as you need.”
you don’t pull your hand away. jungwon notices. his pinky gently hooks around yours for just a second before he straightens up, smiling like nothing happened.
neither of you says anything for a beat too long. his eyes flick down to your lips for just a moment—so fast you almost miss it—before he steps back fully.
“i’ll let you finish reviewing,” he says, voice sweet and polite again. “but if you need something i’m outside.”
he gives you one last soft look before walking toward the door. right before he leaves, he turns back.
“night, manager,” he says, eyes warm. “don’t stay too late.”
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S u m m a r y : Jungwon runs a quiet flower shop named Eden’s Garden, where business is slow, and life is ordinary—until a crash in the greenhouse after closing leads him to a wounded flower fairy with torn wings and nowhere to go.
P a i r i n g : florist! Jungwon x fairy! fem reader
W o r d c o u n t : 7,8K
W a r n i n g s : fairy! reader, fluff, slow burn
divider credit : @uzmacchiato
Nothing Jungwon loved more than flowers. Ever since he was young, he had dreamed of owning a little flower shop of his own. Nothing too fancy nor shabby, just a warm place with color and life. After graduating with a degree in agriculture, he decided to turn his dream into a reality. His parents had been dismissive at first, doubtful that flowers alone could build a future, but after seeing how tirelessly their son worked for it, they finally chose to support him.
Most people noticed Eden’s Garden by its flowers long before they noticed the man who tended them. Tucked between an old bakery and a tailor shop at the corner of a quiet street, the little florist was easy to miss. The flower shop originally was a greenhouse owned by an old man, then Jungwon decided to buy it and turned it into what Eden’s Garden is now.
Jungwon stood behind the counter with his sleeves rolled neatly to his elbows, fingers moving with practiced ease as he arranged a bouquet for the old lady waiting patiently across from him. She had come in every Friday for the past three months, always asking for something ‘pretty enough to make an old man smile’.
Today, he chose pale pink carnations, cream roses, and small sprays of baby’s breath, tying them together with soft brown paper and a ribbon the color of fresh milk. He adjusted the stem once, then twice, tilting his head as he examined the balance of it.
“Your husband likes warm colors more,” he murmured, gently replacing one white rose with a peach one.
The old lady chuckled. “You remember better than I do.”
Jungwon only smiled, shy and quiet, before offering the finished bouquet to her with both hands.
The bell above the door chimed softly as morning sunlight spilled across the shop floor, catching in the glass jars and petals around him. For a moment, with flowers in his hands and laughter filling the room, Jungwon looked exactly where he belonged.
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The bell above the door jingled so violently that Jungwon barely had time to look up before someone stumbled inside. It was Doctor Jake from the hospital across the street. Still in his navy scrubs, his glasses a bit tilted on the side, hair a mess like he had run all the way here. He looked as though he had just escaped a medical emergency.
“Jungwon,” he gasped, hands on his knees. “I need flowers.”
Jungwon set down the ribbon in his hand. “Good morning, Doctor.”
“My relationship is in critical condition.”
Jungwon only hummed softly as he tossed the ribbon scraps into the nearby bin.
“That sounds serious.”
“It is serious,” Jake said, straightening up. “She said she needs space.”
Jungwon glanced at him. “And what did you do?”
“I gave her space.”
A pause.
“Physically?”
“Yes.”
“No, I mean what did you do to make her say that?”
Jungwon let out a quiet sigh, already walking toward the flower cooler.
“Yesterday?” he asked over his shoulder. Jake’s silence was answer enough.
“Mm.” Jungwon opened the glass door and scanned the rows of fresh blooms. “You came here instead of writing your will. Interesting choice.”
“Can you focus?” Jake groaned. “I’m trying to save my future.”
“I’m tough.” Jungwon reached for a bundle of tulips. “You’re the one panicking in my store before ten in the morning.”
Jake dragged a hand down his face. “I had a night shift.”
Another quiet sigh slipped past Jungwon’s lips. As if Jake had never worked a night shift before. Difficult as it must be, exhaustion was hardly an excuse for forgetting something like that.
“You’ve had night shift before,” Jungwon said flatly, selecting a few cream roses next. “Yet somehow this is the first time you’ve sprinted in here looking divorced.”
“I’m not divorced.”
“Not yet.”
Jake stared at him. “You’re unbelievably unsupportive for someone helping me.”
Jungwon merely smiled to himself as he gathered cream roses, pale tulips, and sprigs of baby’s breath into his arms.
“No red roses,” he said.
“Why not?”
“Because red roses say I panicked and stopped at the nearest flower shop.”
Jake frowned. “That is exactly what happened.”
Jungwon paused for a moment, then looked at him with mild disbelief. For someone trusted to make life-or-death decisions at a hospital, Jake could be remarkably foolish in matters of romance.
“Well,” Jungwon said dryly, returning to his bouquet, “good thing you came to a professional.”
Jungwon gathered the stems into one hand and began trimming them with sharp, efficient snips, his expression calm even as disbelief simmered beneath it. Honestly, he could not understand why this had somehow become part of his job. He had opened a flower shop because he loves flowers, not to clean up after an irresponsible boyfriend with poor memory and worse planning. Yet here he was, at nine in the morning, barely sipping his coffee in peace, repairing damage caused by a grown man.
Jake hovered nearby, watching every moment like an anxious intern.
“Can you make it look expensive?” he asked.
“Can you try looking sincere?”
Jake winced. “Right. Sorry.”
With another quiet sigh, Jungwon returned to his work, layering tulips beside cream roses and soft greenery. Somewhere along the years, he had become less of a florist and more of a crisis manager for careless men in love.
“I should start charging emotional hazard fees,” he muttered.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
After the bouquet finished, Jake rushed out as dramatically as he had arrived. Bouquet clutched to his chest and phone already in hand, nearly colliding with the doorframe on his way out. The bell above the entrance jingled wildly behind him before settling back into silence.
“Flower shop owner,” he continued under his breath, adjusting a crooked vase. “Part-time relationship counselor. Full-time cleaner of other people’s messes.” The corner of his mouth twitched despite himself.
Jungwon dusted stray leaves from the counter and reached for the next stack of wrapping paper, irritation still lingering beneath his calm expression.
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Jungwon expected many things when he stayed past closing. Last-minute customers were unfortunately one of them.
The bell above the door rang just as he was about to flip the sign to 'closed,' and a young man in a wrinkled suit hurried inside with a guilty expression on his face, a look Jungwon knew far too well by now.
“Please,” the stranger said, breathless. “Do you still have tulips?”
Jungwon glanced at the clock. Two minutes past eight. Of course.
“I do,” he replied evenly, already turning back toward the cooler. “Who did you disappoint?”
The man blinked. “My wife.”
“Hm.” Jungwon selected a bundle of pink tulips. “Honesty. Rare.”
“It’s our date night,” the man admitted. “I got stuck at work.”
Jungwon wrapped the flowers neatly in kraft paper, fingers swift and practiced despite the annoyance tugging at his patience. He hated rushing. Hated the way people treated flowers like emergency repairs for problems they had neglected all week.
Still, the bouquet came out lovely. It always did.
“That’ll be twenty-three thousand,” he said.
The man paid, bowed gratefully, and hurried out with promises to do better. Jungwon doubted it.
Once the door shut behind him, silence finally settled over Eden’s Garden. Jungwon exhaled through his nose, locked the front door, and turned the sign to closed with more satisfaction than necessary. He dimmed the front light one by one, gathered ribbon scraps from the counter, and then headed toward the back to check the greenhouse before leaving.
He expected many things when he heard the sudden crash from behind the glass doors. Stray cats, fallen pots, another loose windowpane. What he did not expect was a girl lying among overturned orchids, breathing hard, with torn wings trembling behind her like broken glass.
Jungwon stopped where he stood.
For a moment, his mind refused to make sense of what he was seeing. The greenhouse lights cast a warm glow over the shattered pots and scattered soil, over the pale shape of a girl curled carefully on the floor—and over the pair of delicate wings folded weakly behind her. They shimmered faintly, dusted in silver, the edges cracked and bent as though made from glass.
A fairy.
The thought came absurdly, impossibly clear.
He had heard stories as a child of spirits hiding in old forests and winged beings blessing the garden in spring. He had long since grown out of believing them. Yet there was no other word for the creature struggling to sit upright among his orchids.
You noticed him then.
Your eyes widened, and for a second, you looked more startled than he felt. Slowly, carefully, you lowered your gaze and bowed your head despite the pain tightening your face.
“I’m terribly sorry,” you said softly. Your voice was light as wind through leaves. “I didn’t mean to damage your flowers.”
Jungwon only stared.
You glanced at the broken pots beside you and seemed to shrink further in embarrassment.
“I tried to land more gracefully,” you admitted in a small voice. “It did not go as planned.”
Still, Jungwon said nothing. You looked back up at him, hesitant now.
“Are humans always this quiet when surprised?”
That finally snapped him out of it. Jungwon blinked once, then twice.
“No,” he said slowly. “Usually we scream first.”
A faint, apologetic smile touched your lips before you winced and reached for your wing. Only then did Jungwon move forward, kneeling beside you as disbelief gave way to concern.
“You’re hurt,” he murmured.
“A little,” you said, though the tremble in your voice suggested otherwise. “I’m sorry for troubling you.”
Jungwon glanced around at the ruined orchids, the feathers scattered like moonlight, and the fairy trying to apologize while barely able to sit upright. Somehow, this was not how he imagined ending his night.
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Jungwon returned a moment later with a small first-aid kit tucked under one arm and a clean towel draped over the other. He had also, for reasons he did not care to examine too closely, brought a cushion from the front of the shop.
You were still where he had left you, sitting carefully among the overturned pots with your injured wing drawn close. Your expression brightened a little when you saw him return, though pain still lingered around your eyes.
“I wasn’t sure you would come back,” you admitted softly.
Jungwon set the cushion down in front of you. “It’s my greenhouse,” he said. “Hard to abandon it.”
Then, after a pause, he added, “You too, I guess.”
A shy smile touched your lips. He helped you shift onto the cushion, movement cautious and surprisingly gentle for someone who looked perpetually unimpressed by the world. Once you were settled, he knelt behind you to inspect the damage more closely.
“Tell me if this hurts.”
“It already hurts,” you said honestly. “But I’ll let you know if it becomes dramatic.”
A quiet huff of laughter escaped him before he could stop it.
Using warm water and a soft cloth, Jungwon carefully cleaned the dirt from the fractured edges of your wing. Up close, the structure was delicate and intricate, each translucent feather threaded with a faint silver vein that pulsed like moonlight. He handled it with the same patience he used when pruning fragile blooms.
You shivered once when his fingers brushed a sensitive spot.
“Sorry,” he murmured immediately.
“It’s all right,” you said, voice smaller now. “You’re very gentle.”
Something unreadable crossed his face. He focused harder on wrapping a strip of gauze around the split near the base. When he finished, he leaned back on his heels to study his work.
“There. Not perfect, but it should keep it stable for tonight.”
You turned your head enough to look at him, wonder softening your features. “Humans know how to mend wings?”
“We don’t,” Jungwon said. “I’m improvising.”
“That may be even more impressive.”
He looked away first. Then his gaze flicked back to you, lingering on how pale you’d gone.
“Are you hungry?” he asked, as though the question had surprised even him.
“Hungry?”
“You crashed through my greenhouse,” he said flatly. “I assume that takes energy.”
A tiny laugh slipped from you. “Yes,” you confessed. “Very much so.”
Jungwon rose to his feet.
“Stay there. Don’t touch anything expensive.”
As he headed toward the shop kitchen, you watched him go with a smile that felt strangely warm in the quiet greenhouse.
Jungwon returned carrying what looked like a tray assembled through reluctant thoughtfulness. A small saucer no bigger than his palm held a few berries, torn petals of edible flowers, and a single cube of honeycomb. Beside it sat a thimble-sized cup of water and half of a steamed bun from the baker next door.
You blinked at the offering, then at him.
“You prepared this?”
“I guessed,” he said, setting it carefully on the potting table. “You’re smaller than most of my customers.”
A soft laugh escaped you. “That’s true.”
He dragged a stool over and sat across from you, arms folded.
“Eat.”
You climbed a little closer to the tray, wings tucked carefully behind you, and picked up one berry with both hands. The fruit looked oversized against your palms. After one bite, your eyes widened with delight.
“This is wonderful.”
“It’s a blueberry.”
“It’s a perfect blueberry,” you corrected gently. “Sweet, cool, and sun-warmed.”
Jungwon watched as you nibbled another bite with the concentration of someone tasting treasure. Then you reached for the honeycomb. The moment the golden sweetness touched your tongue, you let out the tiniest sigh of happiness. He stared.
“Is honey always this good?” you asked.
“Yes,” Jungwon said slowly. “Have you never had it before?”
“Not from human shops.” You took another careful bite. “Everything here tastes heavier. Richer. It lingers.”
He did not know what that meant, but nodded as though he did. You sampled the bun next, tearing off a piece no larger than a petal.
“Warm bread,” you whispered, visibly moved.
“It’s from next door.”
“Then your neighboring kingdom is also blessed.”
Jungwon looked away to hide the smile threatening his mouth. When you reached for the tiny cup of water made out of a bottle cap, your injured wing twitched painfully. You winced. He was beside you before thinking, steadying the cup so it would not tip. Your fingers brushed his. You both paused.
“Thank you,” you said softly.
“It’s just water.”
“And yet,” you murmured, looking up at him with bright eyes, “you keep saving me with simple things.”
Jungwon straightened too quickly and returned to fixing overturned pots. Behind him, he could still hear your small, delighted hums over berries and bread. Somehow, in the middle of a ruined greenhouse and a very long night, the sound made the place feel warmer than it had all day.
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The next morning arrived quietly, washed in pale gold sunlight that filtered through the glass panes of the greenhouse. Jungwon unlocked the back door with a yawn, balancing a tray of watering tools in one hand and a paper cup of coffee in the other. He had almost convinced himself that the events of last night were some elaborate exhaustion-induced dream. An injured fairy in his greenhouse sounded far less believable in daylight.
Then he stepped inside. And there you were. Fast asleep on the makeshift bed he had arranged from folded blankets, spare cushions, and an old linen cloth usually used for wrapping pots. You had curled into yourself near the row of hydrangeas, one tiny hand tucked beneath your cheek. Your wings, carefully bandaged by his own clumsy hands, were folded close behind you, catching the morning light in soft silver hues.
Jungwon stopped in the doorway. For a moment, he simply stared. In sleep, you looked even smaller than he remembered. A few loose petals had gathered around your bed during the night, as though the flowers had crept closer to watch over you.
He had spent years trying to keep this greenhouse alive, and somehow, overnight, it had decided to adopt a fairy. The floor creaked beneath his shoe. Your nose scrunched first. Then your lashes fluttered open slowly, heavy with sleep. For a second, you only blinked up at him in confusion before memory returned.
“Oh,” you murmured, voice soft and rough with sleep. “Good morning.”
Jungwon looked away too quickly, clearing his throat.
“You’re drooling.”
You sat up at once, horrified. “I am?”
“No.”
You stared. A beat passed before he took a sip of coffee, expression unreadable.
“That was mean,” you said quietly.
“It was funny,” Jungwon replied, already moving toward the watering cans so you wouldn’t see the corner of his mouth lift.
Jungwon busied himself with the watering cans, pretending he had not just lied to an injured fairy before breakfast. Behind him, he heard the rustle of blankets and the soft shift of wings as you carefully sat straighter on the makeshift bed.
For a few quiet moments, the greenhouse was filled only with the sound of running water and morning birds beyond the glass. Then, your voice drifted over, gentle and curious.
“What is it that you do for a living?”
Jungwon glanced back. You were watching him with open interest, knees tucked beneath the blanket, hair still mussed from sleep. He frowned slightly. “You mean right now?”
“In general,” you said, smiling a little. “Humans seem to spend much of their time doing things for a living.”
He considered that. “I own this place.” He gestured around the greenhouse. “The flower shop out front, too. I arrange bouquets, sell plants, keep everything alive.”
Your eyes widened with genuine admiration. “You care for flowers every day?”
“That’s the job.”
“Thats sounds lovely.”
“It’s mostly dirt, invoices, and people who remember anniversaries too late.”
You laughed softly, the sound bright enough to make him pause mid-pour.
“I think it suits you,” you said. “You have gentle hands.”
Jungwon nearly overwatered a fern. He set the can down with unnecessary care.
“Mm.”
Then, because he needed the subject away from himself immediately, he turned back to you.
“What about you?” he asked. “Why did the accident happen?”
Your smile faded. Fingers curled lightly into the blanket over your lap. For a moment, you looked down at your bandaged wing.
“My home was destroyed,” you said quietly.
Jungwon stilled.
You glanced toward the glass roof, eyes distant now. “It was a garden. Full of blooming flowers. Vines, ponds, trees older than memory.” A small breath left you. “It’s gone now.”
He said nothing, sensing there was little to say.
“I had nowhere to return to,” you continued softly. “So I wandered, looking for another place where I might stay.”
Your fingers tightened around the blanket.
“Then a hunting creature found me.”
Jungwon frowned. “What kind of creature?”
You hesitated. “Small. Round face. Sharp eyes. Very smug.”
He blinked once. “A cat?”
You looked offended. “It was vicious.”
Jungwon had to look away to hide the smile threatening his mouth.
“It chased me through the alleyways,” you said with wounded dignity. “I flew faster than I should have. Then I saw this greenhouse full of flowers and thought I could hide here.”
His eyes moved slowly over the broken pots, spilled soil, and bent orchid stand.
“You then flew directly into my shelves.”
“I lost control,” you murmured. “At the last moment.”
“You crashed through three pots.”
“Two and a half.”
Jungwon let out a quiet breath that was almost laughter.
Despite the absurdity of it, something in your voice lingered with him—the way you spoke of a ruined home, of wandering alone, of choosing his greenhouse because it was full of flowers.
He reached for another watering can, tone calmer when he spoke again.
“Well,” he said, not looking at you, “until your wing heals… You can stay here.”
For a moment, the greenhouse went completely still. Even the faint rustle of leaves seemed to pause. You looked at him as though you were not certain you had heard correctly.
“…I may stay?”
Jungwon kept his attention fixed on the row of ferns in front of him. “Temporarily.”
Your voice turned smaller, softer. “Here?”
“Until your wing heals,” he repeated.
For a heartbeat, you simply stared at him. Then your eyes began to shine in a way that caught him entirely off guard.
“It’s not a place invitation, it’s a spare corner in a greenhouse.”
But you were already pushing yourself carefully to your feet, clutching the blanket around your shoulders.
“This is the kindest thing anyone has done for me in a very long time.”
The sincerity in your voice made him glance over despite himself. You looked genuinely overwhelmed by something he considered practical at best.
“Thank you, Jungwon.”
His name sounded different in your mouth. Soft, careful, almost precious. Jungwon forgot, briefly, what he had been doing. You bowed your head over his hands, though it was something worthy of reverence, then looked up at him with such open gratitude that he had to clear his throat and look away.
“You’re making this weird,” he said quietly.
A tiny laugh escaped you, bright as wind chimes. He risked another glance and immediately regretted it. You were smiling at him like he had handed you the world instead of an unused corner and some blankets. Ridiculous. And, annoyingly, kind of cute.
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Later that morning, once the front sign had been turned to open, Jungwon guided you into the narrow space behind a tall shelf of potted hydrangeas near the doorway between the shop and greenhouse. From there, hidden between leaves and ribbons, you had a clear view of the counter.
“This is your spot,” he said. “Stay quiet, stay hidden, and don’t reveal yourself to strangers.”
You nodded solemnly. “I shall be invisible.”
“You are currently sparkling.”
You looked down in alarm and quickly tucked your wings closer. Jungwon sighed and went to unlock the front door. The bell chimed only minutes later. An elderly woman entered first, leaning on a cane with careful steps. Before she could even speak, Jungwon had already moved around the counter.
“Good morning, Mrs. Han,” he said, taking the basket from her hand. “The daisies lasted longer this week?”
Her face brightened. “You remembered.”
“You complained about them twice,” he said mildly.
You watched, wide-eyed, as he selected fresh stems and adjusted them to a height easier for her to carry. He even tied the ribbon loosely so arthritic fingers could undo it without trouble. When she left smiling, you pressed both hands to your mouth. He knew her flowers. He knew her hands.
The bell rang again. This time, a nervous student came in asking for ‘something pretty, but cheap’.
Jungwon did not laugh. He simply asked, “For apology or confession?”
The boy flushed crimson. “Confession.”
“Then yellow tulips. They’re hopeful without being arrogant.”
You nearly gasped aloud. He could read hearts from a flower request alone.
Throughout the morning, customers came and went. A mother with a crying toddler received a free carnation to distract the child. A tired office worker was offered water before discussing the colors of the bouquet. A young woman is uncertain about caring for succulents left with written instructions and Jungwon’s promise that she could return if she killed them accidentally.
Each time, he remained calm, steady, a little dry in humor—but attentive in ways so small most people probably missed them. He noticed trembling hands, tired eyes, wedding rings, and ink stains, as well as sadness hidden beneath smiles. And he responded gently every time.
From behind the hydrangeas, you could only stare. When the shop finally emptied for a moment, Jungwon began reorganizing ribbon at the counter. You slipped out from hiding before remembering you were supposed to stay hidden.
“You’re astonishing,” you blurted.
He looked up slowly. “That sounds suspicious.”
“You care for them the way you care for flowers.”
Jungwon blinked once. “I sell them flowers.”
“No,” you said, stepping closer. “You make them feel seen.”
The ribbon in his hand stilled. For once, he had nothing dry or clever to say. You smiled at him with shining admiration. Jungwon looked down at the ribbons again, ears faintly pink.
“Get back behind the hydrangeas before someone walks in.”
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That afternoon slowed into a gentle lull. Sunlight poured through the front windows in warm strips, turning the shop golden and quiet. No customers came for nearly half an hour, leaving only the soft hum of the refrigerator cooler and the distant sound of traffic outside.
Jungwon used the silence to sort a shipment of fresh stems at the worktable near the greenhouse door. Roses, lisianthus, eucalyptus, peonies–ordinary things, familiar things. Easy to understand.
You, meanwhile, were not.
He glanced over to find you perched on the edge of a wooden crate, legs swinging idly as you studied a sunflower that was bigger and taller than you. Your injured wing was tucked carefully behind you, bandages neat from where he had changed them earlier. The other wing caught the light each time it moved, scattering tiny flecks of shimmer across the floor.
You reached out with both hands and cupped the sunflower’s face with reverence.
“It follows the sun,” you whispered, delighted. “How loyal.”
Jungwon stared for a moment too long before looking back down at the stems in his hands.
“It’s called heliotropism,” he said.
You turned immediately. “You know the language of flowers scientifically and emotionally. That feels unfair.”
He nearly cut the eucalyptus crooked. A few minutes later, he looked up again. You had discovered the ribbon drawer. Lengths of satin and organza were spread around you like treasure while you held a spool of green ribbon above your head.
“This one matches your aura,” you announced.
“I don’t have an aura.”
“Everyone has an aura.” You squinted at him thoughtfully. “Yours is moss after rain.”
Jungwon had no idea what that meant. Yet somehow, hearing it made his chest feel strange. He went back to trimming stems. Then came a soft gasp. He looked up sharply.
You were standing beside a vase of unopened lilies, hands clasped under your chin. Before his eyes, the tight buds slowly loosened, petals unfolding one by one as if waking from sleep.
Jungwon straightened. “Did you do that?”
You blinked at him. “A little.”
“That’s possible?”
“You talk to flowers with water and patience,” you said simply. “I talk to them differently.”
He walked closer without meaning to, gaze fixed on the lilies now fully open and fragrant. All his life, flowers had been work. Beautiful work, yes–but still predictable in their own ways. Soil, sunlight, pruning, seasons. Cause and effect.
But you stood among them like something from a story, smiling shyly because you thought opening lilies was ordinary. Jungwon looked at your face, then your bandaged wing, then the petals blooming around you.
Ridiculous. Impossible. Entirely inconvenient. And he couldn’t stop looking.
You tilted your head. “Why are humans always so quiet when surprised?”
He blinked, caught.
“…Because sometimes,” he said slowly, “we don’t know what to say.”
Your smile softened. For the rest of the afternoon, Jungwon found himself glancing up every few minutes—just to make sure you were still there.
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Days slipped into one another so quietly that Jungwon did not notice when caring for you became part of his routine.
At first, he told himself it was temporary. You were an injured guest, nothing more. A strange responsibility that had fallen into his greenhouse like broken weather. He was only helping until your wing healed.
Then, somehow, mornings began with looking for you first.
He would unlock the greenhouse and find you asleep in a nest of blankets, petals gathered around your hair, or sitting cross-legged by the window, whispering to seedlings until they stood a little taller. Sometimes you would already be awake, waiting for him with a bright, “Good morning, Jungwon,” spoken as though his arrival was the best part of your day.
He never admitted how much he liked hearing it.
You learned the rhythm of the shop quickly. When a customer came, you hid in the back room or behind the taller plants, peeking through leaves with scandalous curiosity. When the store emptied, you emerged to ask endless questions.
Why did humans apologize with flowers?
Why did some people buy roses only after making mistakes?
Why did Jungwon frown when concentrating, but smile at lilies?
He had no answer for the last one.
You followed him everywhere your wing allowed. If he watered the orchids, you carried the spray bottle two-handed behind him. If he trimmed stems, you sorted discarded leaves into neat little piles. If he rearranged displays, you offered opinions no one asked for.
“That vase is insecure,” you declared once.
“It’s ceramic.”
“It knows what it did.”
Jungwon laughed so suddenly that he startled himself. That happened more often now. You had a way of filling quiet spaces without making them loud. The greenhouse, once peaceful in a lonely sort of way, now felt warm with your presence. There was always the soft rustle of wings, the hum of your voice, the occasional gasp of delight over something ordinary. Bread. Rain. Fresh peonies. The fact that pencils could be sharpened.
You made the world seem newer than he remembered it being. And you notice him in ways others did not.
You left flowers beside his register ‘because they matched his mood’. You reminded him to eat when lunch hours grew busy. You scolded him gently when he worked too late. You thanked him every single night for letting you stay, as though he had not already lost count of how many times he would say yes.
One afternoon, while tying ribbons for an order, Jungwon realized he was smiling before you had even entered the room. He had heard your footsteps in the hall and smiled automatically. The realization unsettled him. He set the ribbon down and stared at nothing for a long moment. Then you appeared in the doorway carrying a strawberry twice the size of your face.
“Look what I found,” you announced proudly.
Jungwon looked at you, ridiculous and radiant in the late sunlight, and felt the strange tightness in his chest again.
“Wash it first,” he said.
You beamed as though he had said something tender.
Maybe, Jungwon thought as he watched you hurry to the sink, he was growing used to having a fairy around. Maybe that was all it was. But when you laughed from the kitchen a second later, bright and familiar, even he knew he was lying to himself.
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It happened on an afternoon so ordinary that Jungwon almost missed how impossible it was.
Rain tapped softly against the greenhouse glass, customers were scarce, and the shop smelled of damp earth and fresh eucalyptus. Jungwon was in the back room sorting inventory sheets while muttering about missing ribbon spools. You had been strangely quiet for nearly twenty minutes. That alone was suspicious.
He looked up from the papers. “What are you doing?”
No answer. Jungwon frowned and pushed back his chair. “If you’re using magic on the stock again, I’m charging rent.”
Still nothing.
He followed the faint rustling sound toward the greenhouse, stepping around buckets and crates until he reached the row of climbing roses near your makeshift bed. Then he stopped so abruptly that the clipboard nearly slipped from his hand. You were standing in the middle of the aisle. Not perched on a crate. Not small enough to fit in his palm-sized blankets. Standing. Human-sized.
Your head nearly reached his shoulder now, wings spread carefully behind you in a softened shimmer. The loose shirt he had left folded nearby hung off one shoulder, its sleeves too long for his arms, the hem brushing the tops of his thighs. Bare legs, tousled hair, startled eyes. You looked just as shocked to see him as he was to see you. For a long moment, neither of you spoke. Jungwon’s brain, usually dependable and practical, offered nothing useful.
“...What,” he said finally, “is this?”
You clutched the oversized shirt tighter. “I can explain.”
“I would love that.”
Your gaze dropped to the floor. “Fairies can shift forms.”
“You could do this the whole time?”
“No!” you said quickly. “Not properly. It requires strength, and my wing has been damaged.”
You flexed your fingers uncertainly, as if surprised by their length. “I only just regained enough magic to hold it.”
Jungwon stared. This explained many things. None of them helped.
“You mean to tell me,” he said slowly, “that for days I’ve been making you tiny fruit plates when you could one day become…” He gestured helplessly at all of you. “...this?”
You bit your lip. “The fruit plates were very sweet.”
His eyes caught on the way the borrowed shirt slipped lower on your shoulder. He looked away so fast it almost hurt.
“And you chose now to mention this because?”
“I wanted to surprise you.”
“You’ve succeeded.”
A pause.
“Are you upset?” you asked softly.
Jungwon looked back then. You stood there, nervous and hopeful, bare feet against his greenhouse floor, wrapped in one of his shirt like it belonged to you. Somewhere in the distance, thunder rolled.
“No,” he said after too long. His voice came out rougher than intended. “Just… unprepared.”
Your expression brightened instantly. “Then you’re not angry?”
“I didn’t say that.”
You laughed, warm and relieved, taking one step toward him. The movement made your still-healing wing wobble. Jungwon was beside you before thinking, hand catching your waist to steady you. Both of you froze. His palm burned through the thin fabric. Yours caught lightly at his wrist. Up close, you smelled like rainwater and flowers. Jungwon cleared his throat and stepped back at once.
“Sit down,” he said. “Before you break something else.”
You smiled in a way that made his pulse deeply uncooperative. You only nodded. He turned sharply and walked back toward the stockroom. Behind him, he heard your soft laughter echo through the greenhouse. He did not return for five full minutes.
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The discovery of your human-sized form changed surprisingly little. Jungwon had expected complications. More blankets, larger meals, perhaps an entirely new category of headaches. Instead, by the next morning, he opened the greenhouse to find you exactly as usual—small again, curled atop a folded towel beside the basil pots, one wing draped over your face to block the sunlight. He stared down at you.
“You can become human-sized,” he said. “And yet you choose to sleep in a herb tray.”
Your wing twitched. Then you peeked out at him with one sleepy eye.
“It smells nice.”
“That is not an answer.”
“I like being light. I like fitting into warm places. I like hearing flowers from close by.”
That was such a fairy sentence that he did not know how to respond. So instead, he handed you the lid of his coffee cup, now emptied and rinsed, filled with fresh water.
“Drink this before you start saying stranger things.”
You accept it happily.
You followed Jungwon through the shop perched on his shoulder like an inquisitive ornament, asking questions from sunrise to closing.
“Why do humans brush their teeth every morning if they become dirty again?”
“Because that’s how cleaning works.”
“Why do people stare at glowing rectangles while ignoring flowers?”
“Phones.”
“That did not answer the question.”
You rode in his apron pocket while he restocked ribbon, peering over the edge like a suspicious manager. You sat cross-legged on the register while he counted change, watching coins stack with fascination. You once spent twenty minutes observing the receipt printer as if it were a mystical beast.
“It screams paper,” you whispered in awe.
“It prints receipts.”
When business was slow, you demanded lessons on ‘human daily rituals’. Jungwon showed you how to make tea. You insisted the kettle was too aggressive. He demonstrated sweeping. You called brooms ‘floor combs’.
He tried explaining taxes once. You stared at him in silence before declaring, ‘That cannot be real’.
“What do fairies even do all day?”
You blinked. “Excuse me?”
“You keep interrogating humans. I’m asking back.”
You considered it seriously.
“We greet flowers in the morning,” you said. “We collect dew. We nap in warm petals. We sing to roots when they are sad.”
Jungwon stared. “Roots get sad?”
“Sometimes.”
“What else?”
“We chase dragonflies. We braid grass. We gossip.”
“With who?”
“The bees, mostly.”
He rubbed a hand over his face. “Of course.”
“What do humans do for fun?”
The question came while Jungwon was trimming wilted leaves from a row of daisies near closing time. He did not look up.
“Depends on the human.”
You sat cross-legged on the counter, chin in your hands, wings flicking lazily behind you. “What do you do for fun?”
“I enjoy silence.”
“That cannot be the whole answer.”
“It’s a strong one.”
You frowned at him. “No festivals? No dances? No moonlit flower gatherings?”
“We have bills,” Jungwon said dryly.
You gasped softly, scandalized. “That is tragic.”
He continued clipping stems, pretending not to notice the way you were now staring at him with obvious pity.
“I think,” you declared, “you have forgotten how to enjoy life.”
“I think,” Jungwon replied, “you’ve been alive in my greenhouse too long.”
When the last customer left, he locked the front door, flipped the sign to closed, and began counting the register. Behind him, you sighed dramatically every few seconds. He lasted three minutes.
You perked up at once. “What?”
“You wanted to know what humans do for fun.” He grabbed his coat from the hook. “Come on.”
Your wings fluttered so fast they blurred. “We are going on an adventure?”
“We are walking three blocks.”
“That is still an adventure.”
Ten minutes later, you were tucked safely inside the deep pocket of his coat, only your head peeking out as he walked down the quiet evening street. The city glowed in warm shop lights and passing headlights, rainwater still shining on the pavement from earlier. You stared at everything.
“The world sparkles at night,” you whispered.
“It’s puddles.”
“It’s magic puddles.”
He took you to the convenience store first.
You nearly fainted at the snack aisle.
“So many colors,” you breathed. “So many shapes. Why is that bread smiling?”
“It’s a mascot.”
“It knows something.”
Jungwon bought you a small honey candy after five full minutes of you pressing your face to the packaging displays. Outside, he unwrapped it and handed it over.
You held it like a jewel. “For me?”
“You were becoming a public spectacle.”
You licked the candy once and gasped. “Humans are geniuses.”
He looked away to hide the smile tugging at his mouth.
Next, he took you through the small night market near the station. Steam rose from food stalls. Music drifted from somewhere unseen. People laughed, bargained, and hurried past. From his pocket, you watched it all with shining eyes.
“So this is fun,” you said softly.
“This is crowds and overpriced snacks.”
“This,” you insisted, “is life happening everywhere at once.”
Jungwon glanced down at you. Your face was lit by lantern glow, wonder written plainly across it. Something in his chest shifted again. later , on the walk home, you grew quieter, sleepy from excitement. You leaned against the inside of his pocket, clutching the candy wrapper like treasure.
“Jungwon?”
“Mm?”
“Thank you for showing me human fun.”
He kept his gaze on the road ahead.
“It wasn’t a big deal.”
“It was to me.”
A pause.
Then, softer—already half asleep:
“You make ordinary things feel safe.”
Jungwon’s steps slowed for just a second. When he reached Eden’s Garden, you were asleep in his pocket, warm and trusting. He stood outside the shop door longer than necessary before unlocking it, strangely unwilling to disturb you.
.
.
.
.
A week later, Jungwon noticed it before you did.
You were hovering. Only an inch above the greenhouse floor, wobbling dangerously near a bucket of fertilizer. Jungwon set down the watering can at once. “Get down.”
“I’m flying,” you corrected, voice full of triumph.
You drifted sideways, clipped a hanging fern, and landed in a pot of basil.
“A temporary setback,” you said from the leaves. But he had already crossed the room, crouching beside you with an expression caught somewhere between concern and disbelief.
“Are you hurt?”
“No.” You sat up, leaves in your hair, grinning so brightly it almost annoyed him. “Did you see?”
He had.
More than that, he had seen the way your wings moved now without trembling, the silver fractures nearly gone, the old stiffness replaced by clean, smooth light. The bandages he had changed day after day were no longer needed.
Jungwon reached out before thinking, fingertips brushing the edge of your wing. It was whole. You went still at the touch.
“They healed,” he murmured.
Your smile softened. “Because you cared for them.”
“I wrapped gauze badly and fed you fruit.”
“You stayed.”
The simple answer left him strangely quiet. You stepped out of the basil pot and spread your wings carefully. Morning light poured through the greenhouse glass, catching every translucent panel until they shimmered like water.
“May I try again?” you asked.
He should have said no, told you to rest, to wait, to be careful. Instead, Jungwon only nodded once. You bent your knees, then lifted. This time, there was no wobble. No crash. No panicked grab for nearby shelves. You rose smoothly into the warm air, higher and higher until you circled above the hanging ivy with a laugh so bright it filled the entire greenhouse.
Jungwon stood motionless below, head tilted back. You were beautiful like this. Weightless. Made for the sky in a way the earth could never keep. The realization hit harder than expected. You dipped lower, spinning once before landing lightly in front of him, cheeks flushed with joy.
“I did it!”
He looked at your shining face, then at the wings now strong enough to carry you anywhere.
“Yes,” he said quietly. “You did.”
You stepped closer, excitement fading as you noticed something in his expression.
“Jungwon?”
He turned away first, reaching for the watering can he no longer needed.
“Don’t break anything on your victory lap.”
But the greenhouse suddenly felt too small, and far too empty.
.
.
.
.
The morning your wings fully healed, the greenhouse felt inextricably bright.
You had risen laughing into the air at sunrise, circling the rafters with effortless grace before landing in a spill of golden light. There was no tremble now, no hesitation, no pain. Only freedom.
Jungwon had smiled. Just not for very long. For the rest of the day, he buried himself in work. He rearranged bouquets that did not need to be rearranged, polished shelves already clean, and spent ten full minutes glaring at the ribbon spool as though it had offended him personally. You noticed, of course. You always did.
When closing time came, you found him in the greenhouse stacking empty pots with unnecessary focus.
“My wings are better,” you said softly.
“So I’ve heard.”
You stood there for a moment, hands clasped behind your back.
“I think… I should go soon.”
The pot in his hands nearly slipped. He set it down carefully before answering.
“Probably.”
Your smile dimmed. “Probably?”
“You wanted to travel.” He kept his eyes on the shelf. “Find somewhere new. Bigger than this place.”
The silence that followed felt heavier than it should have. Then you nodded once. “I see.”
He did not look at you. That night, Jungwon barely slept. The next morning, he opened the shop to find your makeshift bed neatly folded. The tiny cup you liked to drink from had been washed and left upside down to dry. The ribbon drawer was organized by color.
You were gone.
For a full minute, Jungwon simply stood there. The greenhouse was quiet again. Too quiet. No humming. No questions. No soft voice asking why humans enjoyed bitter bean water. His chest tightened painfully. He lasted seven minutes.
Then he was out the door.
He found you on the rooftop of the building across the street, standing at the ledge where the morning wind tugged at your hair. In your human-sized form, your wings gleamed behind you, strong and radiant beneath the sky.
You turned when you heard him.
“I forgot to say goodbye properly,” you said.
Jungwon was slightly out of breath, hands shoved into the pockets of his coat.
“Don’t go.”
The words came rough, immediate, and far too honest. Your eyes widened. He swallowed once. “I know your wings are healed. I know you can leave whenever you want.” He looked away briefly, jaw tight. “But I don’t want you to.”
The wind moved softly between you. Jungwon forced himself to continue.
“This place was quiet before you came.” He gave a short, humorless laugh. “Too quiet. Now every corner reminds me of you. The basil tray. My pocket. The fact that I apparently buy honey candy now.”
A watery smile touched your lips. He stepped closer.
“I don’t know when it happened,” he said quietly. “But somewhere between fixing your wing and arguing about taxes, you became…”
He exhaled.
“…home.”
Your eyes filled at once.
“Jungwon…”
“If you still want to travel, then go,” he said, voice gentler now. “If you want the sky, I won’t stop you.”
“But if you’d like to stay…” He met your gaze fully. “Stay with me.”
You crossed the space between you so quickly that he barely had time to brace before your arms wrapped around him. This time, human-sized and warm and laughing through tears.
“I was waiting,” you whispered into his shoulder. “I was waiting for you to ask.”
Jungwon held you tightly, face buried in your hair.
“You are impossible,” he muttered.
“And staying,” you replied.
He pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes soft in a way he no longer bothered hiding.
“Good.”
Then he kissed you there beneath the open sky, gentle and certain, while your wings shimmered in the morning light.
.
.
.
.
Months later, customers often whispered that Eden’s Garden bloomed more beautifully than any florist in the city. Flowers opened overnight. Wilted stems revived by morning. The whole place seemed touched by luck. Jungwon, tying ribbons behind the counter, only sighed when tiny laughter came from the tulips.
“I said no magic on inventory.”
“No promises,” came your cheerful voice.
And Eden’s Garden, at last, had become home to you.