I'm Nyx and I draw :]

"What?" asked Dustin.

Mike looked at his friends, as confused as they were he thought it was pretty straight forward. If not a little un-like anything else he's ever planned. "Look, me and y/n have been trying to go on a date for months but wherever we go, who's there? At the cinema, at Enzo's? He even got a job at the pizza place when we ordered it and showed up to the basement."

"He's committed, I'll give him that," said Lucas.

"Yeah, committed to making mine and his sister's life, hell," said Mike. "Look, please, I just need you guys to distract Steve tonight, one night so that me and my girlfriend can get some alone time."

And hey, what were friends for.

So the plan was commenced.

Dustin was to approach head on, into the lions den ready while Lucas would wait outside, spying on his friends progress. If anything were to go wrong on Dustin's part then Lucas would be there to put the plan back together.

Steve- and you- were none the wiser. He was downstairs, making dinner or at least trying to. Often he was trying to cook something that was substantial for the both of you and it almost always ended in an emergency call to the local pizza place. He was stirring... vegetables? In a pan when the phone went.

He ditched his efforts and answered. "Hello?"

'Oh, hi there! This must be Steve!' said a high pitched and un-familiar voice.

"Er, yeah, who's this?"

'Oh, it's Stacey, I'm friends with your sister. I've got an emergency, can I talk to her please?'

"Oh yeah, sure," said Steve. He knew most of your friends because sadly, they were his too. Because apparently Steve was at that age where all his friends were his little sisters too.

Steve called you down and held the phone out to you.

"Who is it?" you frowned.

"Stacey, says it's an emergency," he shrugged. "You know, I gotta say I'm happy you're making more friends other than that Wheeler and Henderson."

Your frown didn't lessen as you reached out to take the phone like it was a Demodog.

You and Stacey were not friends, practically enemies. It started when she embarrassed Dustin so you 'tripped' up a drink on her. Then when she took credit for a project the two of you were forced on. Most recently you stole her favourite Kate Bush tape.

Steve didn't think anything of it, urging you to take it and returning to dinner.

Slowly, you held the phone up. "Hello?"

'y/n, it's me,' Mike cleared his throat, ridding his attempts at a girls voice. 'Don't say anything to give us away.'

Your grin was un-deniable. You turned you back to Steve who you knew would be listening in. "Oh... Stacey, hi."

Mike chuckled. 'Just like that. Listen, I wanna take you out, or just do something with you. We've got a plan, meet me at mine.'

You were desperate to see you boyfriend, as desperate as he was to see you. There was just always a bolder shaped a lot like Steve to contend with and having to work around. You knew Mike was working on something, but it had to be good to get your brother of your backs. "I dunno, Stacey, it's getting late, my brother might not let me out, let me ask-"

'No wait-'

"Hey Stevie-"

"Yeah!" Steve turned at once at the call, because of course he was listening and knew you would ask him something. "What's up?"

You nestled the phone into your shoulder, cringing. "Stacey's just been through a real bad break up, really bad with... Brad. She's asking if I can go see her, you know, paint nails, read magazine, trash about the boys in our lives- not you of course."

By the call of his nickname 'Stevie' you had him on the ropes, you just needed to reel him in a little more.

He checked the time at his watch. "I mean, it's a little late and I was... cooking..." well, whatever veg he was frying had turned to watery mush and honestly he didn't know what he was doing after that, he just knew vegetables were good for you.

"Please, she's inconsolable and home alone."

Steve's hands fell onto his hips. "Alright, for an hour or two."

"Thank you, thank you!" you returned to the phone. "Hey Stacey?"

'Stacey? Oh yeah, me!'

"I'll be there in ten."

Mike sighed dreamily on the other end of the phone. 'I love you.'

You chuckled, biting down on the bottom of your lip. Your boyfriend was a genius. "Love you too, Stace. Hold on tight, I'll be right over."

Steve was already picking up his car keys as you put the phone down. "Where'd she live, I'll take you."

"No!" you said, instantly too quick. "I mean, I'll just bike, she's not far."

"Bike? No, it's getting dark out."

"I know but, she's a mess, sobbing on the phone. She'll have mascara running all down her face, it won't be a pretty sight and..." you sighed. You didn't like to blow your brothers ego any more than it already was, but desperate times. "Look, Stacey has a massive crush on you. Like huge."

Steve frowned. "Really?"

"Yeah, and she would be really embarrassed if you were to see her like this. It would break her heart even more."

Steve still didn't seem happy about it but he left you go, with the promise you'd be there for two hours and straight home. He also helped you put on shin pads and a helmet. You both know what was out there and he wouldn't let you leave the house without 'armour'. So, even though it was embarrassing, you biked away with the promise of your boyfriend on the other side.

By the time you let your bike crash on the Wheelers front lawn, you had already ditched the shin pads and helmet in the front basket of your bike, running to the door. You had no idea what plans Mike had, or how he'd even pull it off, but you were happy to find out.

Mrs Wheelers opened the door. "Hey honey, I didn't expect to see you tonight. Come in."

"Hi Mrs Wheeler. Mike invited me, I hope that's alright?"

"Of course, he's down in the basement."

"Thank you Mrs Wheeler," you smiled. You were a Harrington, charm was like manners to you. You'd learnt from the best how to make the moms love you. Even, sometimes, the dads. "How's the score looking, Mr Wheeler?" you called as you past his slouched figure on the chair.

He huffed. "Not good, kid." It was more than his own kids got sometimes so that was more than enough as you headed down to the basement.

You pushed the door open slowly. "Mike?"

The place had been tidied up, well, tidier than Mike's usual mess. The table where the boys typically played DnD was laid out with a white table cloth (clearly a favourite of Mrs Wheelers) with a fresh bunch of flowers and noted folded up. There was even a few candles lit and littered around the place.

Mike stood from the couch when he saw you. "You made it."

You grinned, practically jumping down the last of the stairs to greet him, arms around his shoulders. "You're a genius, Wheeler!"

"So it worked, Steve didn't suspect anything?" he asked.

"Suspect? He thinks Stacey and I are friends."

The two of you laughed, Mike's hands, always slightly cold to the touch, cupped your cheeks and kissed you, free of interruption from your brother. The laughter died in your throat as your hands slid up his arms.

You pulled away slowly, Mike lingering in the kiss. "So, how do you plan to keep my brother distracted?"

"A master never tells his secrets," he says, causing your eyes to roll with affection.

"Okay, then what do you have planned?" you asked, arms over his shoulder as his went to your waist.

Mike smiled down at you. "Well, there's the arcade or my mom's cooking a nice dinner that I know she'd love for us all to sit down and have together... or we could stay down here, just you and me." His voice drifted as he leant down, peppering light kisses to your neck.

You smiled. "What was the third option again?"

"I can't believe we're doing this," huffed Lucas.

"It's for a good cause," said Dustin, peering through his binoculars at the Harrington residence.

Lucas frowned. "Mike's love life?"

"No, the money he's paying us to do it."

The two of them had set up camp over the road and in the bushes of Harrington's house, a blanket out with snacks and torches and coats. If anyone was to go by and see two boys, spying into a house of one Steve Harrington... well, they'd look odd for sure.

And frankly, spying in on Steve in a lonely house, they were worried what they were going to find.

But to Dustin's surprise, Steve had only tied the kitchen, took a shower and the only visitor he had stayed for two minutes to drop off a pizza.

They must have been on a watch close enough to an hour when Dustin noticed the signs. The tv channels Steve flicked through, the constant check to the phone and the pointless drinking of a beer. He was getting restless.

"Ok, time to go." Dustin and Lucas shared a nod and got into action. For Mike!

Steve was bored. And it wasn't because there were many other things he could be doing. He could go see Robin, bother Nancy and Jonathon, rent a film, go out to a bar or start a fight in the upside down. He just, kinda wanted an evening with you, but you were a good friend helping out that Stacey.

There was a knock on the door and he pushed himself up, dusting off pizza crumbs.

Dustin stood on the other side of the door, eyes puffy and wet. "Steve," he cried.

"Dustin, what-what's happened?" he asked, urging the kid in.

"It's Suzie. She-she broke up with me!" Dustin threw his arms around Steve, sobbing loudly and kicked the door closed behind him.

Well, Steve had never seen him like this. The kid embracing him tightly, the two shuffling further into his house, leaving Steve to pat his back. Why was everyone getting broken up with tonight?"

It's just such a shame he was nice, and trusting. Otherwise he might have questioned how over the top Dustin was playing it, like Lucas was as he watched him go into the Harrington house.

Now, it was up to Lucas to punch a hole in Steve's precious car, rendering him useless for the remainder of the evening.

You were somewhere in the plush of Mike's basement sofa, cushions and blankets around you, some cushioning you and the rest ditched on the floor to make room for the both of you.

Mike laid atop of you, kissing wherever he could and was allowed. You had that Harrington stubbornness in you that he adored when you wore it, just not your brother. But it wasn't your brother he was thinking about, it was you, just kissing you.

And at some point maybe asking you your opinion on the new DnD campaign he had floating around his head.

Meanwhile, Dustin was a sobbing mess on Steve's couch, but he wasn't sobbing enough to not finish the last slice or two of Steve's pizza.

"And she-she just said you know, that Jesus comes first, I mean what? What do I say to that?" said Dustin, chocking on a cry and a bit of pizza crust stuck in his throat.

"Woah, so she's like, super religious. Won't do it till marriage type?"

"Yeah, which I didn't care about you know, I just liked her but she called and just... ended it!" It was a simple story, one Dustin couldn't trip up on even if he tried. He just had to keep relaying it to Steve until Mike and you were finished with whatever date he had planned. But Dustin could almost guarantee you and him were in his basement right now... well, he didn't know what you were doing and he didn't want to think about it too hard if he had to go back down there.

Steve leant back on the couch. "Geez man, that sucks. Listen, I know you probably don't wanna hear this but I'm never wrong with these kids of things. Listen... there might be someone else."

Dustin frowned. "Someone else?"

"Yeah," Said Steve, a hand on his little friends shoulder. "I mean, if there was no other reason to break up with you then there must be a middle man. And I'm not talking about Jesus. A third."

"A third." There was actually nothing wrong between him and Suzie, in fact he was going up to see her next week, if Steve would still take him after all this.

"Yeah."

The phone rang and Steve hopped up to get it.

Dustin was so lost in his own worries about there actually being someone other than Jesus in his girlfriends life that he was completely delayed in stopping him from answering.

"No, Stev-"

"Hello?"

'Is this y/n?' said a sharp, snappy voice on the other line.

"Er no, this is her brother."

'Well, you can tell your bitch of a sister she better not come to school Monday! I know she took my Kate Bush tape, my daddy got me that from Kate Bush directly and we will be pressing chargers. Either she gets it back to me, pronto, or she can kiss cheerleading squad goodbye!'

Steve was shocked to silence at the girl.

'This is Stacey, by the way!'

"Wait, Stac-"

There was a sharp silence on the other end as Stacey hung up. Stacey... the one you were supposed to be comforting, not making an enemy out of.

Dustin stood like a deer in headlights as the clogs turned slowly in Steve's head and he let the phone hang back in the receiver. "Who was that, Steve?" Dustin squeaked.

Steve scratched the back of his head, looking from the phone to the receiver. "Stacey, funny enough the one person I thought my sister was with tonight."

Uh oh... Dustin gulped.

Steve broke out into a grin. "She must be miss popular, woah!"

He hadn't caught on. Dustin sighed in relief. They'd got away with it, thank god. All that Farrah Fawcett spray must have really-

It was like the flick of a light, the change in Steve as he realised. "Wheeler!" he darted out his house like a bolt of lighting.

"Steve no!" Dustin called, racing after him.

Lucas had only just finished with Steve's car when said man ran out and spotted him.

"What are you doing?" he asked, catching him red handed. "What- get away from my baby!"

"Steve!" Dustin yelled from the doorway.

"My tires, man!" Steve's hands ran through his hair franticly.

Lucas looked from him to Dustin, mouthing 'what's going on?'.

"He's onto us!" screamed Dustin.

Suddenly Steve jumped over the bush they'd made their camp and came out with Lucas's bike, speeding away on it.

"Shit-shit-shit-" Dustin cursed, rushing to Lucas who was getting out his own bike. "Son of a bitch!"

"You're paying for my ties, Sinclair!"

The chaos was un-known to you and Mike, too busy in your own loved up world of making out, tongue and lips running over each others.

Mike moaned and pulled away. "How long does Steve think you're out for?"

You peered at the clock over the other side, just about making where the hands were. "You've got another half hour, mister."

"Hmm, then better make it count."

Or that's what you thought when suddenly there were heavy footsteps sounding above you both, followed by Nancy's muffled voice.

Steve what are you doing here?

Where's my sister?

"Shit-shit-shit," you and Mike scrambled up, shoving on shoes and jumpers.

"How did he know you were here?" asked Mike.

"I dunno, he knows everything!"

The footsteps were getting closer and suddenly your brothers wrath was scarier than any Demogorgan... any fight with Vecna. He'd have you grounded for a month and would recruit Hopper to help Mike disappear.

"What do I do?" you panicked.

Mike looked around, hiding you wouldn't do any good, Steve would know where to look. "Out the window!"

"What?" you hissed.

"Do you want him to find you?" Asked Mike, already reaching up to open the small window that went out to his front yard.

Steve, your sister isn't here! you heard Nancy argue.

Mrs Wheeler, is my sister here? your brother asked.

Yeah, sweetie, down the basement with Mike.

Shit.

Mike helped you up and urged you out the window, having to push your backside to help you through as you scrambled. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry... I love you!" he called, watching your figure race across his yard, to your bike, picking it up and riding off into the night.

When the door flew open Mike threw himself on the sofa and picked up the closest thing to him, a magazine.

Steve barrelled down the stairs, only finding Mike. "Alright, where is she?"

"Hi Steve," he said with a smile, as calm as possible. "What's wrong?"

"Don't play coy with me, shithead, where's my sister?" he asked. "I know she's here, your little plan didn't work."

Mike frowned. "Plan?"

Steve shook his head, chuckling. He started to look under every lump that could have been you, calling out your name. Checking under the stairs, the den, even in the laundry basket.

"Steve," said Mike, only taking a small amount of happiness at seeing him in this state. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Yes you do!" Said Steve, crazed. "Yes, you do! My sister, you all were in on it, getting her here."

"Your sisters at home, isn't she?" asked Mike, still tasting the cheery of your chapstick.

"Her bike is outside-" at that argument Steve looked out the window, but looked again only to find your bike was not, indeed there. Only Lucas's that Steve had stolen.

Mike didn't smirk but he wanted to. "You were saying?"

Steve turned, glaring at him. "I'm watching you Wheeler!" as quick as he got down the stairs he shot up them, squeezing by Nancy on the way.

"What the hell, Steve?"

It was supposed to be an easy night, then a quiet night but it had turned to a mess. You had lied, even worse Mike made you lie to go and see him. You were a princess, you'd never lie to Steve unless Mike and his evil friends made you.

Steve didn't blame you, he blamed them.

And he double-blamed them for puncturing his tires!

He wasn't giving Sinclair his bike back until he had proof the kid was sorting out that problem.

Steve got back to his house, your bike where it usually was against the wall. Oh no, no, it was not there when he left. He left Lucas's on the side and swaggered into his house.

There you were, sitting on the sofa, legs curled under you with a blanket as you switched between channels.

You looked back at him. "There you are!"

Steve frowned. "How did-how did you-"

"I got back like ten minutes ago, you weren't home."

"I was... you were-"

"I put Stacy to bed, she was so exhausted from all the crying. That's Stacy M by the way not Stacy V who is my mortal enemy," you explained. "So, where'd you go?"

There was nothing amiss about you from when you left. Your hair, maybe a bit flatter, was not a mess. All of your clothes were the same and in tact and there were no bruises on your skin.

What was Steve supposed to do?!

That night, he caught his reflection in the mirror and spotted a stress induced grey hair. He cried himself to sleep.

You hover there for a second, fingers still curled around the strap of your bag, staring at the back of his head.

He’s exactly where you expected him: sunk into the corner of the couch, one knee propped up, hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows. The TV throws sharp light over his profile, catching on the curve of his mouth as it shapes around another sharp comment into the mic. Hair pushed back messily, headset slightly crooked. He’s leaning forward, elbows on his thighs, fully locked in.

Normal. Everything about this is normal.

It makes the way your throat tightens feel even more ridiculous.

You force yourself to move. Drop your bag by the shoe rack, hang your coat, fumble your scarf off. The metal hooks clack too loud; one of them scrapes the wall. His head twitches minutely in your direction, but his eyes don’t leave the screen.

“Finally,” Seungmin says. “My useless roommate returns.”

There’s a crackle in his mic; someone must be answering him in his ear. He snorts. “No, not you. The other useless one. The one who pays half the rent.”

Normally, you’d lob something back—I payed more than half last month, you freeloader—before raiding the fridge or leaning over the back of the couch to mess up his hair. Tonight, your mouth opens and nothing comes out. Your lips press together again. You swallow.

You walk past him toward the kitchen instead.

“Hey,” he calls out, still not looking away. “How was the—no, oh my God, Jisung, if you peek one more corner like that—”

You pull open the fridge and blink at the rows of containers without really seeing them. The cold air licks at your face, makes your eyes sting. There’s leftover pasta. Half a carton of eggs. Three different kinds of yogurt you bought during a health kick you abandoned after two days.

You close the fridge.

You end up standing there with both palms braced on the counter, eyes fixed on the tile backsplash while your heart beats too loud in your ears.

“—I asked you a question, you know,” Seungmin says. Closer now. The audio chaos is still going, but it sounds a little further away. “Don’t ignore me, that’s rude.”

You don’t realize he’s actually walked into the kitchen until his shadow cuts into your peripheral vision. You flinch a little, breath catching, and that’s what makes him really look at you.

He’s still wearing his headset, mic tipped up. The game continues yelling in his ear; his fingers tap restlessly at the controller he’s brought with him out of habit. He opens his mouth, some quip already lined up, and then his gaze finally settles properly on your face.

All the air goes out of his tone.

“Hey.” His brow furrows. “What’s with the funeral vibe?”

You try for a smile. It lands somewhere around “pained grimace.”

“Nothing. It’s—” You flick your eyes down to the counter, tracing a crack in the laminate. “I’m fine.”

“You’re lying.” It’s not an accusation, just a flat fact. “You look like someone kicked your puppy. Did your train catch fire again or something?”

A shout comes through his headset, tinny and frantic. “Hold on,” he mutters into the mic, pulling it down. “Yeah, yeah, play without me for a sec, you’ll live.”

He yanks the headset down around his neck entirely, hits something on the controller, and the living room finally, blessedly, goes quiet as the game pauses. The sudden absence of noise makes your chest feel even more exposed.

He sets the controller on the counter next to your hand.

“Talk,” he says simply.

You stare at his fingers. Long, deft, a smear of something orange—Cheeto dust, probably—staining his knuckle. You focus on that instead of the concern tightening his mouth, the way his eyes keep searching your face like he’s trying to line you up with a version of you that exists in his head.

“It’s stupid,” you say.

“Doubt it.” He nudges your elbow with his. “You don’t look like this for stupid stuff. You look like this when your mom calls.”

The mention of her is like a quick jab to the ribs. Your breath hitches.

He notices. He always does. His voice softens a fraction.

“She called?”

“And texted. And… voice noted. And then my aunt chimed in. And my cousin. And…” You trail off, jaw tightening. If you keep listing names, you’re going to cry, and you refuse to start crying in front of the fridge.

“Okay.” He leans his hip against the counter, turning so he’s angled toward you. “What’s the damage this time? You secretly have three more siblings? They’re all moving in? Your mom wants your firstborn child as collateral for loaning you the car that one time?”

If you weren’t so wound up, you’d laugh. As it is, the corner of your mouth twitches once and falls again.

“It’s Christmas,” you say instead, like that explains anything. To him, it kind of does.

He pulls in a quiet breath. “Right. The Annual Festival of Emotional Blackmail.”

“That’s the one.”

He doesn’t rush you. Seungmin never rushes you. He just waits, eyes steady, like he’s got all night.

You pick at a hangnail, then drop your hand before you draw blood.

“They’re doing a big thing at the house this year,” you say. “Everyone’s coming. All the cousins, the aunts, everybody. Mom’s already in Pinterest-hell about the menu. Apparently there’s a color theme.” You huff a humorless laugh. “She sent me a moodboard.”

“That sounds… horrible,” he says. “But also standard. You’re acting like this is new.”

“It is.” Your throat is tight. You swallow hard. “They invited him.”

He doesn’t ask who. He doesn’t have to. His brows lower, eyes narrowing.

“Seriously?” he says, flat. “After everything?”

You nod, jaw clenching.

There’s a pause. The fridge hums. Somewhere in the building, a pipe knocks.

“Of course,” he says, voice dipped in that particular brand of dry disgust he usually reserves for lag and pineapple pizza. “Why not invite the human red flag to celebrate the birth of baby Jesus.”

You snort automatically, the sound half-choked. “Don’t blaspheme in my mother’s presence, she’ll feel it through the walls.”

“Good.” He folds his arms, shoulder bumping yours again, this time on purpose. “Maybe she’ll also feel how insane this is. Did you tell her no?”

“I tried.I said it would be weird. She said I was being dramatic and that I should ‘just be mature’ about it.” Your voice pitches slightly higher when you mimic her, the words tasting sour. “Apparently he was ‘so good for me’ and he ‘always brought out the best in me.’”

Seungmin makes a noise low in his throat, something between a scoff and a growl. “Yeah, because nothing says ‘brings out the best in you’ like—”

“Don’t,” you cut in quickly. “I really… I don’t want to replay it. I just—” You press your thumb and forefinger hard to the bridge of your nose. “It doesn’t matter. They love him. They love the version of him they saw, and they think I’m stupid for letting him go.”

“You’re not stupid,” he says immediately.

“That’s not the part they’re arguing.”

He opens his mouth, closes it again. You can see him working through several options and discarding all of them because none of them will fix the fact that your family is who they are.

“So don’t go,” he says finally. “You didn’t go last year. Or the year before that.”

Your hands fall to your sides. You stare at the tile pattern until it blurs.

“Yeah,” you say quietly. “Well. This year’s different.”

“How?”

You swallow. The word tastes heavier than everything else.

“Grandma.”

His posture changes. The tension in him shifts, goes from irritated on your behalf to something more careful.

“Is she…” He trails off, searching your face.

“Mom says she’s not doing well. They’ve had to take her to the hospital a few times this year. She gets tired easily. She… she asked if I would come.” You blink hard. 

The last part cracks something open. You bite the inside of your cheek to stop it from spilling out.

Seungmin watches you, jaw working.

“So you have to go,” he says quietly.

You nod.

“And they’re not uninviting him.”

You shake your head, a bitter little laugh hitching out. “Mom says it would be rude. He’s ‘family to them’ now.” You curl your fingers into the fabric of your shirt. “Isn’t that funny? He’s family. I’m apparently… the one who should get over it.”

His silence is sharp.

When he speaks again, his voice is low, careful. “Do you want to see him?”

You answer without thinking. “No.”

“Do you want to see your grandmother?”

Your throat tightens. “Yeah. Of course I do.”

“Okay.” He pushes off the counter, straightening. The movement makes you look up. His expression has settled into something focused, the same look he gets right before he clutches a match and turns an entire game around. “Then we make it happen.”

“Seungmin, it’s not that simple.” You rake a hand through your hair, frustration bubbling up hot. “They’re going to ask a thousand questions. They’re going to make comments. They’re already acting like I made this huge mistake and he’s God’s gift to our bloodline and—” You cut yourself off, breath coming too fast.

He steps closer. Not enough to crowd you, just enough that when he lowers his chin a little, you can’t avoid his eyes.

“Look at me,” he says softly.

You do. You always do.

His gaze is steady, dark and intent. For a second, the usual sarcasm drops away completely, and you see the bare, unvarnished worry underneath.

“You’re not going to skip seeing your grandmother because your family has the emotional intelligence of a potato,” he says. “I’m not letting that happen.”

“I don’t—” You swallow. “I don’t know what else to do.”

“You go.” He shrugs, like he’s saying something simple. “And I’ll go with you.”

You blink. “What?”

“I’ll go,” he repeats, like you’re the one being slow. “To Christmas. To your parents’ place. I’ll come.”

The idea is so absurd you almost laugh in his face. “You? With my family? Do you have a secret death wish I don’t know about?”

“Apparently,” he says dryly. “Because I’m still offering.”

You stare at him, trying to picture it—Seungmin in your mother’s immaculate living room, enduring your aunt’s interrogation, navigating your cousins’ chaos. Him sitting at that table where everything between you and your ex fractured so neatly apart.

Your stomach swoops.

“You don’t have to do that,” you say quickly. “Seriously, I just— I needed to vent. I’ll figure something out. I always do.”

“You don’t always,” he says, and there’s no heat in it, just quiet truth. “Sometimes you avoid. Sometimes you stay here and pretend Christmas doesn’t exist and eat ramen with me instead.”

“That sounds like a good plan,” you mutter.

“Not this year.”

He holds your gaze, and something slots into place behind his eyes. Decision. Resolve.

“You said the problem is facing him alone,” he says. “And dealing with your family’s… collective delusion.” His nose wrinkles slightly. “So don’t be alone.”

You blink again. “What does that even mean?”

“It means,” he says slowly, like he’s spelling it out for you, “I’ll be your boyfriend.”

There’s a beat of silence.

“Excuse me?” you manage.

“Fake,” he adds. “Obviously. I’ll go as your boyfriend. They’ll be too busy asking me invasive questions and comparing me to your ex to pull their usual crap, and he…” His jaw tightens. “He’ll see you’re not still orbiting him like he’s the sun.”

The room tilts just a little. You grip the edge of the counter.

“You can’t be serious.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s insane,” you say, half-laughing, half-panicking. “Because my family is insane. Because you’d be trapped in a house with them for at least three days. Because my mother will show you baby pictures of me and ask how many grandchildren you want.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You think I’m scared of your mom?”

“You should be,” you say fervently.

He huffs out a breath that might be a laugh. “I’m not. And even if I was, I’d still go.” He shrugs one shoulder, casual in a way that doesn’t quite match the intensity in his eyes. “You need backup. I’m here. It’s not that complicated.”

It feels complicated. It feels like your heart is trying to climb up your throat.

“Seungmin,” you say, softer now. “You don’t owe me that.”

His gaze flicks over your face, cataloguing every line of doubt, every crack. When he speaks again, his voice is quiet, almost matter-of-fact.

“I know,” he says. “I want to.”

That pulls the air right out of your lungs.

You look at him fully, really look—the stubborn line of his mouth, the way his shoulders are squared like he’s already bracing himself for your family’s version of war, the warm focus in his eyes that’s always, always been there when it comes to you. Suddenly, the idea isn’t insane. It’s dangerous in a different way.

“Are you sure?” you whisper.

He nods once. “Text your mom back. Tell her you’re bringing your boyfriend home for Christmas.”

He lets the word hang there between you, steady and unflinching, while your pulse stutters and races.

“And,” he adds, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at his mouth, “you might want to warn her I eat a lot. Wouldn’t want to be rude and demolish the whole Christmas dinner without notice.”

A startled laugh bursts out of you, sharp and wet. You swipe quickly under your eye; your fingers come away damp. He pretends not to see.

“Okay,” you say, voice shaking around the edges but stronger than before. “Okay. I’ll… I’ll tell her.”

“Good.” He reaches for the controller, then pauses. “And hey?”

“Yeah?”

He bumps your shoulder again, gentler this time. “We’re going to make them regret inviting him,” he says lightly. “They’ll be too busy falling in love with me.”

You roll your eyes, but your chest feels a little less tight, a little more like you can breathe.

“Cocky much?”

“Realistic,” he counters, already slipping the headset back on. “My charm is devastating. Ask literally anyone who isn’t you.”

You shake your head, the beginnings of a real smile pulling at your mouth as you reach for your phone.

Your screen lights up with the group chat, the last message still glowing:

Mom: we invited Daniel too!! it’s been so long since we saw him 🥰

Your thumbs hover.

Then, with Seungmin’s presence warm and solid at your side, the living room filling back up with the noise of resumed gunfire and shouted insults, you type:

Y/N: I’m coming. And I’m bringing my boyfriend.

You hit send before you can talk yourself out of it.

The highway gives way to smaller roads without you really noticing.

One minute it’s gray lanes and salt-streaked barriers, the city shrinking in the rearview; the next you’re rolling past strips of dark trees and gas stations dressed up in half-hearted tinsel. The sky’s the kind of flat December white that promises snow and delivers only slush, and the car is just warm enough that your fingers have stopped hurting.

Your stomach, however, has not.

You twist your hands in your lap. The radio is low, some classic Christmas song murmuring about chestnuts and open fires. The heater hums. The world outside is all muted browns and the occasional flash of a plastic wreath on a front door.

“Stop it,” Seungmin says.

You blink. “Stop what?”

He flicks his eyes off the road just long enough to angle a look at your hands. “You’re going to untangle your cuticles. It’s disturbing.”

You glance down. Red crescent marks bloom at the base of your nails where you’ve been worrying them.

“Oh.” You drag your hands away from each other and press them flat against your thighs, sitting up straighter. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize to me.” He shifts a little, one hand steady on the wheel, the other reaching down. “Apologize to your fingers.”

He pries one of your hands up from your leg with practiced impatience, like he’s done this a hundred times before, and threads his fingers through yours. His palm is warm, grip firm. It makes your bones feel less like they’re rattling around inside you.

You stare at your joined hands for a second, then turn your gaze resolutely to the windshield.

“This is not going to fix my anxiety,” you mutter.

“Maybe not,” he says, thumb brushing absently along the back of your hand like he doesn’t realize he’s doing it. “But it’ll stop you from mauling yourself before we even get there.”

The GPS mounted on the dash chimes cheerfully.

In 1.5 miles, turn right onto Maple Lane.

Your chest tightens at the name. You know what comes after Maple Lane. You could drive this route in your sleep. 

You wish you were asleep.

“How far?” you ask, even though you heard it.

“Ten minutes,” he says. “Maybe less.”

“Great.” You swallow. “Fantastic.”

He glances over again. His mouth pulls to the side. “You look like you’re going to throw up on my dashboard.”

“Thanks,” you say faintly. “That helps.”    

“I’m just saying,” he goes on, turning onto a narrower road flanked by sleeping trees. “If you’re going to hurl, aim for your side. I like my shoes.”    

You make a weak chirping noise that’s probably supposed to be a laugh.    

Houses start appearing between the trees, spaced further apart than anything in the city, with wide driveways and mailboxes that all look like variations on a theme. Wreaths on some doors. Lights on others. A giant inflatable Santa listing to one side in someone’s yard like it’s given up on life.    

Your childhood neighborhood, exactly as you remember it and somehow smaller.    

You fall quiet. So does he.    

The GPS chirps an instruction you don’t hear. Seungmin makes another turn, and there it is.    

Your parents’ house appears around the curve like it’s been waiting for you: the same blue-gray siding, the white trim, the porch with the railing your dad always meant to fix and never did. Every inch of it is dressed for the season—fairy lights crisscrossing the porch, a lit-up reindeer on the lawn, garland wound around the pillars. There’s a glowing star plugged into the upstairs window of what used to be your room.    

Your heart lurches.    

Seungmin slows to a crawl, then eases the car up to the curb.    

“Home sweet psychological war zone,” he murmurs.    

You don’t answer. Your tongue feels stuck to the roof of your mouth.    

He puts the car in park and lets his hands rest on the wheel for a second. The engine ticks softly as it settles.    

“Hey,” he says. “Look at me.”    

You peel your eyes away from the house and force them sideways.    

He’s not smiling now. Up close, in the thin winter light coming through the windshield, he looks unexpectedly grown—jaw set, eyes steady and dark, hair still a little mussed from the beanie he yanked off when you hit the outskirts of town.    

“It’s just a house,” he says quietly. “It has no actual power. It’s wood and nails and an aggressive amount of fairy lights. The people inside are loud and wrong a lot of the time, but they can’t reach into your chest and rearrange you without permission. Got it?”    

You huff a shaky breath. “You rehearsed that?”    

“Came up with it just now. I’m a genius under pressure.” He clicks his seatbelt free. “We get out. You ring the bell. I carry the bags. That’s it. First quest.”    

You fumble with your own seatbelt. The buckle sticks once, then pops free. Your fingers are clumsy on the door handle, but you get it open and the cold air slaps you in the face, sharp and clean and full of woodsmoke from some neighbor’s fireplace.    

He rounds the car in a few strides, already shrugging into his coat. You step onto the curb, knees a little watery.    

“I can grab—” you start, reaching for the trunk.    

“Nope.” He holds up a palm like a traffic cop. “Pretty sure the terms of service state I have to show up looking useful.”    

“You made those terms up.”    

“And yet they’re legally binding.” He pops the trunk before you can argue and starts loading himself up with the practiced efficiency of someone who has hauled your overpacked suitcases up three flights of stairs more than once.    

Your overnight duffel goes over his right shoulder. The tote bag of presents over the left. He hooks the grocery bag your mom insisted you bring (homemade cookies, double-wrapped) in his fingers for good measure, then closes the trunk with his elbow.    

You hover uselessly at the end of the driveway.    

“You look ridiculous,” you say. “Like a Christmas pack mule.”    

“And you look like you’re about to bolt.” He jerks his chin toward the porch. “Ring the bell.”    

You swallow, nod, and force your legs to move.    

The porch boards creak under your boots. The doormat still says WELCOME in curling letters that have faded more with each year. The wreath on the front door is new, though—darker greenery, big red velvet bow. You stare at it for a second, then lift a hand that doesn’t feel entirely attached to you and press the doorbell.    

The chiming echoes faintly inside. A second later, you hear muffled footsteps, a voice calling your name, the thump of someone hurrying down the hall.    

You drag in a breath. Your heart is a drumline in your ears.    

The lock clicks. The handle turns.    

The door swings open.    

And it’s not your mother standing there.    

For a second, your brain rejects what it’s seeing. It’s been long enough that you’ve mentally filed him away as an abstract problem—text on a screen, a name in a group chat, a shadow in old memories.    

But there he is, in the flesh, filling your parents’ doorway like it’s his.    

Daniel.    

He looks almost exactly the same. A little shorter than Seungmin, hair styled carefully, the same easy smile that used to make your stomach flip for very different reasons. He’s wearing a sweater you’ve seen before—navy, soft-looking, something you helped him pick out once in a mall two towns over.    

“Hey,” he says, like you just bumped into each other at the grocery store. His eyes skim over your face, warm, familiar. Like nothing ever went wrong.    

Your breath stalls.    

Your grip tightens on the strap of your bag until your knuckles hurt.    

“Wow,” he adds, letting out a low whistle. “Look who finally decided to come home.”    

His gaze flicks over your shoulder, scanning the driveway. The practiced ease in his posture falters just a fraction when he realizes you didn’t arrive alone.    

Seungmin is halfway up the walk, weighed down with bags but still moving with that unhurried, controlled stride he has. He looks… annoyingly good, actually. The coat fits him, the scarf you bullied him into wearing makes his skin look warmer, and the wind has flushed his cheeks faintly pink.    

Daniel’s eyes narrow, just a hair.    

You feel like you’re watching all of this from behind glass.    

“Hi,” you manage, throat dry. “Um. Hey. I didn’t… know you were going to be the one answering the door.”    

He shrugs, leaning one shoulder casually against the frame like he belongs in it. “Your mom’s drowning in kitchen stuff. Your dad’s yelling at your uncle about football. I pulled the short straw.” His mouth quirks. “You look good.”    

The compliment hits like a small, dull stone. Once, it would’ve made you glow. Now it just makes something in you bristle.    

“Thanks,” you say, because muscle memory is a powerful thing. “You, uh… you’re—here.”    

“Yup.” His smile brightens, like you’ve said something charming. “Wouldn’t miss it. Your mom practically begged.” He laughs, light, like it’s all a joke. “Besides, wouldn’t be Christmas without you starting some fight at the table, right?”    

There’s an edge beneath the words that only you hear. The implication. The rewriting.    

Heat crawls up the back of your neck. You open your mouth—god knows what was about to come out—when Seungmin’s shoulder bumps gently into your arm.    

“Hey,” he says, breath puffing white in the cold. “Did you ring an alternate dimension or something? It take this long to say hi?”    

His tone is light, but his eyes flick over your face quickly, cataloguing the pale set of your mouth, the tension in your shoulders. They sharpen when they slide to the man in the doorway.    

You feel something in you unclench, just a little, at the sight of him there beside you. Solid. Familiar. Yours—for now, at least.    

Daniel straightens off the doorframe, easy charm snapping back into place like a mask.    

“You must be Seungmin,” he says, sticking his hand out. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”    

There’s an assumption tucked neatly inside the phrase, like he’s offering Seungmin a script: we are men who know where we stand in this story. I am the Ex. You are the New Guy. You’ve heard of me, of course you have. I matter here.    

For a heartbeat, you freeze.    

Because of course Seungmin has heard about him. He was there for the whole messy end, the nights you came home hollow-eyed, the way your hands shook when your phone lit up with certain notifications. He’s heard plenty.    

But he doesn’t take the script.    

Instead, he shifts the bags on his shoulder, freeing one hand carefully, and looks at Daniel’s outstretched hand with polite puzzlement, like he’s not entirely sure if he’s supposed to recognize him from somewhere.    

Then he smiles.    

It’s his nice smile. The one he uses on baristas and professors and neighbors’ kids. Soft at the edges, just enough teeth, completely void of the contempt you know he’s capable of.    

“Hi,” he says. “And you are…?”    

The silence that falls is microscopic and enormous at the same time.    

Daniel’s hand hangs there midair for a fraction of a second too long.    

“Oh,” he says, a flicker of something crossing his face before he catches it. “Uh. Daniel.” He recovers into a laugh that’s just a little too loud. “I’m—sorry, I thought she would’ve mentioned me.”    

He glances at you as he says it, like he’s tossing a ball into your court. Like he expects you to jump in and fill the space, to reassure him, to patch his ego.    

You feel Seungmin’s gaze slide to you then back to Daniel.    

“Daniel,” he repeats thoughtfully, as if tasting the name for the first time. “Nice to meet you.” He shifts the bags again so he can give the other man’s hand a brief, firm shake. “She hasn’t, actually.”    

Your pulse ricochets.

Daniel’s smile falters, just a fraction. “Oh,” he says again. “Huh.”

He looks at you, waiting for you to fix it, to jump in with oh my god, I talk about you all the time, of course I do, you’re unforgettable.

You let the beat stretch.

“Yeah,” you say, voice even. “Didn’t really… come up.”

Something flickers in his eyes—confusion, then a quick bruise of offense he tries to smother with a shrug.

“Well,” he says, clearing his throat. “Guess I’m not as memorable as I thought.”

“There’s still time to impress,” Seungmin says pleasantly. “Door’s only been open for a minute.”

Daniel huffs a little laugh, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

Before the moment can stretch into something uglier, your mother’s voice blasts down the hallway.

“Who is it? Is that her? Is she here?”

You flinch. The sound yanks you straight back to sixteen: late for curfew, shoes already off in your hand to keep from making noise.

“Yeah, Mom, it’s—” you start.

She appears before you can finish.

Your mom barrels around the corner in a flurry of apron strings and holiday earrings, cheeks flushed from whatever chaos she’s been orchestrating in the kitchen. She’s got a dish towel in one hand and the unmistakable look of a woman who has been waiting all day to perform motherhood at maximum volume.

“There she is!” she squeals, wiping her hands hastily on the towel as she closes the distance. “My runaway child finally decides to come home!”

You barely have time to brace before she wraps you up, arms banding tight around your shoulders, the dish towel still faintly damp against your neck. She smells like rosemary and sugar and the sharp floral of the perfume you always thought was too much.

Your own arms come up on instinct. Hug back, don’t twitch, don’t pull away. Old programming kicks in like muscle memory.

“Hi, Mom,” you manage around the squeeze.

She pulls back just enough to cup your face between both palms, scanning you with a critical, affectionate eye like she’s judging wear and tear.

“You’re too thin,” she declares immediately. “Do you not eat in that city? You look pale. Look at those dark circles—oh, we’ll fix that this week. I have this new eye cream, reminds me, I have to show you—”

Her words tumble over each other. Your head starts to buzz.

“And you cut your hair.” She flicks at the ends like they’ve personally offended her. “I liked it long. You never ask my opinion.”

“Hello Ma’am,” Seungmin says from behind you.

For a second, she doesn’t even register him. Her gaze slides past your shoulder—locks on something over your other one—and her face lights up in a different way.

“Danny!” she crows. “You got the door, thank you.” Her hand drops from your cheek as she reaches to squeeze his forearm. “You’re such a help. Honestly, I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

There it is. The pivot. The familiar little sting of being temporarily displaced in your own entrance.

Daniel smiles, sliding easily back into the role. “It’s nothing. You know I like feeling useful.”

“You always were,” she says, voice going soft. “Such a good boy.”

It’s like watching a play you’ve already seen. Daniel in his mark, your mother feeding him his lines.

You stand there with your half-finished hug and try not to fidget.

Then, finally, her gaze boomerangs back to you—and catches on the figure standing just behind your shoulder.

“Oh!” she says, blinking like she’s only just noticed the man loaded down with half the contents of your life. “And this must be…”

She lets it trail, brows lifting in anticipation. She wants you to say it. Wants you to present him like a project you’ve brought home for grading.

You inhale.

“Mom,” you say, stepping slightly to the side so Seungmin is fully in her line of sight. “This is Seungmin. My boyfriend.”

The word feels heavy on your tongue, but once it’s out, it sits there solidly, undeniably real.

Seungmin shifts the bag to his fingertips and offers a lopsided, polite smile.

“It’s really nice to finally meet you,” he says. “Thank you for having me.”

He’s annoyingly good at this. His voice is pitched just right—respectful, warm, not too eager. If you didn’t know him, you’d believe it without question.

Your mother looks him up and down in a quick, assessing sweep.

He’s not what she expected, you can tell. There’s a fractional pause where she recalibrates, where you can see the lists forming in her head: clothes, posture, tone, whether he’s an upgrade or a downgrade on paper.

Then she plasters on a hostess smile.

“Oh my goodness,” she says, feigning breathlessness. “Well, aren’t you handsome.”

You feel Seungmin go very still for a millisecond at your side, then he executes a tiny bow of his head.

“Thank you, ma’am,” he says. “I’ll try to live up to the hype.”

Your mom laughs, charmed despite herself. “Listen to him,” she says to Daniel, like you’re not even there. “Isn’t he funny?”

Daniel’s mouth twists. “Seems like it,” he says.

Your mother turns back to you, the appraisal starting all over again, this time with more pointed edges.

“So,” she says, that particular tone creeping in—the one that always means you’re about to be under a microscope. “This is the famous roommate we’ve heard so much about?”

You blink. “You’ve… heard about him?”

“Of course,” she says briskly. “Every time we talk it’s ‘Seungmin this, Seungmin that, my roommate does this, my roommate doesn’t know how to use a dishwasher’—” She clucks her tongue, aiming the last bit at him like a joke. “I just assumed you were staying in that little phase. Didn’t realize it had turned into…” Her eyebrows rise meaningfully. “This.”

Her eyes flick between the two of you, like she’s checking for visual proof. Hand-holding. Rings. Some sign that this isn’t just a test run.

Your stomach flips.

“Well,” you say, before she can fill in the silence, “it has.”

Seungmin’s elbow brushes yours. When you glance up, he meets your eyes for a heartbeat and there’s something like quiet praise there, like you just got an answer right in class.

He shifts the bags as if reminded and offers them shyly.

“Where can I put these?” he asks. “I’d hate to drop your cookies. She was very… insistent about them making it intact.”

Your mother softens automatically at the mention of food. “Oh, did she finally bring my sugar cookies? Good.” She reaches for the grocery bag, and Seungmin smoothly prevents her from taking it, stepping forward instead.

“Let me,” he says. “You look busy. Tell me where and I’ll get out of your way.”

Her eyes linger on him for a second—on the way he moves, the way he speaks. Calculating, recalculating.

“Such manners,” she says, almost grudgingly impressed. “Now I see why she was so keen to skip Christmas to sulk in that apartment with you.”

“Mom,” you mutter.

“What? It’s true.” She waves the dish towel dismissively. “If you’d just come back and live at home like I've been telling you—”

She doesn’t finish the sentence.

She doesn’t have to.

Maybe we wouldn’t have lost Daniel. Maybe you wouldn’t have broken up. Maybe you wouldn’t have ruined a perfectly good thing. Maybe—

“—maybe things would’ve gone differently,” she finishes lightly, with a little shrug, like she hasn’t just lobbed a grenade between all three of you. “But what’s done is done.”

She gives you a bright, brittle smile, the kind she wears at work events.

“You always did have to learn things the hard way,” she adds. “Didn’t you, sweetheart?”

It takes effort not to flinch. You make your face do something approximating neutral instead.

“Guess so,” you say.

Seungmin’s fingers flex minutely on the strap of your bag. You can feel the shift of his weight at your side, like he’s readying himself.

“Well,” your mother says briskly, tilting her head, “at least this one knows how to carry a bag without complaining.”

She aims the line at Daniel, teasing, but it hits sideways. Daniel tips his head, accepting the jab with the kind of easy grin that always convinced people he didn’t mean anything by it.

“Hey, I complained plenty,” he says. “But I still did it.”

Your chest tightens. And reminded me afterward how much I owed you for it, your memory supplies, unhelpfully.

“Well,” she says again, turning the full wattage of her hostess-smile on Seungmin, “however much she packs, it’s very kind of you to put up with her. She can be… a lot, sometimes.”

The way she says it—light, amused, confiding—makes your stomach twist. It sounds like a joke. It lands like a verdict.

Seungmin’s head tilts, just a fraction.

“She’s never too much for me,” he says, offhand and smooth enough that it takes you a second to process it. “I like having her around.”

It’s such a simple sentence. It feels like someone’s reached into your chest and quietly rearranged all the furniture.

Your mother’s eyebrows lift.

“Do you,” she says. It’s not quite skepticism, not quite disbelief. Something in the middle. “Well. That’s… sweet.”

She swipes her towel at an imaginary speck on the doorframe, lips curving.

“Daniel always said you kept him on his toes,” she adds to you, in that faux-conspiratorial tone that pretends to invite you in while placing you on display. “Remember, Danny? You said she was like a hurricane.”

Your throat closes around air.

Daniel laughs on cue, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah,” he says. “She’s… intense.”

He doesn’t say you were exhausting when you didn’t agree with me, or you always made everything a big deal, but you hear it anyway.

“Passionate,” Seungmin corrects, like he’s adjusting a mispronounced word. His tone is still gentle, but there’s a new thread running through it—something firmer. “That’s one of the first things I liked about her.”

Liked. Your heart stutters. It still makes something warm flicker low in your ribs.

Your mom blinks at him, as if she hadn’t expected an opinion from that direction.

“Mm,” she says after a beat, noncommittal, and then snaps back into motion before the moment can settle. “Anyway. We’re in the doorway like fugitives, this is ridiculous. Come in, both of you. Shoes off. You know I just mopped.”

She steps back, ushering with her free hand, herding you like a stray cat.

You toe your boots off on autopilot, bracing a hand on the wall when your foot almost slips. The familiar entryway rushes at you—the same console table with the chipped corner, the same mirror reflecting all of you back, the same family photos lining the wall. Most of them still include Daniel.

You try to take up as little space as possible as you tuck your boots onto the mat. Daniel is already moving with well-practiced ease, toeing his own shoes neatly to the side.

Daniel bends to scoop up one of the bags before Seungmin can move.

“I’ll take that,” he says easily, fingers already closing around the strap of your duffel. “I can show him where everything goes. I know the layout.”

Of course he does. He used to breeze through this house like it was an extension of his own, opening cabinets without asking, changing the thermostat without checking.

You watch his hand on the strap of your bag and feel your jaw tighten.

Seungmin shifts his weight, the easy line of his shoulders hardly changing—but the grip on the duffel doesn’t loosen.

“Thanks,” he says, pleasant as anything, “but I’ve got it.”

Daniel’s smile sticks for a beat. “It’s really no problem.”

“I know.” Seungmin’s voice stays soft, almost apologetic. “Still. She’ll never let me live it down if I show up as the boyfriend who can’t even carry luggage up a flight of stairs.”

Your mom makes a little approving noise. “That’s true,” she says. “She’d complain about that for years.”

You don’t correct her. You’re too busy watching the way Daniel’s fingers reluctantly unhook from the strap, leaving Seungmin’s hand exactly where it was.

“Besides,” Seungmin adds, like it’s an afterthought, “you’ve already been helping in the kitchen, right?”

The implication is mild, almost invisible: you already have your place here; let me have mine.

Daniel’s mouth twitches. The polite thing to do is back off. He does, but you can see the dent in his pride.

“Sure,” he says, stepping back half a pace. “Whatever you want, man.”

Your mom claps her hands once, done with the posturing even if you’re not.

“Alright,” she declares. “Bags to your room, then you can both come help me. We’re behind on the potatoes.” She tosses you a bright glance. “You and your boyfriend will be in your old room, sweetheart. I put fresh sheets on the bed.”

Heat floods your face. “We—what?”

“It’s not complicated,” she says breezily, already turning toward the hallway. “One room, one bed, two young people in love. I’m modern.”

You almost choke. 

She doesn’t wait for an answer. She’s halfway to the kitchen, calling, “Danny, honey, can you check the timer?”

“Yeah, I’ve got it!” he calls back, already moving toward her voice.

You stand there, momentarily shell-shocked, Seungmin at your side with both bags still in his hands.

Your old room. With him. In the same bed.

Later problem. Deal with it later.

You suck in a breath. “I should—”

“Go see your grandma,” Seungmin finishes quietly, like he’s been reading your mind. “Before she gets tired.”

Your attention snaps to him. “But the bags—”

He shrugs, adjusting the straps on his shoulder like they weigh nothing.

“I’m not eighty-two,” he says. “She is. Priorities.”

Your throat stings.

“I can come with you,” you offer weakly. “Drop these off first, then—”

He shakes his head, tipping his chin toward the hallway branching right. “Sitting room’s that way, yeah? By the big window?”

“Yeah,” you say. “Second door on the left.”

“Then go.” His eyes hold yours for a beat, steady and warm. “Let her have you to herself before the circus starts. I’ll find the room.”

You hesitate. The idea of leaving him alone in this house with these people for even five minutes makes your stomach do weird, protective flips.

“You sure?” you murmur.

He huffs a soft laugh. “What’s the worst that can happen?”

You raise an eyebrow at him, deadpan.

“Seriously,” he insists. “I’ll be fine.”

He watches your face and softens, just slightly.

“Go,” he repeats, gentler. “I’ll drop this stuff and meet you there. You can introduce me as the guy your grandma’s going to like more than everyone else in this house combined.”

You roll your eyes, but it doesn’t have its usual bite.

“Big talk,” you say.

“Big truth,” he counters.

You squeeze his forearm—quick, impulsive—then let go before you can overthink it.

“Okay,” you say again, more for yourself than for him. “Second door on the left.”

“I’ll find you,” he promises.

As you turn down the hallway toward the sitting room, you glance back once.

Daniel has reappeared briefly in the archway to the kitchen, watching Seungmin with an unreadable expression as your boyfriend—fake boyfriend, fake—shifts both bags onto his shoulders and starts up the stairs without so much as a wobble.

Your mother is saying something to Daniel, her hand light on his arm, her attention already torn away from you.

Seungmin doesn’t look at either of them. He just glances down the hall, catches your eye, and gives you the smallest nod.

You hold onto that as you head toward the one room in this house that’s ever felt like a refuge.

Your grandmother first. Everything else—the ex in your doorway, your mother’s digs, the strange comfort of Seungmin’s hand in yours, the knowledge that your old bed now has his name on it too—you can untangle later.

The hallway to the sitting room is narrower than you remember.

Same runner rug, same framed cross-stitch of some Bible verse your grandmother liked, same faint smell of dust and floral fabric softener. Your hand skims the wall as you walk, fingertips tracing the familiar bumps in the paint.

Second door on the left.

You pause with your fingers on the knob, heart stuttering, then ease it open.

The sitting room is dim, lit only by the weak gray outside and the blue glow of a muted TV playing an old movie. The recliner is angled toward the window, and in it—smaller than your memory, wrapped in a knitted throw—is your grandmother.

Her eyes are closed, mouth slightly open in the soft, unbothered way of real sleep. The blanket you recognize from a dozen winters is tucked under her chin. Her hair is thinner, more silver than white now. Her chest rises and falls in shallow, even breaths.

You’d braced yourself for this, and somehow it still knocks the air out of you.

“Hey, Grandma,” you whisper, even though she can’t hear you.

You step in, letting the door click shut behind you. The room smells like her—powder and peppermint, a faint trace of whatever lotion she’s always used. There’s a walker folded against the wall. A pill organizer on the side table, days neatly labeled.

You move to her side, knees bumping the recliner. Her hand is resting on the armrest, skin papery, veins like blue thread. There’s a hospital bracelet loose around her wrist.

You touch her fingers lightly. They’re warm.

Guilt hits you harder than you want it to. All the excuses from the past couple years—work, school, money, “I’ll make it next time”—sound flimsy in here, in the hush of this little room where everything is slower, quieter.

“I’m here,” you murmur, thumb brushing gently over her knuckles. “I made it.”

She doesn’t stir. Of course she doesn’t. She’s probably exhausted from the drive, from the noise, from your mother fussing. Rationally, you know it’s better for her to rest. Irrationally, a horrible part of you is convinced that if she doesn’t open her eyes right now, you’ve already missed something you can’t get back.

You sink down onto the little footstool at the base of the recliner, knees pulled close. For a while you just sit there, listening to her breathe, watching the rise and fall of her chest under the blanket. The TV flickers nonsense in the corner.

“I’m sorry,” you tell the blanket. “For not coming before. For leaving you alone with them. For making you ask for me.”

Your eyes sting. You blink up at the ceiling until the water blurs the crown molding.

“You’d like him, you know,” you add, voice barely above a breath. “The guy I brought. He’s… decent. He thinks I’m not a total disaster. That’s gotta count for something.”

A quick, ridiculous urge rises—to shake her gently, to wake her up like you’re a kid again, begging for one more story. You swallow it down. Her hand is heavy in yours, her face so peaceful it hurts.

“Okay,” you whisper, more to yourself than to her. “You rest. I’ll come back when you’re awake.”

You press a quick, clumsy kiss to the back of her hand, the way she used to do to yours when you scratched your knees on the pavement. The familiar texture of her skin against your mouth undoes you more than you expect.

By the time you stand, your throat is tight and your nose burns. You scrub at your eyes with the heel of your palm, determined not to look wrecked before you even make it to the hallway.

You crack the door open as quietly as you can and slip back out.

When you turn, he’s already there.

Seungmin is leaned against the opposite wall, hands in his pockets, head tipped back like he’s been studying the ceiling while he waits. At the sound of the door, his gaze drops to your face.

Whatever he was going to say dies before it reaches his mouth.

You drag your sleeve over your cheek, pointless—the skin is already hot and tight. His eyes track the movement, then come back to yours, dark and steady.

For a moment, neither of you speaks.

He pushes off the wall, closing the space between you in three easy steps. He doesn’t reach for you immediately, just stops close enough that you have to tilt your head a little to keep looking at him.

“How is she?” he asks quietly.

You manage a thin shrug. “Sleeping.”

Your voice is rough. It makes you wince.

He studies you for another heartbeat, then lifts one hand. The backs of his fingers brush under your eye, catching a tear you missed. The touch is light, careful.

You go very still.

His thumb follows, smoothing the dampness away. He doesn’t make a joke. He doesn’t tell you you’re being dramatic. He just… looks at you, like he’s trying to hold your face steady by will alone.

The knot in your throat tightens. You swallow against it.

“Sorry,” you murmur, out of habit more than anything.

His brow creases. The pad of his thumb presses, barely, at the corner of your mouth, a wordless don’t.

You exhale shakily.

“Can you…” You trail off, fingers twisting in the hem of your sweater. You don’t know what you’re asking for exactly. A distraction. A shield. Something solid to lean on.

He seems to understand anyway.

His hand drops from your face only so he can step that last half-step closer. Then his arms come up, slow enough to give you a chance to move away.

You don’t.

You step into him instead.

Your forehead finds his collarbone, your hands curling into the front of his sweater like they’ve been waiting for an excuse. The fabric is soft under your fingers, warm from his body.

He hesitates for a breath—just one—and then his arms fold around you, firm and sure. One wraps around your shoulders; the other settles low on your back, palm broad and steady between your shoulder blades.

The contact knocks the last bit of composure loose.

You don’t sob, exactly. It’s quieter than that—a series of tight, hitching breaths against his chest, the kind that make your ribs ache. Your fingers scrunch tighter in his sweater, knuckles white.

He doesn’t shush you. He doesn’t tell you it’s okay when it clearly isn’t. He just holds you, his chin resting lightly on top of your head, his breath moving slow and even like he’s offering you a rhythm to sync up to.

His hand moves in small, absent circles at your back. Up, down. Up, down. Every pass reminds you: here. Here. Here.

You don’t know how long you stand there in the dim hallway, tucked between a closed door and his chest, the muffled sounds of the house a world away—distant clatter in the kitchen, a burst of laughter from somewhere else, the low murmur of the TV leaking under the sitting room door.

Eventually, the sharp edge of it dulls. Your breathing evens out. The tight band around your lungs loosens enough that air can come and go without scraping.

You pull back a little, just enough to tilt your head up.

He looks down at you, eyes searching, expression open in a way he keeps for moments when he thinks you’re not really looking.

“Better?” he asks, barely above a whisper.

You nod. Your cheeks are still damp, but the urge to unravel has passed.

“Stay close?” you hear yourself say, before your brain can censor it.

Something flickers in his face—surprise, then something softer that he reins in fast.

“Yeah,” he says, like it’s obvious. His hands don’t drop from your waist. “I’m not going anywhere.”

You hold his gaze for a second too long, aware all at once of how little space there is between you, how his fingers span the curve of your hip, how your name might sound if he said it like that for a different reason.

The thought makes your pulse jump. You step back another half-inch, enough to breathe but not enough to break whatever this is.

“Your room’s upstairs,” he says, voice clearing a little as he shifts back into motion. “I dropped the bags already. Whenever you want to escape to… that.”

You huff out a faint laugh. “You saw my posters.”

One corner of his mouth tips up. “Hard to miss the life-size boyband shrine,” he murmurs.

You groan, scrubbing at your face with your sleeve. “I’m never bringing you here again.”

“Sure you will.” His fingers brush a strand of hair away from your damp cheek, knuckles barely grazing your skin. “You’re stuck with me, remember?”

The word stuck shouldn’t feel like comfort. It does.

You sniff, take a breath that doesn’t scrape on the way in. The sounds of the house creep back in around you—pots clanging in the kitchen, your aunt’s laugh from down the hall, someone calling for more foil.

“I should clean up,” you say. “Before my mom decides crying is a character flaw.”

He nods toward the bathroom a few steps away. “I’ll wait.”

You hesitate. “You don’t have to—”

“I know.” His hand slides down, finds yours, gives it a quick squeeze before letting go. “I’ll still be here.”

You duck into the bathroom, splash cold water over your face, pat your skin dry with a hand towel that smells faintly of your mother’s detergent. When you glance in the mirror, your eyes are a little red, but you look like a person again, not a live wire.

The door squeaks when you open it. He’s exactly where you left him, shoulder to the wall, gaze flicking up the second you appear.

“Better,” he says, like a quiet verdict.

“Define better,” you mutter, but your mouth curves.

He steps in beside you, close enough that your arms brush. For a second you just stand there, side by side in the narrow hall, facing the direction of the noise.

“Ready?” he asks.

“No,” you admit.

His hand settles low at your back, warm through the fabric. “Okay,” he says. “Let’s go anyway.”

You nod, draw in one more breath, and let him steer you toward the light and the voices and the rest of the evening, his touch a steady point as the hallway opens back up around you.

Seungmin sits on the edge of your childhood bed and tries not to think about the fact that he’s on your childhood bed.

The mattress dips under his weight, springs giving a tired little groan. The comforter is different from the one in the photos downstairs—updated sometime after the era of cartoon princesses and neon—but the headboard’s the same white-painted wood with a nick in the left post. He remembers you pointing at it once in a picture, explaining some elaborate war you’d waged against a bunk bed ladder when you were eight.

Now he’s in the room instead of looking at it through a phone screen.

The shower runs down the hall, pipes humming through the walls. It’s the only sound up here, aside from the faint clink of dishes still happening downstairs. Everyone else is busy packing leftovers, arguing about containers, pretending they’re not watching Daniel help your mom in the kitchen like some kind of golden retriever in an apron.

Seungmin had offered.

Your mom had told him, very sweetly, that he was a guest.

Then she’d handed Daniel the carving knife.

He blows out a slow breath and digs his thumbs into his knees.

Dinner could’ve been worse. That’s the generous read.

He’d survived:

– The barrage of questions from your aunts. How did you meet? How long have you been together? What are your intentions? He’d smiled, lied smoothly, felt your knee press against his under the table every time you needed grounding.

– Your father’s polite interrogation about careers and “stability,” the emphasis landing just a bit too hard on every word Daniel ticked all the boxes for.

– The not-so-subtle stories about remember when you and Danny did this and you two were so good together.

The words slid around the table like side dishes: help yourself to emotional sabotage.

He’d watched you shrink, just a little, every time your mother said Daniel like it was synonymous with ideal. Watched your fingers tighten around your fork, your smile go thinner, your shoulders creep up by degrees.

So he’d kept talking. Joked when he could, redirected when he had to. Answered questions before you could be cornered by them. Slid his hand over your thigh under the table when your mom said, “I just worry she’ll never find someone who really understands her the way he did.”

Your leg had jumped under his touch. You hadn’t pulled away.

And then there’d been your grandmother.

She’d finally woken up an hour after dinner—blinking blearily, calling your name like she’d just had you here yesterday. You’d flown to her side; he’d hung back in the doorway, suddenly unsure, feeling like he was intruding on something sacred.

Until she’d waved him closer with a surprisingly impatient flap of her hand.

“Come here, boy,” she’d said, peering up at him like she was looking over the top of glasses she wasn’t wearing. “Let me see you.”

He’d taken the seat by her knee, folded himself down small. She’d wrapped her cool fingers around his wrist and patted his hand like she was testing the grain of something.

“You look kind,” she’d pronounced. “And stubborn. She needs someone who won’t blow away when she gets loud.”

You’d groaned. “Grandma.”

“Don’t ‘Grandma’ me,” she’d sniffed. “You’re a storm. You need a tree. Otherwise you’ll knock everything down and then cry about it.”

Her thumb had brushed over the back of his knuckles, softer.

“Take care of my girl,” she’d added, like it was a simple errand. “She doesn’t know how to do it herself yet.”

He’d swallowed, throat suddenly tight in a way that had nothing to do with the dry turkey.

“Yeah,” he’d said. “I can do that.”

He meant it so hard it scared him.

Now, in your room, he stares at the chipped paint on the closet door and tries not to replay that sentence on a loop.

Take care of my girl.

The shower shuts off.

The silence that follows is a different kind. Thicker. Closer.

He can hear you moving around in the little bathroom—cabinet door, the soft thud of your toiletry bag, the whisper of fabric as you change. He pictures you in there, hair damp, cheeks still a little pink from the hot water, folding yourself into clean pajamas while trying not to think about the bed situation.

He’s been trying not to think about the bed situation either.

The mattress isn’t big. Full-size, maybe. Two people could fit if they didn’t mind… sharing oxygen.

He scrubs a hand over his face.

This was easier before today. When you were just his roommate who took his hoodies and fell asleep on his shoulder during movie nights and left your socks all over the couch. When liking you was something he could pretend lived in the same category as liking coffee or his favorite pair of headphones—annoying to be without, but survivable.

Now he’s replaying every little moment from the last twelve hours like an idiot.

The way your hand had found his in the car and stayed there. The way your voice shook when you said boyfriend at the door and then steadied when you felt him behind you. The way you’d breathed into his chest in the hallway outside your grandmother’s room, trying not to come apart.

“Stay close,” you’d said.

Like you didn’t even realize you were asking him for something he’d already decided to give.

He leans back on his hands, stares up at the ceiling where you used to tape glow-in-the-dark stars. A few ghost outlines remain, little circles of less-yellow paint.

Objectively, he knows he was calm today. He did his job. He played the part. He kept his voice level and his eyes steady and his touch casual enough that no one, especially you, could accuse him of going off-script.

Inside, he feels like someone took his already-stupid crush and ran it through whatever machine your mom uses to whip cream: volume doubled, structure completely ruined.

He watched your ex watch you all evening—watched the way Daniel’s eyes narrowed when you laughed at something Seungmin said, watched his jaw clench when your grandmother reached for Seungmin’s hand instead of his. Watched that petty flicker of ownership that shouldn’t exist anymore.

And under all the irritation and protectiveness and mean little sparks of satisfaction when he pretended not to know the guy, there’d been this other thing.

Older. Quieter. Sitting in his chest like a weight.

Not just I like her.

I love her.

He doesn’t know when it tipped over. Maybe the night you fell asleep on the couch with your cheek pressed to his thigh and his foot going numb, but he didn’t move because you’d had a bad day. Maybe the first time he heard you rant about your family at three a.m. with your hair in a lopsided bun and your eyes on fire. Maybe when you told him about the way this house made you feel small and he could hear the little crack underneath the joke.

He just knows that today, listening to you apologize to your sleeping grandmother, feeling your voice break in the doorway, something inside him stopped pretending it was anything else.

He loves you.

It sits there in his chest, stupid and obvious and absolutely useless, because none of this is real. Not to you.

To you, he’s a shield. A safe person to stand behind while your family replays their favorite narratives. He agreed to be your boyfriend for the weekend, and you thanked him like he was taking out the trash.

He’d do it again. He’d do worse for you. That’s the problem.

The bathroom door clicks.

He jerks upright a little too fast, scraping his heel on the hardwood. The knob turns. Light spills into the dim hallway, then into the room as you step in.

Your hair is damp, curling at the ends, a few strands sticking to your cheek. Your pajama bottoms are patterned with tiny stars. It’s stupidly on-brand.

You stop just inside the room, hand on the knob, eyes flicking from the bed to him and back.

For half a second, the two of you just look at each other.

“You survived,” you say at the same time he blurts, “Nice pants.”

You look down at the star print. “Shut up.”

“They’re very mature,” he says. “Very ‘I pay taxes.’”

“You literally wear cartoon dog socks to class.”

“Those dogs are iconic,” he says. “This is slander.”

Your mouth twitches. Good. The tight, brittle look you had when you disappeared down the hall after dinner has loosened a little. Your shoulders have dropped half an inch.

You let go of the doorknob and come in properly, padding across the room. Your hair leaves little damp marks on the shoulders of your shirt. His shirt, he realizes belatedly—one of his old tees, collar a little stretched where you’ve tugged at it a hundred times.

He swallows.

“You okay?” you ask, stopping by the desk to drop your toiletry bag. “After all that?”

“All that,” he echoes. “You mean the three-hour live podcast on Why Daniel Is God’s Gift To Our Bloodline?”

Your mouth pulls sideways. “Yeah. That.”

He snorts, looking away just long enough to let the irritation flicker across his face. “I’ve had worse.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Name one.”

“Middle school talent show.”

“That can’t be the same.”

“I had a bowl cut and sang a Bruno Mars song,” he says. “In public. Trust me, your family has nothing on that.”

You huff out a quiet laugh, but it doesn’t stick. Your fingers start worrying the edge of his t-shirt where it hangs over your forearm.

“Still,” you say. “They were… a lot.”

“They’re always a lot, right?” he says. “That’s what you said.”

“Yeah, but it’s different when it’s not just me,” you mutter. “I dragged you into the circus.”

His shoulders lift in a half-shrug. “I bought my own ticket. VIP pass.”

“That’s not helping,” you say, but your voice is softer now.

You turn away, fussing with a stray bottle on the desk, and the apology comes out on a low rush.

“I’m sorry about dinner.”

He blinks. “Why?”

You shoot him a look over your shoulder. “Did you not hear them? My mom asking when we’re getting married, my aunt quizzing you about kids, my dad doing the ‘so how exactly do you plan on supporting a family on that’ thing—”

“That was fun,” he says dryly.

“And the Daniel stuff,” you go on, like you didn’t hear him. “All the ‘remember when you two’ and ‘he’s practically one of us.’ Like you weren’t right there. It was—” Your mouth twists. “It was rude.”

“I’m fine.”

“I’m not,” you snap, then immediately wince. “Sorry. I just… hate that you had to sit through all of that. They don’t even know you. They barely tried.”

His chest does something messy and warm.

“I mean,” you add quickly, “Grandma did. Obviously. But the rest of them…”

He watches the way your shoulders curl in as you trail off, like you’re trying to take up less space even in your own room.

“You know I didn’t come here for them, right?” he says.

You look at him properly this time. “Then why did you come?”

He could say the easy thing—for you—but it feels too naked in the air, too close to the stuff he’s been trying not to name all evening.

Instead, he lets his mouth do what it always does and detours.

“For the food,” he says. “Obviously.”

Your face does that offended little scrunch he likes too much.

“Wow,” you say. “Okay. Go date the mashed potatoes, then.”

“They don’t talk back,” he says. “Kind of a selling point.”

You grab the nearest object—a scrunchie—and throw it at him. It bounces off his shoulder and lands on the bed.

“Jerk,” you mutter.

“Accurate,” he says. “Still not mad at your family, though. That would require caring what they think.”

You hesitate, chewing that over.

“Not even a little?” you press.

“Okay,” he concedes. “Your mom’s whole ‘proper job’ thing was annoying.”

You roll your eyes. “Tell me about it.”

“And your dad thinks stability only exists in Excel sheets.”

“You noticed that too, huh.”

“And your cousin kept kicking me under the table.”

You blink. “Wait, seriously?”

“I kicked back,” he says. “Gently. I’m not a monster.”

That pulls a real laugh out of you, the sound loosening something in his chest.

“But,” he adds, quieter, “the rest of it? The Daniel storytime hour? I knew what I was signing up for.”

“Doesn’t mean you deserved it,” you say.

He looks at you for a beat, the way you’re standing there in star pajamas and borrowed cotton, genuinely offended on his behalf like you haven’t spent the entire day being slowly dismantled at that very table.

“It bothered you more than me,” he says.

“Yes,” you answer, like it’s obvious. “Because it was about you.”

His mouth goes a little dry.

“Anyway.” You sigh, cutting yourself off before you spiral. “I just… wanted to say sorry.”

“Apology rejected,” he says.

You frown. “That’s not how that works.”

“It is tonight,” he says. “I’m not taking it. They sucked. You didn’t. End of.”

You stare at him for a second, then shake your head, almost smiling despite yourself.

“Why are you so sure about everything?” you grumble.

“Somebody has to be,” he says. “You’re busy running worst-case scenarios.”

“Rude. Accurate. Whatever.” You scrub a hand over your face. “Okay. Bed.”

Instant static in his brain.

“Right,” he says. “That.”

Your gaze flicks to the mattress, then back to him, then to the floor, where the rug is doing its best but very clearly not designed for human spines.

“I can take the floor,” he hears himself say, too fast. “If you want. It’s fine.”

You stare at him like he’s just suggested sleeping in the driveway.

“Absolutely not.”

“It’s not a big deal,” he says. “I’ll just grab some—”

“There are no extra blankets,” you cut in. “Mom raided every closet for my aunts and uncles and all their gremlin children. You’ll freeze. The floor is hardwood. Have you met your back?”

“My back is young and resilient,” he lies.

“You literally complained about it last month because you fell asleep on the couch wrong,” you say. “You made me bring you a heating pad, remember?”

“That was different,” he says, because he refuses to be slandered in his hour of sacrifice. “There was a spring in the—why am I defending myself? Point is, I don’t mind.”

“Well, I do,” you say firmly. “You’re not sleeping on the floor like some stray cat I snuck in.”

He opens his mouth. You steamroll right over him.

“And before you say anything,” you add, “we’ve already fallen asleep together, like, a bunch of times. Movie nights? Remember those? Couch naps? You drooled on my shoulder last week.”

“I did not—”

“You absolutely did,” you say. “So we can share a bed without you nobly martyring your spine, okay?”

He should argue. It would be the gentlemanly thing or whatever. It would also give him more time to get used to the idea of you lying within arm’s reach all night.

Instead, he hears himself say, “Fine.”

You nod once, decisive, like you’ve just won a court case.

“Good,” you say. “Glad that’s settled.”

He shifts over automatically, making space against the wall, pretending his heart isn’t beating too fast for someone who’s just… sitting.

You cross to the bed, the mattress dipping again as you climb in on the other side. For a second, everything is rustle and fabric and not looking directly at each other.

You flick the lamp off. The room falls into soft shadow, the ceiling ghosts of your old star stickers barely visible in the dark.

Under the covers, your shoulder brushes his. You both go still.

“Too close?” you ask quietly, not moving.

“No,” he says. His voice comes out lower than usual. “It’s fine.”

“Okay.” You exhale. “Good.”

Silence slips in, not entirely comfortable, not entirely not.

He stares up at the ceiling, counts the little pale circles he can see.

After a beat, you say, softer, “Thanks. For… today. All of it.”

He rolls his head on the pillow to look at you. Your face is turned toward the ceiling, but your eyes are half-lidded, lashes dark against the faint lamplight from the street.

“Don’t make it weird,” he says.

“You’re the one being weird,” you mutter, but there’s the tiniest smile at the corner of your mouth.

He watches it for a second, feels the familiar urge to poke at you just to see it widen.

“Go to sleep,” he says instead. “Big day tomorrow. More character assassination, more passive-aggressive hugs.”

“Can’t wait,” you sigh.

You shift, getting comfortable, and your foot brushes his under the blanket. Neither of you moves it away.

“Night, Seungmin,” you murmur.

He closes his eyes, the weight in his chest settling into something that feels, against all logic, a little like relief.

“Night,” he says. “Hurricane.”

You huff out a quiet breath that might be a laugh, and the house creaks around you, and in the small, borrowed dark of your old room, he lets himself lie there next to you and feel every inch of the distance you’re not putting between you.

Christmas Eve smells like onions and butter and guilt.    

You’re at the counter with a knife in your hand, wrist moving on autopilot as you chop carrots into obedient little coins. Your mom is two feet away at the stove, conducting pots and pans like an orchestra—one hand on a wooden spoon, the other flicking burners higher and lower, muttering about timing under her breath. Behind you, at the small table, your grandmother sits like a tiny queen in her chair, apron tied over her cardigan, peeling potatoes with slow, practiced motions.    

You should be paying attention to your knife, to the rhythm of your hands, to your mother’s barked instructions.    

You are absolutely not.    

Because in the doorway that opens into the living room, you can see Seungmin.    

He’s on the floor with three of your younger cousins, knees bent, socked feet flat on the carpet. Someone has unearthed the big plastic bin of toys that lives in the hall closet, and it has swallowed him whole. There are blocks and mismatched action figures everywhere, a scattering of crayons, a coloring book open and abandoned.    

From here, you can’t hear what he’s saying over the sizzle of onions and your mother’s running commentary, but you can see everything else.    

The way he’s folded himself down to kid height like it’s the most natural thing in the world. The way his mouth moves—teasing, exasperated, amused—as your youngest cousin waves a plastic dinosaur in his face. The way he tips his head when he listens, all that attention focused on a five-year-old earnestly explaining the rules of a game that clearly has none.    

You catch the echo of his laugh even through the closed kitchen door. It makes the hairs on your arms stand up.    

“Stop daydreaming and pass me the salt,” your mother snaps.    

You jolt, nicking the carrot instead of a finger by pure luck. “Sorry.”    

She doesn’t look at you, hand outstretched, eyes on the pan. “Salt.”    

You fumble for the little ceramic cellar and slap it into her palm. She throws a pinch into the pan, stirs, tastes, frowns.    

Behind her shoulder, Seungmin does something ridiculous with one of the kids—pretends to fall over when she tags him, flopping backwards in exaggerated slow motion. All three cousins shriek with laughter, collapsing on top of him in a pile. He lets himself be buried, one arm flung out, the other covering his face like he’s truly defeated.    

Your heart does a weird, traitorous twist.    

You force your eyes back to the cutting board. Slice, slice, slice. Carrot coins. Focus.    

You last five seconds.    

“Don’t cut them so thick,” your mom says, glancing over. “They’ll never cook through. Honestly.”    

“They’re fine,” you mutter, but you start making the slices thinner anyway.    

She makes a disapproving noise and turns back to the stove.    

You chance another look.    

Now Seungmin is holding two action figures, facing them off in midair. One of your cousins—Isla, with the lopsided ponytail and the perpetually sticky hands—is leaning against his arm, watching with rapt attention. The other two are arguing over who gets to be “the dragon,” voices high and frantic.    

Seungmin’s mouth shapes something that makes Isla giggle so hard she almost tips over. He catches her without even looking, hand coming up to steady her shoulder while his eyes stay on the other two kids. His hair falls into his eyes; he blows it away with a quick huff, lips pursed.    

You realize you’ve stopped cutting again.    

“Honestly,” your mom says, exasperated, “you’d think you’ve never seen a man around children before.”    

Heat rushes to your cheeks. “What?”    

“You keep staring,” she says. “Like he’s reinventing the wheel.”    

“I’m not—” You clamp your mouth shut. “I’m just making sure they’re not killing him.”    

“He seems to be doing fine without your supervision,” she says dryly. “Unlike these carrots.”    

“Grandma?” you say desperately, without turning. “Back me up.”    

Behind you, your grandmother chuckles, the sound low and scratchy. “Leave the girl alone,” she tells your mother. “It’s Christmas Eve. Let her look at her boyfriend.”    

The word lands like a pebble in a pond, ripples spreading out along your spine.    

Boyfriend.    

You swallow, fingers tightening around the knife handle.    

Your mother snorts. “Please. She’ll have plenty of time to stare at him when they go back home.”    

The oven timer goes off with a sharp beep. “Ugh. I swear, everything has to happen at once.” She slams the fridge door with her hip. “I need to go check the ham, and your aunt will get lost if I don’t tell her exactly which exit to take. Don’t let anything burn.”    

She swipes her phone from the counter and marches out toward the dining room, already angrily texting, trailing the smell of rosemary and irritation behind her.    

The kitchen feels quieter the second she’s gone, even with the fan whirring and something bubbling on the back burner.    

You exhale. Your shoulders drop.    

“Bring those here,” your grandmother says.    

You turn. “The carrots?”    

“No, the ceiling fan,” she says. “Yes, the carrots. My hands are faster than yours.”    

You huff a laugh and gather the cutting board, bringing it and the knife over to the little table. She pushes aside her peeled potatoes to make space. Her fingers are gnarled and spotted, but the way she handles the knife is still sure, efficient. You feel twelve again watching her, perched at this same table, trying not to cut yourself while she made neat, perfect slices.    

You sink into the chair opposite her. The edge of the table bites into your thighs. From this angle, you can still see through the doorway—Seungmin now sitting cross-legged as one cousin styles his hair with tiny plastic clips, another drawing on his arm with washable markers. He holds his forearm steady, expression solemn as if this is Very Serious Work.    

Your mouth goes dry.    

You snap your gaze back to the table so fast your neck twinges.    

“Careful,” Grandma says, not looking up. “You’ll sprain something staring like that.”

“I’m not staring,” you say automatically.

She makes a small, knowing noise in her throat. “Mm. And I’m not old.”

You peel a potato with unnecessary focus, curls of skin dropping into the bowl between you. The fan hums overhead. Something pops in the oven. You can feel his presence more than see it now, a little pressure at the edge of your awareness—the way you always know where he is in a room.

“He’s good with them,” Grandma says after a moment, like she’s commenting on the weather. “Those little monsters. They like him.”

“He’s got nieces and nephews,” you mumble. “He’s used to chaos.”

“Still,” she says. “There’s used to it, and there’s good at it.”

You don’t answer. Your throat feels too tight.

Her knife keeps moving, steady little arcs against the cutting board. “He looks at you nice, too,” she adds, almost offhand.

Heat rushes up your neck. “Grandma…”

“What?” Her eyes flick up, sharp and amused. “You think I didn’t see him disappear after you when you went down the hallway? I’ve had that house longer than you’ve been alive. I know where the echoes go.”

You swallow. Guilt prickles under your skin, hot and sour.

“Don’t start,” you say quietly. “Please.”

She studies you for a beat, then lets it go with a soft exhale. “Fine,” she says. “Stand in front of the stove and pretend I can’t see through you. I’ll be generous.”

You let out a shaky breath and focus on the potato in your hand. You don’t tell her that every time she calls him your boyfriend, something in your chest lurches like it’s trying to line up with the word. You don’t tell her it feels like lying and like the closest thing to the truth you’ve ever said in this house.

You don’t tell her anything.

Because her eyes are already rimmed red from the cold and the meds and the effort of being upright. Because she’s wearing the apron you made her in third grade with your handprints on it. Because she asked you to come, and you did, and you can’t bear to put another crack in the fragile, glittering thing she’s trying to build out of these days.

So you sit there and peel and let her think what she wants, and hope to god it’s not obvious how badly you wish you deserved it.

By the time the sun goes down, the house has tipped from busy into chaotic.

The kitchen is a war zone of dirty pans and covered dishes. Your aunts are arguing about whether the yams need more marshmallows. Your mom is shouting into the phone about traffic. Children are everywhere, sugared up and barefoot, darting between adults like they’re running drills.

And then the front door bangs open and a blast of cold air rolls through the hallway.

“Timber!” your dad yells, which is what he says every single year, even though the tree is nowhere near falling.

You’re standing at the doorway between the hall and the living room when they appear: your father at the back end of the tree, Daniel at the front, the two of them wrestling the enormous, slightly crooked fir through the too-narrow door.

Pine needles shake loose with every bump. Your mom appears out of nowhere to clap her hands and tell them not to scratch the floors. Your younger cousins shriek and bounce, trailing in their wake.

“They always do this last minute,” you mutter.

Seungmin materializes at your elbow like he’s been summoned by your eye roll. “What, chaos?” he says. “Feels on brand.”

You jump a little; you hadn’t seen him slip away from the kids. When you look at him, you have to bite back a smile. There are still three plastic butterfly clips in his hair, and a faint purple comet drawn on his arm in washable marker.

“Hold still,” you say, reaching up before you can think about it.

His brows lift. “What are you—”

You pluck one of the clips free, then another, combing your fingers through his hair to smooth it back into place. It’s softer than it looks. Your knuckles graze his temple; his breath catches just enough that you feel it.

The third clip is stuck closer to his ear. You step in, squinting, fingertips brushing his skin as you pry it loose. He goes very still under your hands.

“Your head is a crime scene,” you murmur.

“You’re the one who let them at me,” he says, but his voice has gone a shade lower. His gaze drops briefly to your mouth before flicking back to your eyes.

He’s close enough that you can smell his soap, the faint citrus of dish detergent from helping in the kitchen earlier. The noise of your family swells around you—the scrape of the tree stand on hardwood, your dad’s running commentary, your aunt yelling at her kids to stop sword-fighting with wrapping paper tubes—but for a second it’s just the two of you in the doorway, your fingers in his hair and that look on his face.

You pull your hand back like you’ve touched a hot pan.

“Fixed,” you say, a little too briskly.

He arches a brow, something unreadable flickering in his eyes, but doesn’t push it.

“Tree incoming!” your dad bellows, as if the massive green object isn’t already in the room.

Everyone converges on the living room like a tide. The tree is wrestled into its stand in the corner by the window, tilted, adjusted, debated over, pronounced Acceptable. Someone plugs in the lights to test them; half the string flickers and dies. Your uncle swears under his breath. The kids cheer anyway.

“Alright,” your mom says once the worst of the chaos settles. She claps her hands for attention, the way she always does. “You all know the drill.”

The kids immediately start whining.

“We want to decorate it now,” Isla says, tugging at the hem of your sweater. “Pleaseee.”

“Yeah!” another cousin chimes in. “We can help!”

Your mother puts a hand to her chest in mock horror. “And ruin the magic?” she says. “Absolutely not.”

“It’s tradition,” your father adds, as if anyone has forgotten. “Tree goes up Christmas Eve, gets decorated after you monsters go to sleep. That way when you wake up…” He spreads his hands, miming sparkles. “Boom. Christmas miracle.”

The kids groan but they’ve done this enough years to know they’re not winning. There’s some half-hearted arguing, some bargaining for one ornament, just one, please. Your mom holds firm. Eventually the herd is wrangled into pajamas and teeth-brushing and goodnights, with promises of Santa and cookies and “if you get out of bed, he skips this house” threats.

You end up on the couch next to Seungmin while the bedtime exodus happens, your knee pressed against his. He sits close enough that you can feel the warmth of his arm through your sweater, his attention split between the circus and the unlit tree.

When the last child has been kissed and shooed and threatened into staying in bed, the adults reconvene in the living room with the air of people about to draw straws for jury duty.

“Okay,” your mom says, rubbing her hands together. “Who’s on tree duty this year?”

Silence.

Your uncle suddenly finds his phone very interesting. One aunt starts stacking plates that don’t need stacking. Your father adjusts the TV volume despite no one watching it. Daniel leans back in the armchair with the posture of a man waiting for a role he knows is coming.

Your mom sighs elaborately. “You’d think I was asking for a kidney.” She turns to the sideboard and picks up a ceramic bowl. “Fine. We’re doing it the old-fashioned way.”

She holds up a handful of folded slips of paper. “Names in. Whoever I draw has the honor of making Christmas morning magical while the rest of us get our beauty sleep.”

“You mean you’re too tired,” your father says under his breath.

“Beauty sleep,” she repeats pointedly.

The bowl goes around. You write your name on the slip, fingers slightly clammy. Seungmin’s thigh is warm against yours as he reaches after you. His shoulder brushes your arm.

“You look nervous,” he murmurs.

“I always lose this game,” you mutter back. “Every year since I was nineteen.”

“Maybe this year you’ll get a break.”

You snort. “You clearly haven’t met my luck.”

He gives you a sidelong look, something wry and a little soft at the edges. “I met you,” he says. “Can’t be that bad.”

Before you can figure out how to process that, your mom returns to center stage, bowl in hand.

“Drumroll?” she says.

No one obliges. She rolls her eyes and digs in anyway.

“First elf,” she announces, unfolding the slip with theatrical flair. “Daniel!”

Of course.

There’s a ripple of polite laughter, a couple of whoops. Your dad claps him on the shoulder.

Daniel grins, unbothered. “Hey, I don’t mind,” he says. “You know I’ve got this down to a science.”

“That’s our boy,” your mom says warmly. “Always reliable.”

The words land like a stone in your stomach.

Seungmin goes very still beside you.

“Second elf,” your mom says, fishing again.

She unfolds the second slip.

Your name looks too big in her hand.

“Oh!” she says, eyes lighting up. “Look at that. Just like old times.”

Your aunts make a collective, delighted noise. Your dad chuckles. Someone actually claps.

Your mouth goes dry. “Wait—”

“Come on, sweetheart,” your mom says. “You and Danny always did the best job. Remember that year you stayed up until three making the little paper snowflakes? The tree was beautiful.”

“Me and Seungmin can do it,” you blurt, before you can stop yourself.

All eyes shift to him.

He straightens, jaw tight, but his voice is even. “I don’t mind,” he says. “If she’s tired.”

“Oh, don’t be silly,” your mother says, waving a dismissive hand. “You’ve had a long day already. You’re a guest. Let the people who know where everything is handle it.”

The people. Like you and Daniel are a matching set.

“It’s really not a big—” you start.

“It’ll be fun,” Daniel cuts in smoothly. “Right?” He flashes you that old, familiar grin, the one that used to mean fireworks and now makes your skin crawl. “For old times’ sake.”

You open your mouth to say no. To say anything but yes.

Your mother sees it coming.

“Unless your… boyfriend is uncomfortable,” she says, the word boyfriend suddenly sounding like a test instead of a label. Her gaze slides to Seungmin. “You’re not the jealous type, are you, Seungmin?”

The room tilts.

Everyone looks at him. You can feel the way his body has coiled beside you, the tension humming off him like a wire.

He could laugh it off. He could say it’s fine.

He doesn’t.

“I just think it’s weird,” he says, voice calm in a way that makes it worse. “Pairing her up with her ex to play house in the living room while I sit upstairs pretending not to notice.”

Your father shifts. Your aunts exchange looks. The air in the room sharpens.

“Seungmin,” you say under your breath.

Your mom’s smile goes thin. “No one’s playing house,” she says. “We’re talking about ornaments.”

“Ornaments,” he repeats. His eyes are on your mother, but you can see the muscle jumping in his jaw. “Right.”

Daniel leans back in his chair like this is a show he ordered. “It’s just tradition, man,” he says lightly. “We’ve done it every year. We know where everything is. Relax.”

The word lands like a slap.

Seungmin’s eyes flick to him, cool and flat. “I’m very relaxed,” he says. “This is my relaxed face.”

You can hear the edge beneath it. So can everyone else.

“Don’t be dramatic,” your mom says, the brittle brightness creeping into her voice. “She’s a grown woman. She can be in a room with someone she used to date without it being a scandal. Right, sweetheart?”

Every head swivels to you.

This is the part where you are supposed to laugh. To reassure everyone that nothing is wrong, that everyone’s overreacting, that your feelings are manageable and containable and won’t inconvenience anyone.

You feel Seungmin’s stare on the side of your face. You don’t look at him.

“It’s fine,” you say, because you can hear the alternative echoing in your mother’s future phone calls for the next decade. “We’ll just decorate and go to bed.”

Your mom exhales, triumphant. “See?” she says. “Everyone’s adults here.”

Seungmin makes a quiet sound that could be a laugh or a scoff. 

“Yeah,” Daniel says, smiling lazily. “We’re all adults.”

You hate the way he says it. You hate that your family eats it up.

Something in Seungmin snaps taut. You can feel it.

Before he can open his mouth again, you reach over and curl your hand around his wrist. Just that—skin on skin, your fingers firm, a silent please.

He looks down at your hand, then up at your face.

For a second, it feels like the whole house is holding its breath. Your mom, your dad, your aunts—waiting to see if the boy you brought home is going to make a scene.

Seungmin swallows. His jaw works once. Then he clicks his tongue softly and slumps back against the couch, the picture of someone letting it go.

“Whatever you want,” he says.

It sounds nothing like whatever you want.

Your mom beams, already moving on, launching into a timeline for when the tree should be done by and how no one is allowed to use tinsel because it looks “cheap.”

Your hand stays on his wrist until you realize he’s not going to do anything else. When you let go, your palm feels cold.

Later, in your room, the house has gone muffled and hollow.

The kids are asleep. The aunts and uncles have either gone home or retreated to guest rooms. There’s a low murmur of the TV downstairs where your parents are doing their annual “we’re not tired” movie that they will not finish.

You’re in front of the tiny dresser mirror, pulling your hair into a loose ponytail. There’s a pile of ornament boxes by the door, waiting for you and Daniel like a chore chart you didn’t sign up for.

Behind you, Seungmin sits on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, hands clasped loosely. He hasn’t said much since the living room. The silence hangs between you like a too-heavy coat.

“You don’t have to stay up,” you say, meeting his eyes in the mirror. “I know it’s late. You can crash. I’ll be quiet when I come back.”

He snorts. “Yeah. Because I’m going to sleep great knowing you’re downstairs on nostalgia duty with golden boy.”

You turn to face him. “It’s just a tree.”

“It’s not just a tree,” he says.

You rub your palms on your thighs. “What is it, then?”

His mouth twists. “An excuse,” he says. “For them to pretend nothing ever changed.”

“That’s not what this is,” you say, too fast.

He looks at you for a beat, eyes tired. “If you say so.”

Guilt spikes. You take a step closer, fingers catching lightly on his sleeve.

“I just want to get through tonight,” you say. “No fights. No scenes. Please.”

He huffs a quiet breath, not quite a laugh. “Yeah. Wouldn’t want to ruin the magic.”

“Seungmin.”

He finally meets your eyes. There’s a whole storm sitting there, pressed flat.

“Be careful,” he says. “That’s all.”

You nod, throat tight. “Okay.”

Your mom’s voice carries faintly up the stairs, calling your name.

You let go of his sleeve.

“I’ll be back soon,” you murmur.

“Sure,” he says, looking past you now. “I’ll be here.”

You hover in the doorway for half a second, wanting to fix something you don’t have words for, then force yourself down the hall, leaving the room—and him—behind.

PART TWO

He chuckles, like you’ve said something cute. “Still all business, huh?”

You don’t dignify that. You flip open the nearest lid, tissue rustling, the smell of cardboard and old pine sap puffing out. The ornaments glint up at you—some cheap, some delicate, some with your childhood handwriting baked into the glaze.

He joins you at the box, close enough that his knee brushes your thigh when he bends. You shift a fraction away.

“Same system?” he asks. “You do top, I do bottom? Or you want to trade this year?”

“Whatever’s fastest,” you say.

He watches your profile for a beat. “You always say that,” he murmurs. “Then spend forever.”

You grab the first thing your fingers land on—a faded paper star with crooked scissors marks—and straighten up. “Maybe don’t talk so much and it’ll go quicker.”

His smile hooks. “There she is,” he says again, softer this time. “I missed the attitude.”

You ignore that and move to the tree.

It’s muscle memory at first—the way your hands find branches spaced just right, the way you tuck the older, uglier ornaments deeper in, the ones from your grandmother front and center. Daniel works around you, looping lights with practiced ease, humming along tunelessly to the Christmas playlist he’s pulled up on his phone.

For a while, it’s almost bearable. You talk about nothing: how tall the tree is this year, which kid broke which ornament in what year, whether the stand is listing to one side. You keep your answers short, factual. His keep sliding sideways—small hooks, tossed lightly.

“Remember when your mom bought those awful blue lights and you cried?” he asks, untangling a stubborn knot.

“I was thirteen,” you say. “I hated change.”

“You still do,” he says. 

You tighten the wire of a tiny bell around a branch until it bites your fingers. “I adjusted, didn’t I?”

He glances over his shoulder at you. “Yeah,” he says. “Eventually.”

The music switches to something slow, some old crooner you can’t even name, all strings and nostalgia. You feel it like pressure, pushing around the edges of the room.

“Grandma looked good today,” he says after a while.

“Yeah.”

He smiles. “She lit up when she saw you.” A beat. “And when she saw me.”

Your jaw clenches. “She likes people who visit.”

He lets that sit for a second, then: “We used to be good at that. Visiting.”

You shove a glass bauble deeper into the tree than it needs to go. “You had your hands full,” you say flatly. “With your new family.”

There. You’ve said it out loud.

He doesn’t flinch the way you hoped he will. He just exhales through his nose, slow, like he’s been expecting the punch.

“You’re still mad about that,” he says. Not a question.

You laugh, sharp and humorless. “You cheated on me and got her pregnant. I’m not sure ‘mad’ covers it.”

He sets down the lights, leans his shoulder against the tree, branches brushing his arm. He looks at you properly now, all traces of easy grin smoothed into something softer, manufactured.

“I made a mistake,” he says quietly. “A stupid, drunk, one-night mistake that turned into… more.”

Your stomach churns. “You have a daughter,” you say. “And she’s three. That’s not a mistake. That’s a whole life you built after me.”

He spreads his hands, like he’s offering you something. “And I’m owning it,” he says. “I’m a dad. I show up. I pay. I’m there. You think that’s what I planned?”

“Yes,” you say. “I do.”

He chuckles once, disbelieving. “You think I didn’t want it to be you?”

Your fingers go numb around the porcelain angel you’re holding. “Don’t,” you say. “Do not say that to me in this house.”

He pushes off the tree, closing a little of the distance between you. “Why? Because it’s true?”

You turn away, shove the angel onto a branch harder than necessary. It wobbles; you catch it with shaking fingers.

“Because it’s irrelevant,” you manage. “We’re done. You made choices. I made choices. We live with them.”

His voice follows you around the tree. “You left,” he reminds you, like you need reminding. “You took that internship and ran. You didn’t even try.”

“You were already sleeping with her,” you bite out. “What exactly was I supposed to try for?”

He is quiet for a moment. The lights glow weakly between you, half the strands still unplugged.

“I was scared,” he says. “You were talking about grad school and moving to the city and all these big plans. I didn’t know where I fit. She…” He shrugs, a bitter twist to his mouth. “She was easy. Close. Made me feel needed.”

“And I didn’t,” you whisper.

He steps closer. “You made me feel like I had to be more,” he says. “It’s not the same thing.”

The words thread into all the old cracks in you, the ones you thought you’d plastered over. For a second, the room blurs at the edges.

You hate that he still knows where the weak spots are.

“Can we not do this?” you say, blinking hard. “It’s late. We’re here to hang tinsel and lie to children. That’s it.”

He searches your face, then nods slowly, like he’s granting you a favor.

“Okay,” he says. “Tree now. Emotional honesty later.”

“There is no later,” you mutter.

He doesn’t answer, but something in his eyes says we’ll see.

You move faster after that, mechanical. Hooks, branches, boxes. You keep a buffer of needles and plastic between you whenever you can, circling opposite sides like you’re orbiting something that might explode if you get too close.

He keeps trying anyway.

You give him nothing but the bare minimum—yes, no, fine, sure. Your voice comes out sharp enough that you hope the walls hear you.

When you’re done, you both end up standing shoulder to shoulder in the middle of the room, looking at your work. The tree glows, ornaments catching the light. It does look good. It always does.

For a moment, you let yourself just see that. The soft, warm, pretty thing you’ve made out of all this.

“Still the dream team,” Daniel says, low.

You take a step forward to grab the empty ornament box. He moves when you do, cutting across your path.

“Hang on,” he says. “One more thing.”

“I’m going to bed,” you say. “We’re done.”

He doesn’t move. You shift right to get around him; he mirrors you. It’s subtle, a lazy little block, but effective. You end up backing up a fraction instead.

“You mad I spoke up earlier?” he asks. “With your boyfriend?”

You bristle. “You mean when you told him to relax?”

He shrugs, unbothered. “He was being dramatic.”

“He was defending me.”

He huffs. “From what? Hanging ornaments with your ex? We’re not monsters.”

You try again to sidestep. Again, he steps with you, shepherding you gently but firmly into the space between the coffee table and the doorway arch.

“Move,” you say, a thin edge creeping into your voice.

“Hey.” He holds his hands up, palms out, but doesn’t actually step back. “I’m just talking.”

You’re about to tell him exactly where to shove his “just talking” when you feel the shift in the air above you—a faint tickle, like the ghost of leaves overhead.

You glance up.

Mistletoe. Hung in the archway, tied with the same red ribbon your mother has used every year since you were small.

Of course.

When you look back down, his smile has changed. Softer. Hungrier.

“It’s tradition,” he says quietly.

Your heart stutters, unpleasantly. Your spine goes rigid, every muscle suddenly unsure of what to do.

“No,” you say. It comes out small.

He steps in, closing the last sliver of space, one hand bracing lightly on the wall beside your head. Not touching you, not quite, but close enough that you can feel the heat of him like a threat.

“Come on,” he murmurs. “It’s just a kiss. It’s Christmas.”

Your brain does the stupid thing it’s been conditioned to do in this house: it freezes and starts flipping through old versions of yourself on autopilot.

You remember being nineteen and dizzy with him for the first time, kissing under this same stupid plastic plant while your cousins squealed. 

You remember, too, the last time you saw his name pop up on your phone beside a picture of a newborn that wasn’t yours.

Your nails bite into your palms. Your feet don’t move.

He watches your face, misreading the paralysis as something else. “You still feel it,” he says softly. “Don’t pretend you don’t. You can’t look at me like that and tell me it’s gone.”

“I’m not looking at you,” you manage.

He laughs under his breath. “You always were a terrible liar.”

He shifts closer, the hand on the wall sliding down, fingers hovering just above your hip now. Your back bumps the molding. There’s nowhere else to go without climbing furniture.

“Daniel,” you say, fighting for air. 

He tilts his head, eyes dropping to your mouth. “Say you don’t want me,” he says. “Say it like you mean it, and I’ll back off.”

You open your mouth.

Nothing comes out.

Because you do want something—an apology that feels real, a do-over, a universe where he wasn’t such a coward, a house where you didn’t feel like a girl pressed into an old script. Want and hurt and anger are a knot in your chest and your tongue can’t pick one thread to pull.

He sees the hesitation and smiles, soft and triumphant.

“That’s what I thought,” he whispers, starting to lean in.

“You should step back.”

The voice is flat and sharp and comes from behind him.        

Daniel’s shoulders tense. He half-turns, annoyance already creasing his brow.        

Seungmin stands in the archway from the hall, barefoot in sweats and an old t-shirt, hair rumpled from the pillow. His eyes are wide awake. And furious.        

Daniel snorts. “You again,” he says. “Relax, man. We were just—”        

“Spare me the sound of your voice,” Seungmin cuts in.        

The words are quiet, but they hit like a slap.        

A beat of silence stretches. The tree hums faintly with its own electricity. Your pulse roars in your ears.        

Daniel straightens, squaring his shoulders like he’s gearing up for a fight. “Look,” he starts, glancing between the two of you, “I get that this is… weird for you. First love, history, all that. But this is our thing. We always—”        

“Walk away,” Seungmin says.        

No inflection. No please. Just instruction.        

Daniel’s mouth twists. “You think you can just roll up here and—”        

“Man.” Seungmin finally moves, stepping forward into the arch so he’s half in the room, half in the hallway. He’s still not raising his voice, but something in it sharpens. “You’re not that interesting. Go to bed.”        

For a second, Daniel just stares at him, actually thrown.        

Then he huffs out a laugh, shakes his head like this is all beneath him. “You’ve got no idea what you’re talking about,” he mutters. He drops his hand from the wall, steps sideways out of the doorway, brushing past Seungmin with a little deliberate shoulder bump.        

Seungmin doesn’t react to it. Doesn’t even look at him.        

“You done?” he asks, eyes still on you.        

Daniel pauses in the hallway, like he might lob one last comment over his shoulder. Whatever he sees on Seungmin’s face makes him think better of it.        

“Night,” he tosses instead, voice light and empty. “Tree looks good.”        

His footsteps retreat down the hall. A door clicks shut.        

Silence slams down in his wake.

The silence after Daniel’s door clicks shut is loud enough to make your ears ring.

You’re still pinned to the doorway like part of the molding, lungs fluttering, fingers numb. The tree glows obliviously in the corner, throwing soft light over everything that just happened.

Seungmin doesn’t move at first.

He stands there in the archway, chest rising and falling a little too fast, hands clenched at his sides. His eyes are on the hallway, like he’s making sure there aren’t any reruns.

Then he looks at you.

“You okay?” he asks.

His voice is low, rough around the edges. The anger’s still there, but it’s pulled back a layer, concern bleeding through.

You try to nod. Your head feels separate from your body. “Yeah,” you say. Your voice comes out thin. “I’m fine, I just—”

“Are you still in love with him?”

The question hits so fast it cuts your sentence in half.

You blink. “What?”

“Don’t,” he snaps, and the word cracks like a whip. “Don’t act confused. Are you still in love with him?”

You just stare at him. You’ve seen him irritated, exasperated, quietly pissed on your behalf.

You have never seen him like this.

His jaw is tight, shoulders tense under the worn cotton of his t-shirt. There’s a sharpness to him you don’t recognize, all the softness burned off.

“That’s not a fair—” you start.

“It’s a yes-or-no question,” he says. “Which part is unfair?”

“Everything,” you hiss back, remembering to keep your voice low at the last second. “The timing, the place, the fact that we’re at my parents’ house at midnight—”

“So you can’t answer,” he says. “That’s an answer.”

Heat spikes up your neck. “You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to decide what my non-answers mean.”

He lets out a quiet, ugly laugh. “I just walked downstairs and saw your ex boxing you in under mistletoe while you stared at him like someone hit pause,” he says. “Sorry if I’m not feeling super charitable about nuance right now.”

Your hands ball into fists. “What did you want me to do? Start screaming? Wake up my grandma so she can watch me have a breakdown in front of the nativity set?”

“I wanted you to move,” he bites out. “Push him, duck under his arm, do something that wasn’t just letting him get closer and closer while you looked like you were about to pass out.”

“I froze,” you say, teeth clenched. “That’s what I do when I panic. Sorry I didn’t pick the reaction that would make you feel less insecure.”

His eyes flash. “This isn’t about my insecurity.”

“Really?” you whisper. “Because it kind of feels like it is.”

Something ugly flickers across his face. He takes a step into the room, closer to you, like he can’t decide if he wants to get in your face or get away and his body picked for him.

“I—” you start.

“You brought me here,” he says over you, voice still low but fierce enough to vibrate in your chest. “You asked me to be your boyfriend in front of these people. Do you understand what that means?”

“I didn’t ask,” you snap. “You offered.”

“Because I thought your ex was a footnote,” he shoots back. “Not the main fucking plot.”

You flinch.

He sees it. He doesn’t back off.

“I thought I was coming to run interference,” he goes on. “Smile when they’re rude, hold your hand when they’re shitty, make sure you don’t end up crying in a bathroom somewhere. I did not sign up to watch you almost kiss the guy who cheated on you while I stand in the doorway like an idiot.”

“It wasn’t almost—” you start, then stop, because you don’t actually know how close it was.

He pounces. “You can’t even finish that sentence.”

Your throat closes. “You’re twisting this.”

“I’m looking at it,” he says. “You’re the one twisting, trying to make it look like something it’s not.”

You press your back harder against the wall, like you can sink through it. “You don’t know what it’s like with him,” you say, barely above a whisper. “In this house. With everyone… expecting things. You’ve been here two days and you think you have it all figured out—”

“I know he cheated on you and knocked up someone else,” Seungmin says. “I know he let your mom rewrite the narrative so it somehow turned into your fault. I know he hasn’t apologized in a way that actually matters. And I know that the second he corners you, you go quiet.”

“That’s—”

“You could have said, ‘I don’t want you anymore,’” he says. “Five words. He literally asked you to. You opened your mouth and nothing came out.”

The worst part is that he’s not wrong.

“It’s not that simple,” you say, voice fraying. “You don’t just flip a switch and stop caring that someone blew up your life. I hate him, and I still—” You cut yourself off, biting down hard enough on your tongue that you taste metal.

His eyebrows rise slowly. “And you still what?”

You stare at him, furious at yourself, at him, at this whole house. “I still… feel things,” you grind out. “Residual whatever. You happy now?”

“No,” he says, and the way he says it makes your stomach drop. “I’m really fucking not.”

Your eyes sting. “I just—I’m trying, Min. I’m really trying not to explode this whole thing while my grandma is in the next room and my mom is one passive-aggressive comment away from a meltdown. I’m doing the best I can.”

“And your best is what?” he asks. “Letting them shove you back into the old script while I stand there and clap?”

“You’re the one who insisted on coming,” you say, anger finally matching his. “You made this big show about being there for me, and now you’re pissed at me for needing it.”

“I’m not pissed at you for needing me,” he says, and his voice cracks for the first time. “I’m pissed that you apparently still need him too and somehow I’m the one who looks crazy for being bothered by that.”

The word hangs between you like a slap.

You swallow hard. “I don’t—”

“Are you still in love with him,” he repeats, each word deliberate. “Yes or no.”

Your mouth opens. Closes. You feel nineteen again, under this same doorway, with your mom watching from the couch and everyone chanting kiss-kiss-kiss while your heart tried to beat its way out of your ribs.

“I don’t know,” you finally choke out. “Is that what you want to hear? I don’t fucking know. I hate him and I miss who I thought he was and I can’t untangle it in the middle of my parents’ living room with you glaring at me like—”

“Like what?” His eyes are bright, too bright. “Like I care? Like I’m not okay being your prop while you figure out if you still want the guy who treated you like a hobby?”

“That is not what I’m doing,” you hiss. “I agreed to let you come so I wouldn’t drown. Not so you could stand here and demand a clean emotional spreadsheet.”

He laughs, low and mean. “A clean—? You’re unbelievable.”

“Oh, I’m unbelievable?” you hiss. “You’re the one acting like you got tricked into this. Like I lured you here, tied a bow on you, and forgot to mention my trauma at the door.”

He steps right up to you then, close enough that the wall digs into your shoulder blades again. His voice stays low, but every word is a shard.

“You think I don’t know you’re traumatized?” he says. “I’ve watched you flinch at every text with his name in it for three years. I’ve held your hair while you threw up because phone calls with your mom make you sick. I’ve slept on the couch because you couldn’t be alone and wouldn’t admit you were scared.”

Your eyes blur. The lights smear.

“I know you,” he says. “That’s the whole fucking problem.”

Your breath shudders out. “Then why are you acting like this is news?”

“Because I thought… I don’t know what I thought.” He shakes his head, a bitter half-laugh catching in his throat. “That maybe if I came here and did this right and they saw how much better you were with someone who actually gives a shit, it would finally click for you. That you’d look at him and feel nothing.”

“That’s not how feelings work,” you whisper.

“I know that,” he says. “My feelings haven’t gone anywhere for a year and a half.”

The words slam into you.

You stare at him. His chest is rising and falling, eyes searching your face like he wants to yank the understanding into you.

“And now,” he says, softer but no less furious, “I’m standing here choking on it while you stand under mistletoe with him and tell me ‘it’s complicated.’”

Your voice breaks. “You didn’t tell me,” you say. “You never said—”

“Yeah,” he snaps. “Because I didn’t want to be another person who made you responsible for their shit. I didn’t want to be one more thing you had to manage. I was fine being… just your roommate. Your friend. Whatever.”

“You’re not ‘just,’” you say, stunned and hurting. “You know you’re not.”

“Do I?” he asks. “Because tonight it kind of felt like I’m the guy you drag home to piss off your ex and calm your mom, and he’s still the one you can’t say no to out loud.”

“That is so fucking unfair,” you whisper. “You walked in at the worst possible second and decided that’s the whole story.”

He scoffs. “Worst possible second? Or the most honest one?”

You push at his chest then, a little shove that doesn’t move him much, but he rocks back half an inch.

“Stop putting words in my mouth,” you say. “If you wanted to know how I feel, you could have asked before tonight. Before we were stuck here with my entire family sleeping upstairs.”

“I’m asking now,” he says. “And you’re telling me you don’t know.”

“Because I don’t,” you whisper. “I know I don’t want to be with him. I know I don’t trust him. I know the idea of actually getting back together makes me sick. But if you’re asking if some stupid part of me remembers what it felt like before he fucked everything up—yeah. It does. Brains are messy. I can’t shut it off just because you need me to pick a team right this second.”

His face twists, like that answer physically hurts.

“That’s what I needed,” he says. “Not because I want you to perform for me. Because I’m in love with you, and it feels fucking insane to stand here and wonder if the biggest thing in my life is just… background noise compared to your nostalgia.”

Your heart lurches.

You grab for his shirt without thinking, fingers curling in the fabric. “It’s not,” you say. “You’re not. You’re—”

You stall, because the word you’re about to say terrifies you almost as much as everything else.

His eyes flick to your mouth, then up again, jaw clenching.

“Say it,” he murmurs. “I’m what?”

You swallow. “Important,” you manage. “You’re… you’re everything, okay? You’re home. You’re the only reason I’m not losing my mind here.”

He laughs once, broken. “Could’ve fooled me.”

You make a helpless noise. “You’re twisting my words now.”

“Yeah?” he says. “Maybe I learned from the best.”

The words hang between you, meaner than he meant them, uglier than either of you deserve and you flinch.

He sees it. His face changes—just a flicker, guilt breaking through the anger—then shutters over again. He lets out a rough breath, steps back like he’s physically yanking himself out of the conversation.

“This is pointless,” he mutters. “I’m going upstairs.”

He turns, shoulders tight, already half in the shadows of the hallway.

Something in you panics.

“Wait,” you say, too fast, too small. Your hand shoots out on instinct, catching the hem of his t-shirt before he can get away.

The cotton bunches in your fist. He stops dead.

For a second, neither of you moves.

You can feel your own pulse beating in your fingers where they’re curled in his shirt. The house hums around you—heater, distant fridge, the faint buzz of the tree lights—everything too loud and too far away at once.

“Min,” you start, because you don’t know what else to say except his name.

He looks down at your hand on him, at your white-knuckled grip, then back up at you.

Whatever was holding him together snaps.

“Stop,” he says, but it comes out wrecked. “Stop doing that.”

“Doing what?” you whisper.

“Grabbing me when you’re about to let go,” he spits, spinning back toward you in one sharp motion. “You can’t keep—”

He doesn’t finish.

One second he’s mid-sentence, eyes burning, chest heaving; the next he’s crowding you back into the doorway, his hands catching your face like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he doesn’t hold on.

His mouth hits yours.

There’s no hesitation, just the crash of a wave that’s been building for too long. You gasp against him, more from shock than anything, and he takes the opening, kissing you like he’s been starving and someone finally handed him air.

Your back smacks lightly against the trim. One of his thumbs digs into the hinge of your jaw; the other hand slides to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair. He’s shaking, just a little. You feel it everywhere he’s touching you.

You should push him away.

You don’t.

Your hand that was still fisted in his shirt drags him closer instead, knuckles catching on his ribs as you haul yourself up into him. The other finds his shoulder, then the back of his neck, fingers digging in like you’re anchoring yourself to something solid for the first time all night.

He makes a low sound into your mouth—frustration, relief, something wild—and tilts his head, deepening the kiss. It’s messy, teeth clicking once, your noses bumping before you both adjust. His breath tastes like mint and leftover bitterness. Yours stutters against his, catching on all the words you didn’t say.

The anger is still there, threaded through every movement—too tight, too urgent—but there’s something else underneath it, older and softer and terrifyingly bare. Every time his mouth drags over yours it’s I’m mad at you and I’m mad at me and I love you, I love you, I love you, no matter how hard he tries not to.

You match him without meaning to. All the fear and shame and want you’ve been choking down rise up at once, pouring out of you in the way your fingers clutch at him, in the way your lips part, in the tiny, helpless sound that slips out when his teeth catch your lower lip.

He freezes at that, just for a heartbeat—like he heard it, really heard it—and then kisses you harder, like he’s answering something you didn’t know you asked.

Your knee bumps his thigh. His hand slides down from your neck to your waist, fingers spreading over your hip, pulling you closer into the line of him. The tree glows warm at the edge of your vision, ornaments blurring into streaks of red and gold.

Somewhere above you, a floorboard creaks. The house reminds you that it exists.

The sound cracks through the moment like cold air.

Seungmin jerks back.

It’s abrupt enough that your head knocks lightly against the wall. You suck in a breath like you’ve been underwater. He’s still close—too close—but his hands have dropped away, hanging uselessly in the small space between you.

His lips are red. His pupils are blown wide. He looks horrified.

“Shit,” he breathes. “I—”

You can’t say anything. Your mouth tingles. Your heart is trying to punch a hole through your ribs.

He drags both hands back through his hair, fingers lacing at the back of his neck like he’s trying to hold his head on.

“That shouldn’t have…” He trails off, jaw working. “Fuck.”

“Min,” you manage, voice wrecked.

He winces at the way it sounds. His eyes flick to your mouth, then wrench away, like looking hurts.

“This is exactly what I meant,” he says, more to himself than to you. “I can’t— I don’t know how to do this halfway.”

You swallow, throat raw. “Do what?”

“Any of it,” he says. “Be your fake boyfriend, your real… whatever. Watch you deal with him. Pretend I’m not—” He cuts himself off, biting down hard.

His hand twitches like he’s about to reach for you again.

You almost let him.

You almost grab him first.

Instead, you both stand there, breathing each other’s air, the aftershock of the kiss buzzing under your skin like static, the argument still sitting between you like a live wire.

The tree lights blink once, twice.

Somewhere in the house, a clock starts to chime the hour.

Seungmin is the first to move.

He steps back like he’s just realized how close he still is to you, like he’s been standing with his hand on a hot stove and finally felt it. His gaze skates over your face—mouth, eyes, the place on your neck where his fingers were a second ago—then jerks away.

“I can’t,” he says, under his breath. “I can’t do this right now.”

He turns on his heel, already heading for the hallway.

Panic spikes through you, sharp and stupid. You lurch forward, fingers catching at his wrist.

“Wait,” you say. It comes out cracked. “Don’t just—don’t go.”

He stops so abruptly you almost bump into his back.

For a heartbeat he doesn’t turn. You can feel the tension roped in his arm under your hand, the way his muscles have gone rock-solid. His head dips once, like he’s breathing through something.

Then he rips his wrist gently but firmly out of your grip and spins around.

His eyes are bright, mouth pulled tight. He looks furious. He looks wrecked.

“Do you have any idea how cruel you’re being?” he says, very quietly.

The word shocks you more than if he’d yelled.

“Cruel?” you repeat, stunned. “I’m not—”

“You are,” he says. “You might not mean to, but you are. You can’t keep doing this. You can’t keep grabbing me every time you feel yourself slipping and then freezing the second you have to actually look at what that means.”

Your throat burns. “I didn’t—”

“You kissed me back,” he says, over you. “In case you’re tempted to pretend that was all me. You grabbed me and you held on and you made that noise and—” He cuts himself off, jaw locking. “Do you think I don’t notice? Do you think that doesn’t… fucking wreck me?”

You swallow hard. “Min, I’m not trying to hurt you.”

“I know,” he says. “That’s the worst part. You’re doing it without even looking at it.”

He takes a step closer, not quite touching you, but close enough that you can feel the heat rolling off him again.

“You know how I feel about you,” he says. Not a question.

You force yourself to meet his eyes. “You never said—”

“I just did,” he bites out. “Have been, all night, using every word except ‘I’m in love with you’ because apparently I have a self-preservation kink I didn’t know about.”

The words land like a kick to the chest. You grip the doorway behind you to stay upright.

He laughs once, broken. “There,” he says. “Is that clear enough? Does that finally make it into your calculations?”

Your mouth opens. Nothing comes out. Your brain is a static hiss—him, the tree, Daniel’s door down the hall, your grandmother asleep two rooms away, all crashing into each other.

“Say something,” he says, and there’s a plea under the anger now. “Anything that isn’t ‘it’s complicated.’ Are you ready to deal with that? With me actually wanting you? Not as a bit. Not as a favor. For real.”

He waits. The house hums.

You try.

You really do.

You think about saying yes, about stepping off the cliff you’ve been standing on for months—years. You think about saying no, about shutting it down clean and watching something in him go out.

Your tongue won’t pick either.

“I…” you start, and your voice breaks on the first syllable. “I don’t know how to answer that right now.”

His face shuts down so fast it’s almost audible.

“Right,” he says. “There it is.”

“Min—”

He holds up a hand. “Don’t. Don’t apologize. Don’t explain. I get it. You’re not ready, you’re overwhelmed, everything’s messy.” He nods once. “Good news is, you don’t have to be ready tonight.”

He takes another step back, toward the hall this time. Away.

“I told you I’d play the part,” he says. “I will. I’ll be back in the morning. I’ll hold your hand and smile for the pictures and pretend I don’t want to put Daniel through a wall every time he opens his mouth.”

Your chest squeezes. “Where are you going?”

“Out,” he says. “Away. Anywhere that isn’t this house with him down that hall and you under this—” he jerks his chin up at the mistletoe, eyes flashing “—like some fucked-up set piece.”

“It’s the middle of the night,” you say, horrified. “You can’t just—”

“I’m a grown man,” he says. “I can get a cab. Sleep on a friend’s couch. Sit at a twenty-four-hour diner until my brain stops trying to crawl out of my skull. I’ll figure it out.”

“You don’t have to do that,” you whisper.

He looks at you for a long, long moment. Whatever softness is left in his face is held together by threads.

“I do,” he says. “Because I can’t stand in this living room one more second looking at you and wondering if I’m just the guy you grab when you’re drowning and let go of the second you’re back in shallow water.”

Your eyes sting. “That’s not what you are.”

“Maybe,” he says. “But until you’re ready to say what I am to you, I can’t keep guessing. It’s tearing me apart and I’m… I’m done pretending it’s not.”

You step forward, hand reaching out again on instinct. “Seungmin, please—”

He flinches away from your touch like it burns.

“Don’t,” he says, and now he sounds exhausted more than angry. “Don’t do that if you’re not going to follow through. Don’t hold onto me unless you’re actually going to hold onto me.”

The words cut clean.

Your hand drops.

His shoulders sag for half a second, like taking himself out of your reach physically hurts. Then he straightens, pulls in a breath, and pastes on something that almost looks like calm.

“I’ll text you when I’m on my way back,” he says. “You can tell your mom I went for a walk if anyone asks.”

“Min,” you say again, helpless.

He steps backward into the hall. Shadows swallow him up to the chest, leaving his face in the spill of tree light. It paints him in green and red and gold, like he’s already half a memory.

He hesitates one last time.

“Merry fucking Christmas,” he says.

Then he turns and walks away.

Seungmin is back before you open your eyes.

You know it in that weird half-waking way you know when someone enters your room in the dark. The draft under the door shifts. The floorboard by the dresser gives its familiar, traitorous creak. Zipper teeth whisper, then a soft thud of a bag.

You stay still.

The room smells like cold air and the outside, clinging to his hoodie. The mattress dips a little as he sits on the edge of the bed, just for a second. You feel the weight of him through the covers, through your own rigid attempt at playing dead.

You think he might say something. Your name. A curse. Anything.

He doesn’t.

The bed lifts as he stands. A drawer slides open. Fabric rustles—clean shirt, probably—and then the bathroom door clicks shut, light slicing under it.

You open your eyes to the dim winter morning of your childhood room and focus on the wrapped box at the back of the closet shelf.

Small. Neat. Green paper with gold stars. The gift you bought him: the limited edition vinyl you spent months tracking down and then meeting with a shady seller you met on the internet to retrieve. You don’t know much about these sorts of things but the way he spoke about it longingly made you determined to get it.

You stare at the box until your vision blurs.

Then you shut the closet and pretend it isn’t there.

Christmas Day wears your nerves down by degrees.

You and Seungmin move around each other like people in a crowded kitchen who don’t know each other well enough to bump hips. You trade space instead of warmth.

He carries things, helps your grandma to her chair, reads instructions on the toy packaging. You refill water glasses, pass napkins, slice bread. You say “thanks” and “here” and “careful, that pan is hot” and nothing that touches last night at all.

Everyone notices without knowing what they’re noticing.

Your mom’s eyes flick between the two of you more than usual. Your aunts trade looks, the kind that say Is something up? without words. Your dad squints like he’s trying to solve a crossword clue.

Daniel notices and knows exactly what he’s seeing.

He’s been smug all day—the relaxed, loose-shouldered kind of smug that comes from a win only he can see. When you catch his eye across the room, he smiles like you’re sharing a private joke.

You look away every time.

Seungmin seems to have ironed his expression into something mild and blank. He laughs when appropriate, answers questions about work, about the city. He’s perfectly polite. Perfectly decent. Perfectly distant.

He doesn’t look at you unless he has to.

You don’t give him the present. You carry it in your head all day, its outline as sharp as a stone in your shoe. Every time you think about sneaking it into his bag, leaving it on his side of the bed, pressing it into his hand with a muttered “this is stupid, just take it,” you hear his voice from last night:

Don’t hold onto me unless you’re actually going to hold onto me.

So you keep your hands to yourself.

By the time dinner rolls around, you’re running on caffeine and adrenaline and the tight, buzzing feeling of a fire alarm that never stops.

The table looks the same as it always has on Christmas: too much food, not enough space. Platters jammed in wherever there’s a gap, bowls nesting on top of other bowls, gravy boats perched like they’re waiting to leap.

You take your usual seat without thinking—third from the end, left side, good view of the tree. Seungmin ends up beside you because there’s nowhere else for him to go. Daniel drops into the chair across and one over, the same spot he’s occupied for years.

You fold your napkin into your lap and keep your eyes on your plate.

Conversation bubbles up around you—your aunt complaining about airport security, your dad asking your cousin about college, your mom narrating every dish like it’s a cooking show no one asked for. Cutlery scrapes. Glasses clink. Someone passes the rolls the wrong way and your grandmother scolds them with fond irritation.

Beside you, Seungmin is careful. That’s what it feels like, more than anything. Every move measured. He says “thank you” and “please” and “no, I’m good, this is plenty, thank you” with a politeness that climbs higher every time someone insists he take more turkey. He pours water for your grandma before she asks. He cuts his ham too small, like he needs something to do with his hands.

He doesn’t look left.

You don’t look right.

Daniel looks everywhere.

He’s relaxed, one arm slung over the back of his chair, shirt sleeves rolled to his forearms in that practiced casual way he has. He laughs at your uncle’s story, compliments your mom’s potatoes, makes a fuss over your grandmother’s cranberry sauce.

He catches your eye once, mid-laugh, and gives you a little half-smile like you’re in on something together.

You stare at the mash on your plate until the smile slides off your peripheral vision.

You get through the first round of food without saying a word.

You nod when you have to. You smile when someone looks directly at you. You chew. You swallow.

It’s almost survivable.

Then Daniel tips his chair back a fraction, lazily stabs at his potatoes, and says, “So, Seungmin.”

Your fork pauses halfway to your mouth.

Beside you, you feel rather than see Seungmin straighten a millimeter. “Yeah?”

Daniel’s grin is gentle, interested. It’s the one he uses on strangers he’s about to sell something to.

“Where’d you go last night?” he asks. “You disappeared.”

The word lands with a little clink, like dropped cutlery.

Your mom’s head snaps up. “What?”

Seungmin’s jaw flickers. He sets his fork down carefully, like he’s defusing a bomb.

“I went for a walk,” he says. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“At midnight?” your aunt echoes, brows shooting up. “In this weather?”

Your dad frowns. “Did you at least take the car? Roads are a mess at that hour.”

“No, I just—” Seungmin starts.

“Front door woke me up,” Daniel cuts in pleasantly. “Sounded more like leaving than a little walk around the block.”

There’s a soft hum around the table. A shifting. People settling in.

Your mother’s mouth pinches. “You went out in the middle of the night and didn’t tell anyone?” she says. “What if something had happened? Your poor grandmother would’ve thought we were being robbed.”

Grandma waves a dismissive hand, but she’s drowned out.

“It’s not safe,” your dad adds. “You don’t know this area. There are deer, black ice—”

“It’s fine,” Seungmin says, voice still low, still calm. “Nothing happened.”

“But it could have,” your mom presses. “Honestly, if you were upset about the tree thing, you could have just said so. Sulking off into the night is a bit much, don’t you think?”

Across from you, Daniel hides a smile in his glass.

One of your aunts clucks her tongue. “Kids these days,” she says. “No coping skills.”

“He’s not a kid,” another aunt says. “He’s—how old are you again?” She doesn’t wait for an answer. “Old enough to know better.”

Your uncle chuckles. “City boys,” he says. “Drama, drama.”

“He wasn’t being dramatic,” your grandmother mutters, but again, she’s swallowed by the tide.

Seungmin sits very still. His shoulders are set, his hands folded on either side of his plate now. He looks like he’s back in the interrogation room from last night—only this time, you’re not holding his hand under the table.

You feel your pulse start to pound in your ears. Heat crawls up your chest, into your throat, hot enough it makes your eyes sting.

Daniel takes a slow sip of water, watching it all unfold like a show he’s already seen the ending to.

“I just asked where he went,” he says lightly, when your mom gives him an approving look. “It’s weird to sneak out like that when you’re a guest, isn’t it? Especially when your girlfriend is still up. All alone.”

Your mom’s gaze snaps to you. “You were awake?” she says. “And he left?”

You open your mouth. Nothing comes out.

“She was finishing the tree,” Daniel goes on, easy, relentless. “I told him he was overreacting. Guess he needed some alone time to cool off.” He smiles, all concern. “No hard feelings, right, man?”

Seungmin’s fingers flex once, knuckles whitening. His eyes stay on his plate.

“Right,” he says.

The word is flat enough that anyone paying attention would hear it for what it is.

No one is.

Your aunt leans forward. “Sweetheart, did you know he went?” she asks you, scandalized on your behalf. “If my husband walked out like that on Christmas Eve, I’d have his head.”

“She probably didn’t want to make a fuss,” another says. “She hates conflict, remember?”

“Well, she certainly knows how to pick complicated ones,” your mother sighs. “You really know how to pick them, don’t you?”

Something in your chest tears.

Your hand tightens around your fork until the metal bites your fingers.

Daniel is still watching you. Waiting. Enjoying.

“Maybe he just doesn’t like being reminded he’s the rebound,” he says mildly.

You stop hearing individual words.

You hear tone—teasing, judgmental, indulgent. You hear your name, couched in “we’re only worried” and “we just want what’s best” and “you always were so intense about these things.” You hear Seungmin’s name in your mother’s mouth and the way it bends around Daniel’s history like gravity.

You hear your own heartbeat, loud and furious in your ears.

Beside you, Seungmin inhales like he’s about to say something.

You beat him to it.

BANG.

Your fork slams into the table.

The tines bounce once, ringing against porcelain. Gravy splashes the edge of your napkin. Every head at the table jerks toward you.

You’re already sitting up straight, shoulders squared, hands flat on the table to keep them from shaking.

“Thats enough,” you say.

Your voice isn’t loud, but it hits the table like a dropped stone.

Everything stops.

Your aunt’s mouth freezes mid-word. Your dad’s fork hangs in the air. A kid halfway to shoving a pea up his nose pauses, finger suspended.

Next to you, Seungmin goes very still.

You look straight at Daniel.

“Do not call him a rebound again,” you say. “Ever.”

He blinks, actually thrown. “I was joking—”

“No, you weren’t.” You turn your head, sweeping the table. “None of you are joking. You’re all sitting here picking him apart because it’s easier than admitting you’re being cruel.”

“Sweetheart—” your mom begins, scandalized.

“Mom, stop.” Your hands curl against the table edge to keep from shaking. “You’ve gotten everything you wanted this trip. I came home. I smiled. I ignored half the digs you threw at my life choices. You made me decorate the tree with the guy who cheated on me and knocked someone else up, and I let it go.” You huff out a disbelieving laugh. “But you don’t get to sit here and drag Seungmin for leaving the room before he said something he’d regret.”

“It’s not dragging,” your aunt says tightly. “We were just saying—”

“You were all ganging up on him,” you cut in. “He left for a few hours because he was overwhelmed. That’s it. He didn’t throw anything, didn’t scream, didn’t pick a fight. He took a walk. He removed himself from a situation that was hurting him. That’s textbook healthy.” 

Your dad sets his fork down. “Watch your tone,” he says.

“No,” you say, and your voice is steadier now. “Actually, I’m done watching my tone while everyone else gets to say whatever they want.”

Your mom’s eyes flash. “We are only worried about you,” she says. “You always choose the difficult path. We tried to give you a chance to remember what you had with Daniel—”

You laugh. It comes out sharp and incredulous. “By rigging the names?”

The color drains a little from her face. “Excuse me?”

“The bowl,” you say. “You think I didn’t see you tuck slips back in when you pulled the ‘wrong’ ones? You chose me and Daniel. You decided for us. Because God forbid you let me have one Christmas without your fantasy reunion.”

A ripple goes around the table. Your dad frowns. “Is that true?”

She stiffens. “I was trying to recreate a tradition,” she says. “You always decorated together. You were happy then—”

“I was nineteen and too stupid to notice half the ways he made me feel small,” you say. “And you liked him because he smiled pretty and agreed with you about everything. He cheated on me, Mom. He has a child with someone else. And somehow you spent more time asking what I did wrong than you ever spent being angry at him.”

Daniel’s jaw tightens. “Okay, that’s not fair—”

“You know what’s not fair?” You swing your gaze back to him. “Cornering me under mistletoe last night after all of that and acting like my inability to spit out a perfectly scripted speech for closure is a sign I still want you.”

“You didn’t say you didn’t,” he says quietly, watching you too closely.

Your chest squeezes. “I shouldn’t have had to,” you say. “You lost that right the second you lied to me and then let my family build a shrine to you in this house.”

You suck in a breath, feel it scrape. “So for the record—since everyone here seems so invested in my romantic status—let me be really, painfully clear.”

You look at your mother first.

“I am never getting back together with Daniel,” you say. “Not in a year, not in ten, not in some made-up Hallmark future you’ve written in your head. That door is closed. Dead-bolted. Bricked over.”

You turn to Daniel.

“You are not the one that got away,” you say. “You’re a pathetic loser who can’t handle not being worshiped.”

His face goes flat, color climbing into his cheeks.

“Don’t speak to him like that at my table,” your mom snaps.

“You’ve let him speak about me like I’m a problem he almost solved for years,” you say. “Consider us even.”

Your pulse is pounding so hard it makes your fingers tingle. You press your palms down harder into the tablecloth, feel the pattern under your skin.

“And second,” you say, your throat tightening around the words and forcing you to slow down, “Seungmin is not a rebound. He’s not a prop. He’s not some convenient boy I dragged home to make a point.”

You feel him react beside you before you see it—his knee jumps, the slightest shift of air as his head turns toward you. You keep your eyes forward.

“He is the one who sat with me at three a.m. while I sobbed over the way this house makes me feel,” you go on. “He’s the one who walked me to campus in the snow because my anxiety was eating me alive. He’s the one who held my hand in the car yesterday so I wouldn’t claw my skin off before we pulled into this driveway.”

Your eyes sting. You blink hard.

“He is the one Grandma trusted with me after five minutes,” you finish. “Because she’s right. I’m a storm. And he’s the tree.”

A couple of your cousins look confused. Your grandmother makes a tiny, satisfied noise.

Your heart is hammering so hard you can feel it in your teeth.

“I love him,” you say.

No one moves.

You hear it echo in the silence—small, terrified, true. It lands on the table between the gravy boat and the cranberry sauce like something alive.

Your mom stares at you like you’ve slapped her. Your dad’s mouth is a hard line. Your aunts look between you and Seungmin as if expecting someone to deny it.

Beside you, Seungmin goes red from his collarbones to the tips of his ears.

It’s instant, like someone flipped a switch. His head ducks on reflex, hair falling into his eyes. His hand clenches once on his thigh, then releases. When he looks over at you, it’s quick, wide-eyed, like he’s not sure he’s allowed.

You meet his gaze. You don’t look away.

Everyone sees that.

You inhale, shaky, and push your chair back. “I’m not going to sit here and listen to you talk about him like he’s some unstable stranger ruining your Christmas because he dared to reach his limit,” you say. “He doesn’t owe you that. I don’t owe you that.”

Your chair scrapes against the floor. The sound is loud and ugly and perfect.

“We’re leaving,” you say.

Your mom’s hand slams down on the table. “You are not walking out in the middle of Christmas dinner,” she says. “Don’t you dare make a scene.”

“This is the first time in my life I’ve ever made a scene,” you say. “Maybe that’s part of the problem.”

There’s a beat where no one moves.

Then you turn to Seungmin and hold out your hand.

He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t ask a single question. He just laces his fingers through yours and stands up with you, chair pushed back neatly with his leg.

He looks at your family then, shoulders squared, jaw still tight but eyes steady.

“Thank you for having me,” he says, and his voice is so polite it almost sounds like a weapon. “Dinner was great. And I’m really grateful you let me spend time with your grandmother.”

Grandma beams at him. “You’re welcome any time,” she says. 

Your mom looks like she might actually combust.

“After everything we’ve done for you—” she starts.

“Mom,” you say. “Stop. Please.”

You don’t trust yourself not to cry if she says one more thing.

“Sweetheart, don’t be rash,” your dad says. “You’re overreacting—”

Daniel leans back in his chair, arms folding like he’s settling in to watch you crash. “It’s fine,” he drawls. “Let her go. We all know she’ll come back when she realizes city boy isn’t going to put up with her drama forever.”

The words are barely out of his mouth when Seungmin looks at him.

The shift is small but seismic. He goes from politely neutral to something colder, cleaner.

“Daniel,” he says, tone still maddeningly calm, “Kindly, shut the fuck up.”

The silence that follows is so complete you can hear the kids stop chewing.

Your aunt drops her fork. Someone chokes on a sip of wine. Your mother sputters your first and middle name like she can somehow contain the swear by addressing you.

You don’t flinch.

A slow, stunned grin spreads across your grandmother’s face.

Daniel stares, actually blindsided for once. Color creeps up his neck. “You can’t talk to me like that—”

“I just did,” Seungmin says. “You’ve had plenty to say about me for two days. That’s my contribution.”

He turns back to you then, like he’s just finished answering a dull question at work.

“Ready?” he asks.

Your throat is too tight to speak, so you nod.

You lean over to kiss your grandmother’s cheek. Her fingers catch your wrist for a second, squeeze.

“About time,” she murmurs in your ear.

You swallow around the burn in your chest. “I’ll call you tomorrow,” you whisper back.

Then you straighten, still holding Seungmin’s hand, and look at the rest of the table.

“Merry Christmas,” you say. Your voice shakes, but you don’t take it back. “Really. I hope it’s everything you wanted.”

You don’t wait for an answer and you don’t look back. You don’t need to—you can feel the table behind you like a pressure between your shoulder blades, all those eyes on your spine, your mother’s anger, your father’s disappointment, Daniel’s bruised ego burning a hole in the wallpaper.

Seungmin’s hand stays locked with yours all the way up the stairs.

Neither of you speaks.

In your room, you let go of him only because you have to. The door clicks shut behind you, muffling the house to a dull, distant hum. Your heart is still beating too hard, too fast. Your fingers tingle.

Seungmin drags a hand through his hair and exhales, like he’s been holding his breath since the dining room.

“About what you said—” he starts.

“No.”

One word, sharper than you mean it to be.

He goes quiet, eyes flicking to your face.

You swallow. “Not yet,” you say, softer. “Please. Just… can we pack first?”

A muscle jumps in his jaw. For a second, it looks like he might push anyway, like the last twenty-four hours are right there behind his teeth.

Then he nods once.

“Okay,” he says.

That’s it.

You move.

You grab whatever is yours in arm’s reach—chargers, the book on the nightstand, the pajama shirt you shoved under the pillow this morning. You fold badly, shove worse. He doesn’t comment. He doesn’t let you carry anything heavier than a hoodie.

When you reach for your duffel, his hand gets there first.

“I got it,” he says.

You open your mouth.

He just lifts an eyebrow.

You close it.

He shoulders his own bag, then yours, then grabs the tote before you can touch it. By the time you fumble your coat on, he’s already holding your scarf out to you.

“Here,” he murmurs.

You slide into it without thinking. His fingers brush the back of your neck as he settles it, quick and impersonal and familiar enough to make your throat burn.

You don’t talk on the way down the stairs.

No one is in the hallway. You can hear the murmur of voices from the dining room—your mother’s sharper now, your dad’s low, your name tossed around like a problem set they’re working through together. Your grandmother’s cough. A child asking what “fuck” means.

You keep walking.

The air outside hits you like a slap. It’s full dark now, the kind of cold that bites the inside of your nose. Fairy lights blink from the gutters, oblivious. The plastic reindeer on the lawn lists slightly, one leg sunk deeper into the snow.

Seungmin goes straight to the car, breath puffing white. He unlocks it, loads his bag into the trunk, then yours, then tucks the tote in last.

You stand there on the driveway, arms wrapped around yourself, fingers dug into the meat of your elbows.

He reaches up, grabs the trunk lid, and swings it down. It thunks shut with a solid finality that makes your heart jolt.

Before he can turn fully away, you move.

You step in and shove at his chest. It’s not hard—just enough to make him stumble back half a step until his shoulders bump the car. One of his hands flies out to catch the edge of the trunk, more on reflex than because he needs the support.

“Whoa,” he says, startled. “What are you—”

“Don’t,” you blurt. Your fingers curl into the front of his sweater, bunching the knit under your fist. “Just—don’t say anything yet, okay? Please.”

He blinks down at you.

You’re close enough to feel his breath ghost over your forehead, to see the rapid flutter of his pulse in his throat. His hands hover like he doesn’t know where to put them—back to his sides, on your hips, nowhere at all.

“Let me talk first,” you rush on, staring hard at his chest because you absolutely cannot handle his eyes right now. The wool under your grip is warm from his skin. “Before the adrenaline wears off and I freak out and pretend I didn’t just explode my entire life in there.”

He swallows. You feel the movement under your knuckles.

“Hey,” he says quietly. “Look at—”

You tighten your fist deeper into his sweater, knuckles brushing his sternum, head ducking further like you can burrow into the stitches.

“No,” you say, voice shaking but firm. “If I look at you, I’m going to lose my nerve. So just… stay there. Don’t move. Don’t be nice. Don’t make a joke. Just let me say this, and then you can decide if you still want to get in the car with me.”

Your breath fogs between you in quick, uneven bursts. The yard is silent, the house looming behind you like a stage you’ve just walked off.

Seungmin exhales slowly, like he’s physically pushing words back down.

“Okay,” he says at last, and his voice is rough but steady. “Go ahead.”

Your fingers are still knotted in his sweater. You stare at the stitches like you can line your thoughts up between them.

“For the record,” you start, and your voice comes out thin and breathless, “I didn’t plan any of that. The speech. The… ‘I love him’ thing. It just—came out.”

You feel him go a little stiffer against the car.

“I figured,” he says quietly.

“I’m not saying that so you think it doesn’t count,” you rush. “I’m saying it because it wasn’t some performance for them. It wasn’t—” You swallow. “It wasn’t about them at all.”

Your throat burns. You press your forehead against the center of his chest, hiding in the rough knit, fingers fisting tighter.

“Last night,” you say, words muffled, “you asked me if I was still in love with him, and I said I didn’t know. And that was… not quite right.”

He doesn’t move. His breath is slow and shallow under your cheek.

“I don’t know how to flip a switch on hurt,” you say. “I still feel sick when I think about what he did. I still remember what it felt like to be happy here with him, and that makes me want to throw up, because I hate that those memories exist in my head at the same time. And when he cornered me, my brain just went—static. It always has in this house.”

You suck in a shaky breath. Cold air burns your lungs.

“But I do know some things,” you go on, softer. “I know I don’t want him. I know I don’t want to get back together with him now, or ever. I know that even before he cheated, I was already shrinking to fit what everyone wanted, and I’m done doing that.”

Your hand shakes in his sweater.

“And I know that when you walked in last night and saw what you saw, it looked really bad,” you whisper. “I hate that. I hate that I hurt you. I’m so, so sorry, Seungmin. You didn’t deserve to be standing in that doorway wondering if you’re just… filler until I decide if I want to be stupid enough to try again with him. That’s not what this is.”

His fingers twitch at his sides. You feel the almost-touch like a phantom.

“It felt like that,” he says, low.

“I know.” The words scrape. “I know it did. And I made it worse. I froze. I gave the worst possible answer and then expected you to magically understand everything I was too scared to say out loud.” You let out a humorless breath. “I keep doing that with you. Hoping you’ll just… read my mind so I don’t have to risk saying the thing that might break everything.”

You press your forehead harder into his chest, like you can shove the fear straight through him and out the other side.

“I brought you here because you’re the safest person I know,” you say. “I didn’t think about what it would feel like from your side. How it would look to stand in a house full of people who still worship my ex while I tell you ‘it’s complicated’ and make you wait in the hallway with your feelings in your hands.”

The image makes your stomach twist.

“I’m not confused about you,” you say, voice barely above a breath now. “Whatever residual garbage is left over from him, whatever my brain is still untangling—that’s just… noise. You’re the part that makes sense.” You swallow. “You’re the future part. You’re the one I want in the car with me, and on my couch, and at three a.m. when I’m spiraling, and… at stupid family dinners where I finally grow a spine.”

His chest rises under your cheek, slow and deep.

You tighten your grip on his sweater until your knuckles ache.

“I love you,” you say again, smaller now, just for him. “Not because you came here and played the part. Because you’ve been here the whole time. I should have said it before last night. I should have said it before we ever knocked on that stupid door.”

You feel his fingers finally land—one hand settling, carefully, at your hip, the other bracing light against the small of your back like he’s not sure how much he’s allowed.

“Look at me,” he says quietly.

You shake your head against his chest. “You promised you’d let me finish.”

“That sounded pretty finished,” he murmurs. “And I’m not going to decide anything while you’re talking to my sweater.”

A wet, shaky laugh jerks out of you. “I’m serious,” you say. “If you decide you’re done after this weekend, I won’t blame you. You tried. You warned me. I just… needed you to know that if you walk away, it’s not because I don’t want you. It’s because I didn’t figure this out fast enough and that’s on me, not you.”

His hand at your hip tightens.

“God,” he mutters. “You really think that little of me?”

Your head snaps up before you can stop it.

He’s closer than you thought—obviously, because you shoved him here—but seeing his face this near, this night-lit and raw, makes your breath catch. His eyes are dark and blown-wide, lashes spiked slightly from the cold. His mouth is set in that flat, stubborn line you know means he’s two seconds from saying something he thinks you won’t like.

“Don’t tell me what I’d decide,” he says, steady. “You’re not the only one who gets to choose here.”

You open your mouth, flustered. “I wasn’t—I just—”

“I hated last night,” he says, clean and unvarnished. “I hate that I saw you stuck and couldn’t tell if you were frozen or… tempted. I hate that you had to deal with that at all. I hate that every person at that table thinks they know what’s best for you and somehow I still let them make me feel like the crazy one for having a problem with it.”

His thumb is moving without him realizing it, a small, tight stroke against your hip.

“But I don’t love you because it’s easy,” he says. “And I’m not in this because your family will throw me a parade. I’m in this because I’ve spent a year and a half watching you try to hold yourself together with duct tape and bad jokes, and every time you let me help, it feels like the only part of my day that makes sense.”

Your eyes sting again. “Seungmin…”

“You froze,” he says. “Okay. You panic. You go quiet. None of that makes what he did less shitty, and none of it makes me less pissed about how it looked. But you walking out of that house for me? Telling them you love me in front of… all of that?” He huffs, disbelief and something like awe tangled together. “That doesn’t look like someone keeping me around as a prop.”

You make a helpless noise in the back of your throat.

“I’m still mad,” he warns, because he’s him.

“I know,” you say. “You’re allowed to be.”

“I’m going to bring it up in, like, three separate arguments six months from now,” he adds.

You let out a watery laugh. “That’s fair.”

“But I’m not done,” he finishes quietly. “Not with you. Not because of this.”

The relief hits so hard your knees wobble. Your hand in his sweater loosens, then fists again, because you’re not risking letting go just yet.

“I’ll do better,” you say quickly. “Next time—”

“There’s not going to be a next time with him,” Seungmin cuts in. “That’s kind of the point.”

You breathe out a shaky smile. “Yeah,” you say. “There really isn’t.”

He studies you for a beat, the sharpness in his face softening at the edges. You can see him replaying the dining room, the way you said his name, the way you stood up. The way you walked out with your hand in his.

“Say it again,” he says, almost under his breath.

Your chest flutters. “Say what again?”

His mouth tips, not quite a smile. “You know.”

You swallow. “I love you,” you say, a little stronger this time. “Kim Seungmin, I am stupidly, completely in love with you, and I’m sorry it took me this long to stop being a coward about it.”

His throat works. “Yeah,” he says hoarsely. “That one.”

Your heartbeat is in your mouth now. You’re suddenly very aware of the fact that you still have him pinned to his car, fingers curled in his sweater like a lifeline.

“Okay,” you whisper. “That was the speech. You can… say whatever you want now. Or leave. Or laugh in my face. Or—”

“God, shut up,” he says, and then he’s leaning down.

He doesn’t give you a chance to overthink it.

“God, shut up,” he says, and then his mouth is on yours.

It’s not cautious, not testing the way you half-expected. It’s like the thread that’s been pulled taut between you for a year and a half finally snaps and all that tension has to go somewhere.

His first kiss lands hard enough that you stumble back a bit. His hand on your hip tightens, dragging you that last inch closer so there’s no space left to negotiate. His other hand slides up your spine and into your hair, fingers threading at the back of your head like he’s terrified you’ll move away.

You don’t.

You tilt up into him, fingers fisting higher in his sweater, and the sound he makes—low, rough, like he’s been holding it in for months—goes straight down your spine.

The cold disappears fast. All you can feel is his mouth moving against yours, a little desperate, a little clumsy with how hard he’s trying not to be. He kisses you like he’s been dying to and finally, finally got permission.

When you part your lips on a shaky inhale, he doesn’t hesitate. He deepens it immediately, tilting his head, catching your bottom lip between his, sucking just enough that you gasp against him. His thumb presses at your waist, anchoring you; his fingers tighten in your hair.

You break away for half a second—just enough to breathe—and he follows, chasing your mouth like he can’t bear the distance.

“Seungmin,” you whisper, but it comes out wrecked, more plea than warning.

“Yeah?” he mutters against your lips, like that’s an answer, and kisses you again.

It’s messier now, all teeth and breath and relief. His nose bumps yours; you laugh into his mouth, and he swallows the sound like he wants to keep it.

“Say it again,” he breathes, not really pulling back, words brushing your lips.

You manage to get enough distance to look up at him—barely. His pupils are blown, cheeks flushed high with cold and something hotter.

“I love you,” you whisper.

He groans, actual, honest-to-god groans. His hand drops from your hair to your jaw, thumb stroking along your cheek as he kisses you like repeat, repeat, repeat. Each time you try to catch air, he’s there again, softer, then deeper, like he literally cannot help himself.

Your fingers slide from his sweater to the back of his neck, pulling him down. He goes willingly, pressing you up more firmly against him.

“Been trying not to do this for months,” he mutters between kisses, lips dragging along your jaw, back to the corner of your mouth. “So if you wanted me to stop—too late.”

You laugh, breathless, and hook your fingers into the collar of his shirt, tugging. “Not complaining,” you manage. “Just… air. Occasionally.”

He pulls back an inch, panting, forehead dropping to yours. His breath fogs between you, mingling with yours.

“Right,” he says, voice wrecked. “Air.”

He doesn’t move.

You tip your head just enough to brush your mouth against his again, a quick, soft kiss that turns into three, four, because apparently he really can’t stop. Every time he pulls away, his lips find some new bit of you—your top lip, the edge of your smile, that spot just beside your mouth that makes your stomach flip.

“Okay,” he says finally, like he’s negotiating with himself. “We… should go. Before your dad comes out here with a snow shovel.”

“Probably,” you murmur, kissing him once more anyway.

He laughs, a short, disbelieving burst against your lips, and gives in for one last, lingering kiss that feels like a promise and a problem all at once.

When he pulls back this time, it’s slow, like it physically pains him. His hand slides from your jaw to your shoulder, squeezing once.

“Get in the car,” he says gently. “Before I start something we really can’t finish in your parents’ driveway.”

You snort, half-hysterical. “Bold of you to assume I’d stop you.”

“Don’t tempt me,” he mutters, eyes flicking to the lit windows. “I’m hanging on by a thread here.”

You peel yourself off the car with effort, fingers reluctantly letting go of his sweater. The air hits you properly again, sharp and cold, rushing into all the places he just warmed up.

You slide into the passenger seat. The upholstery smells faintly like him and stale coffee and the little pine-scented air freshener your mom passive-aggressively stuck on the vent before you left the city.

He gets in on his side, slamming his door against the cold. For a second you both just sit there, hands in your laps, breaths visible in the dim.

Then he leans over and buckles your seatbelt for you.

“Really?” you say, voice small and fond all at once.

“Motor skills drop after that many kisses,” he says. “I don’t trust you not to concuss yourself on the dashboard.”

“You kissed me.”

“Yeah,” he says. “And I’d like to keep doing it, so—seatbelt.”

You roll your eyes, but his hands are steady, fingers brushing your collarbone once as he clicks it into place. Your chest tightens stupidly.

He sits back, starts the engine. The heater coughs to life, whirring hard, blowing cold air that will eventually be warm if you give it time.

You clear your throat. “So… what now?”

He keeps his eyes on the windshield. A long breath fogs out of him. “Now,” he says slowly, “I drive us back to the city. You put on the least cursed Christmas playlist you can find. We both crash for sixteen hours. Tomorrow we order obscene amounts of food and pretend the only family we have is your grandmother.”

A tiny smile pulls at your mouth. “That’s a plan.”

“And,” he adds, fingers flexing on the wheel, “somewhere in there we have a conversation that doesn’t involve your ex, your mom, or the threat of snow shovels.”

You nod, staring at your hands. “Okay.”

He glances over then, like he’s checking your face for cracks. “Unless you were looking for something more… official.”

The word makes your stomach swoop.

You twist in your seat to face him properly. “I mean, kind of?” you say. “I did sort of tell my entire extended family I love you and then drag you out of their house, so it’d be a little embarrassing if you were like, ‘thanks for the field trip, roommate.’”

His mouth twitches. “You were never just my roommate.”

“Still,” you say. “I’d like to know what we are when we get back home. So I don’t… wake up tomorrow and convince myself I hallucinated all of this.”

He watches you for a long beat, engine idling, the dashboard throwing soft light over his face.

“Okay,” he says. “Let’s be really, painfully clear for once.”

Your heart stutters.

“You’re my girlfriend,” he says simply. “I’m your boyfriend, if you’ll have me. No fake clauses, no ‘just for the weekend.’ I am fully, stupidly in love with you and have been for an embarrassingly long time. If you try to downgrade me back to ‘roommate’ I will sue.”

You huff out a shocked laugh. “On what grounds?”

“Emotional damages,” he says. “Plus hazard pay for the last forty-eight hours.”

You bite the inside of your cheek, fighting a wobbly smile. “You’re really sure,” you say, half awe, half warning.

“You called me your tree in front of your entire family,” he points out. “I’m pretty locked in, hurricane.”

The word catches you off guard. “What?”

His eyes soften. “Your grandma was right,” he says. “You’re a storm. Loud and messy and too much for people who’d rather keep everything neat.” His hand leaves the wheel for a second, fingers brushing the back of your wrist. “I like storms.”

Heat prickles behind your eyes. “Sounds like a lot of work.”

He shrugs, hand finding yours properly now, tangling your fingers together over the console. “I’m stubborn,” he says. “I can handle some wind.”

You look down at your joined hands. His knuckles are pink from the cold; one of your fingers still has a faint smear of cranberry sauce near the nail. 

“Okay,” you whisper. “Then you’re my boyfriend. For real. No refunds.”

He exhales, something in his shoulders finally dropping. “Good,” he says. “Because if you’d tried to demote me after that driveway performance, I’d have just kept kissing you until you changed your mind.”

You snort. “Bold strategy.”

“Effective, though,” he says, smirking a little now. “Data suggests it works.”

You squeeze his hand. “You’re insufferable.”

“You love me,” he reminds you.

You meet his eyes, steady. “Yeah,” you say. “I really do.”

He looks away first this time, ears going pink again as he shifts the car into reverse. “Buckle up,” he mutters. “We’re getting the hell out of Maple Lane.”

“You already buckled me,” you say.

“Right,” he says. “See? Boyfriend of the year.”

You laugh, the sound lighter than anything that’s come out of you in days.

As he backs out of the driveway, you glance up at the house one last time—the porch lights, the sagging reindeer, the glow of the dining room window. A shadow crosses past the curtain. For once, you don’t flinch.

You turn back to the car, to the boy at the wheel, to his hand warm in yours.

“Hey, Min?” you say, as the house shrinks in the mirrors.

“Yeah?”

You lean over the console and press a quick, sure kiss to his cheek. “Merry Christmas.”

He blows out a soft, incredulous breath, the corners of his mouth tipping up.

“Merry Christmas, hurricane,” he says.

The road opens up ahead, dark and clear. You lace your fingers tighter through his and let him drive you home.

“You don’t have to pretend,” he told you quietly between courses. “I know what you want out of this.” 

You look at him. “And what is that?” 

He kept his voice cool. Detached. “Security. Like your parents.” 

For the first time, you met his eyes fully. There was no greed. “I’m not my parents,” you say quietly. Your voice sounded defeated, as if the fight had left you long ago. 

He paused, his hand momentarily hovering over his wine glass before setting it down untouched. For a moment, vulnerability flickered across his usually impassive face, momentarily breaking through the mask of contempt. “Neither am I,” he responded softly, almost challengingly. His voice lowered so that only you could hear. “If you’re looking for someone to mold you into their idea of a perfect wife, you’ve chosen the wrong person.” A note of exhaustion threaded through his words, betraying the pressure he felt. 

He leans back slightly, studying you intently. “I don’t need a trophy. I don’t need a silent partner.” 

Coldness was nothing new to you. Your sister was favored; you were the inconvenience. You just blink and look away. He noticed your detachment, how you’d shut down like someone hurt too many times. He’d seen that look in his own mirror. He wondered what had broken you, what made you give up. He disliked it—it felt too familiar, too depressing. 

His voice dropped even lower, barely above a whisper. “You know what? Forget this dinner. Forget the contract. I’m not marrying someone who’s already given up on life.”

But he was wrong. So wrong.

He gets up abruptly, his chair scraping as he leaves. His mother excuses herself to follow him. His father laughs awkwardly and turns to me. “Hyunjin is a very emotional young man. Sensitive. He’s an artist. Very expressive—just has trouble accepting change,” he says kindly. 

You smile and nod, not knowing what else to do, a tightness clinging to your expression. Your father clears his throat at you, and you force your smile bigger, anxiety flickering in your eyes. “He seems very kind beneath all that,” you say, glancing at your father, hoping your answer was enough and your fear didn't show. 

Mr. Hwang beams at you, clearly pleased by your response. “Yes, he is. He has a good heart, even if he hides it behind that cold exterior.” He leans forward conspiratorially. “Give him time. He'll come around.” Your father nodded approvingly at you, satisfied that you were playing along nicely. But Hyunjin's mother returned alone soon after, looking concerned but saying nothing further about Hyunjin's abrupt departure. The dinner continued awkwardly in his absence.

. . . .

The wedding was small—almost painfully so. A quiet chapel, a few candles, two families, and nothing else to soften the weight of what was about to happen. Hyunjin stood at the front, hands clasped behind his back, telling himself this was business. Formality. Duty.

Then you walked in.

You wore a plain dress, nothing lavish, yet you seemed radiant. The kind of beauty that crept up on him. The kind he resented noticing.

His mother breathed, “She’s lovely.” Your parents said nothing. Not even a nod.

As you reached him, Hyunjin caught the glint of the engagement ring he’d given you a week earlier, chosen quickly and without sentiment. He thought you’d flaunt it as proof of what you’d gained.

But you wore it delicately, almost shyly, turning it with your thumb the way nervous people touched wedding bands. Your fingers trembled, betraying uncertainty and insecurity rather than pride or ownership.

The officiant began, Scripture echoing softly across the small room. You looked at Hyunjin like you were trying—truly trying—to do this right. It made something twist uncomfortably in him.

When it was your turn, your voice trembled but didn’t break. “I take you to be my husband,” you said softly, eyes locked to his, “to have and to hold from this day forward… for better, for worse… for richer or poorer… in sickness and in health… to love and to cherish, till death do us part.”

Your father shifted impatiently. Your mother stared ahead, expression blank. But Hyunjin felt those words as they pressed into him. He shouldn’t have.

When it was his turn, he kept his voice steady—cold out of habit, not conviction. “I take you to be my wife,” he recited, “to have and to hold… for better or worse… for richer or poorer… in sickness and in health… to love and to cherish… till death do us part.”

The ring exchange came next. His hand brushed yours as he slid the matching band beside your engagement ring. Your breath hitched, soft and barely there, but he felt it.

And he hated that he felt it.

The officiant declared you husband and wife. No music. No applause. Just a solemn stillness.

Hyunjin offered you his arm. You took it with gentle fingers, the engagement ring catching the candlelight as if it were finally part of something real.

A warmth spread from your touch—small, unexpected.

And for the first time, Hyunjin wondered if he had been wrong about you. Or worse… if this marriage would change things he’d promised himself would never change.

. . . .

The driver opens your door after pulling up to a large house—Hyunjin’s home. The exterior was modern and beautiful. Woods sat behind the home, lavish and green.  The closing of the trunk makes you turn as the driver—Chan—smiles and nods towards the front door, your bags in his hands. “Ready?” He was a kind man, talking to you the whole way here, trying to make a difficult situation easier. He was Hyunjin’s personal driver and friend.

You nod, smile softly, and offer to take a bag. Chan smiles, shaking his head. “No need, miss. It's my job.” He leads you to the front door, glancing back reassuringly. “Don't be nervous,” he whispers. “The boss barks louder than he bites.” Before he can ring, the door swings open. Hyunjin stands there, annoyed and beautiful, his hair messy. 

He smiles at Chan. His eyes land on you, and the smile vanishes. “Your room is on the second floor,” he says, already turning away. “Chan can show you.” You keep quiet, as always. 

Chan shoots Hyunjin an exasperated look before turning back to you with an apologetic smile. “Let me show you to your room,” he says gently, ignoring Hyunjin's dismissal. Hyunjin retreats back into the house without another word. 

Chan leads you up the elegant staircase, whispering, “He's in a mood tonight...but don't take it personally.” Your room is spacious and beautiful—clearly readied for a guest who might want to stay.

“He was in a mood earlier, too, then,” you say softly, your hands skimming across the bedspread as you take in your new room. Your new life with a cold husband. 

Chan sighs. “He's always in a mood these days,” he says quietly. “But he’s not a bad man deep down. He just has a lot of walls.” He sets your bags near the closet. “If you need anything, call me—day or night.” He leaves a card and pats your shoulder before leaving. 

You were left standing there, taking in the foreign space that was now yours. A silent tear slides down your cheek before you wipe it away and start putting your things away.

About an hour later, a knock on the door makes you look up. A beautiful woman stands at my doorway, smiling warmly at you. “Hello, I’m Mina. I’m your sister-in-law,” she says, stepping into the room. She looks like Hyunjin would look if he were a woman. 

“You look just like him,” you say softly. 

“My brother?” She laughs. “We’re twins.” 

Your eyebrows shoot up. “Oh, I had no idea. Not that I know much anyway,” you say, stepping away from the closet.

Mina's laughter was warm and infectious, filling the room with a sense of comfort that was foreign to you. “Not many people do,” she says with a smile. “Hyunjin keeps to himself most of the time. But he's really not that bad once you get to know him.” She walks over to you, her eyes kind and curious. “You're very quiet, aren't you? Almost... timid.” She tilts her head slightly, studying you. “You're not at all what I expected.”

“And what did you expect?” You ask, not defensive—but borderline. Your father was a tycoon, arrogant and authoritative. Your mother was strong-willed and headstrong. Your sister, raised to be the same, grew up to be narcissistic and selfish, while you were raised to be quiet and do what you were told.

Mina's eyes widen slightly, taking in your response. “Well...honestly?” She leans against the doorframe casually. “Someone more like your parents or sister. Confident, outspoken... demanding.” She chuckles softly. “Not someone who seems so... breakable.” Her expression softens immediately, realizing how that might sound. “That came out wrong. I just meant—”

Before she could finish, footsteps echoed down the hall, and Hyunjin appeared behind her, arms crossed over his chest as he glared at both of you. “Mina, Chan is waiting for you downstairs. He’s eating whatever is in the fridge  and acting like a child, so let him drive you wherever you need to go and get him out of here,” he says, a hint of a smile on his face. It disappears when he looks at you. “I have enough on my plate,” he says before walking away. You look down at the floor. 

Mina’s expression softens as she turns back to you, her eyes filled with a mix of sympathy and understanding. “Don't take what he says personally,” she says gently. “Hyunjin has a way of pushing people away when he's stressed or uncomfortable.” She steps closer, lowering her voice slightly. “He might seem cold now, but give him time. He'll come around.” She gives your shoulder a reassuring squeeze before heading out the door after Chan's loud laughter echoes up from downstairs. After putting your clothes away, you decide to wander the house a bit, wanting to get to know the home you’d be living in. 

The house was large and sprawling, with high ceilings and an open floor plan that allowed for plenty of space to move around. As you wandered, you noticed the artwork on the walls, each piece carefully selected and placed to create a sense of elegance and sophistication. The living room was filled with plush furniture and expensive decorations, while the kitchen featured top-of-the-line appliances and modern countertops. You ventured upstairs, exploring the various bedrooms and bathrooms until you stumbled upon a door that was slightly ajar. You pushed it open and gasped.

It was Hyunjin’s workroom. Canvases of different shapes and sizes filled the room—some started, and others were blank. A heavy drop cloth covered one part of the room, and a canvas on an easel with a chair in front of it stood in the middle.

You look around as you approach it, taking in the splotches of paint on the drop cloth and the warmth the art creates in the room. Before you could reach the easel, you heard his cold voice behind you. 

“What are you doing in here?” Hyunjin's voice is sharp and cold as he steps into the room, his eyes immediately narrowing as he sees you standing there. He quickly moves to stand between you and the easel, his arms crossed over his chest in a defensive gesture. “This room is private,” he says firmly, his jaw tensing slightly. “You shouldn't be in here.” His eyes flicker over your face, taking in your surprised expression before hardening again. “Out. Now,” he commands coldly.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, quickly walking out. 

As the door clicks shut behind you, Hyunjin stands there for a long moment, his eyes fixed on the closed door. He couldn't shake the image of you standing there, looking so small and out of place in his private sanctuary. He runs a hand through his hair, frustration boiling just beneath the surface. He storms out of the room, his mind preoccupied with thoughts of his new bride.

. . . .

It was weeks later when you got a call from your father. “We’re coming to visit,” he said, leaving no room for argument. In the weeks that had passed, Hyunjin came and went, leaving you to your own devices. You spent a lot of time outdoors, walking the small woods that stretched behind the house. You read novels in the beautiful library towards the back of the house, drinking tea on the comfortable couch. It sat below the large window that looked out into the small clearing and woods.

Chan and Mina were there to make the time go by. You learned that Chan was Hyunjin’s friend from boarding school. The Hwangs had taken him in when his parents passed, and though they reminded him he was family, he wanted to earn his keep, happy to be the family’s personal driver when needed. Mina would drop by to keep you company, claiming that she just wanted to get to know her new sister more, though you knew part of it was because she felt sorry for her brother’s cold treatment. 

Mr. and Mrs. Hwang even came by to make sure you were doing okay, having lunch with you on occasion, and even joining you for walks in the woods with their hounds. It was more than your parents or sister did. Your sister, Nari, texted you simply, “Congrats, sis.” Your parents hadn’t said anything since the ceremony. 

And of your new husband…you’d see him in passing only, glimpses of the handsome man who you supposedly were wed to—the matching gold band on both yours and Hyunjin’s fingers the proof that it was true. 

He had intentionally distanced himself from you, his thoughts, actions, and whereabouts deliberately vague to avoid any semblance of intimacy or connection. He'd return late, leave early, his schedule purposely opaque. When they did chance encounters, he'd be courteous but cold, his eyes never lingering on you for longer than necessary. His internal monologue was a constant battle—part of him wanted to know who this quiet girl was, while the other part feared that knowing would somehow weaken his carefully constructed walls.

And then, about four months after you had been living in your new home, Mina provided some form of enlightenment to his cold demeanor. You two had been taking a walk through the woods, her own hounds running off in front of you as you followed behind. 

“Hyunjin was in love once,” she said suddenly. You looked at her with surprise, wondering how someone so harsh could feel any love towards anyone but his family. 

She laughed softly at your expression. “Yes, he was in love. But she broke his heart,” she said quietly, pausing, perhaps remembering the days following the event. His depression and isolation. 

“Yuna was her name. The daughter of an old business partner my father had. We grew up with her,” she continued, nodding, her face falling. “And then he found out about the other man,” she said, sighing, her mouth pursing. 

You stay quiet, but the cogs in your mind are spinning.

Mina's expression darkened slightly as she continued, “He was devastated. I've never seen my brother so broken. He shut himself off completely after that. Started throwing himself into work, got even more distant. That's when he started traveling so much.” She glanced at you, her eyes softening. “He hasn't been himself since Yuna. Not truly.” She paused, then added quietly, “I think he's terrified of getting hurt again.” Mina's dogs suddenly returned, breaking the serious atmosphere.

Now you understand why he was so cold and distant. He was hurt by the woman he loved. 

Which brings you back to the present. As you dress for your parents’ visit, Hyunjin knocks on your door before opening it. He was dressed in black slacks and a nice navy blue sweater, a crisp white button-down beneath it. He was so handsome, so devastatingly gorgeous…though the hard expression on his face made you look away. 

“Your parents are here,” he says quietly. You decided to wear a blue dress and gold jewelry to match the color. Your makeup was done lightly, but still highlighted your delicate features. Your hair was down and in soft waves, and Hyunjin could not deny your beauty. 

You don’t notice his eyes on you. They lingered on you briefly as you emerged from your room, taking in how the blue dress flowed gently around your curves, and how the gold jewelry caught the light, accentuating your delicate features. You looked composed and utterly beautiful, yet your eyes were tight with the anticipation of having your parents over. He felt a strange pang in his chest, something he quickly dismissed as he turned away to lead you downstairs. "They're in the living room," he said gruffly, trying to ignore the flutter in his stomach at your appearance.

You walked together down the stairs, the first time in weeks you’d been in close proximity. You didn’t speak to one another.

Your parents stood together, taking in the house. “Beautiful home you have here, Hyunjin,” your father says, stepping forward to shake your husband’s hand, not acknowledging your presence.

Hyunjin accepts your father's handshake with a polite smile, his tall frame towering over your father's. He could feel you standing beside him, quiet and almost invisible. He saw the way your parents barely acknowledged you, their attention solely on him. 

“Thank you,” he replied smoothly, his voice confident and assured. “Please, have a seat.” He gestured towards the luxurious sofa. “The chefs should be finishing the meal now,” he adds. 

You sit on the couch across from your parents. Your mother smiles at Hyunjin, perfectly poised, and glaringly obvious how fake she was. “We heard that you painted. Are these your creations around the home?” She asks, but doesn't acknowledge you. No hug. No greeting. Nothing. But you were used to it.

Hyunjin's gaze flickers to the artwork adorning the walls, a hint of pride momentarily softening his features before he composes himself again. "Yes, a few. The rest are other friends’ art or some I’ve collected," he answers your mother with a polite smile, his eyes briefly meeting yours before quickly looking away. "I find it therapeutic," he adds casually.

As the conversation continued, flowing seamlessly with your parents about business, art, travel—anything but you—Hyunjin played his role flawlessly. He can’t help but notice that your parents haven't asked you any questions yet. He thought it was strange that any parent wouldn’t be happy to see their daughter after weeks apart. No questions about your well-being, no inquiries about how you were adjusting to married life. It was as if you weren't even there. His jaw tightens slightly at the realization of their neglectful behavior towards their own daughter. He catches himself stealing glances at you, seeing how calmly you sit there, used to being ignored by them. 

The dinner bell rang suddenly, breaking the tense atmosphere. You all walk to the dining room, beautifully decorated as usual. 

You would sit here in the past weeks, eating by yourself when Hyunjin was off doing whatever he did. You would see the pitying looks the staff would give you. 

You all sit at the table, you and Hyunjin on one side, your parents on the other. The staff brings in the first course—a delicious radish soup to warm the body on this chilly day. Hyunjin found himself observing the dynamics closely. The staff moved quietly around them, serving the soup with practiced grace. He noticed how they seemed to linger around you specifically, offering you extra napkins or checking if you needed anything else. There was a clear sense of protectiveness towards you from the staff who had watched you eat alone for weeks.

Your father immediately began discussing a recent business merger, not even acknowledging the food in front of him. Your mother took a small sip of her soup before setting it aside. You eat the soup, humming and smiling at Misook, the head chef. She was sweet to you, always making sure you were fed. 

“Y/N,” your mother scolds you as you smile at Misook—just staff in her eyes.

Hyunjin's hand tightens around his spoon at the sudden scolding. He sees Misook's face fall briefly before she quickly composes herself and retreats to the kitchen. Your mother's sharp tone echoed in the room, breaking the peaceful atmosphere. He watches as you immediately stop smiling, shoulders slumping slightly—a conditioned response to her disapproval. Your father continues his conversation, unfazed by the sudden tension. Hyunjin feels an anger rising within him—not directed at you—but at their blatant disregard for their daughter's happiness.

The servers take the plates, including your parents’ untouched ones, as they bring out the next course—steak with asparagus and potatoes. You smile softly as the plate is placed before you. You had asked Misook to make it today, one of your favorite things outside of Korean cuisine. You place your napkin on your lap and begin eating. 

“You’ve gained weight,” your mother remarks as she cuts into her steak. You glance up at her, then at your father, who just nods along. 

Hyunjin's eyes snap up from his plate, his gaze locking onto your parents with a mixture of surprise and disgust. He felt his temperature rising, his fingers curling around his fork tightly. No wonder you were so quiet, so unassuming. You were constantly belittled and criticized by the people who were supposed to love and support you. He looks back down at his plate, noticing that you had paused mid-bite, your shoulders hunched slightly as if bracing for more criticism. 

“I weigh the same…I actually lost weight,” you say quietly, blinking rapidly and glancing at Hyunjin before looking away, embarrassed. 

“Then why does your face look fat and bloated?” Your mom asks, taking a bit of the steak, nodding, liking the taste.

Hyunjin's hand clenches into a fist under the table at your mother's cruel words. He can see the pain and embarrassment reflected in your eyes before you quickly look away. Your father remains silent, merely cutting into his steak without any comment or defense for you. The room felt heavy with tension and unspoken emotions. Hyunjin felt an overwhelming protectiveness surge through him. 

He clears his throat. “I think you look beautiful,” he says, into his plate before looking up at your mother for a rebuttal.

The room falls silent at Hyunjin's unexpected defense of you. Your mother's fork pauses midair, her eyes widening slightly in surprise at his interruption of her criticism. Your father looks up from his plate, seeming almost curious about how Hyunjin would handle this situation. And you just look up at him with curiosity.

“Well,” your mother began slowly, clearly taken aback by his interference. "She has always been a bit round in the face...Oh, I wish my eldest daughter, Nari, weren’t already married to a nice man, Hyunjin. She would have been a perfect match for you. She’s beautiful, and you are so handsome,” your mother says, smiling as if she didn’t just  blatantly insult you. 

You swallow and put your fork down. Hyunjin's face contorts with anger and disgust at your mother's blatant insult and implication that you were not good enough for him. He could see you pushing your plate away, your shoulders slumping even more, as if you were trying to make yourself smaller and less noticeable. Your father remained silent throughout the exchange, focusing solely on his food instead of defending or comforting you even once during this painful interaction with your mother. 

“My current wife is perfect,” he says, looking between your mother and father. You continue to stare at him, surprised that he is standing up for you. Hyunjin's piercing gaze sweeps over your mother and father, his voice firm and unwavering as he corrects her. 

Your mother's face flushes slightly at the correction, realizing that she had inadvertently insulted you in front of Hyunjin. Your father merely raises an eyebrow at the sudden defense, clearly intrigued by Hyunjin's unusual behavior. 

“She is quiet, kind, gentle, and beautiful,” Hyunjin continues, his eyes locking onto yours briefly before returning to your mother. “Everything a man could want in a wife.” 

Your parents just look at him, and then my father clears his throat. “I think my darling wife just meant that Y/N…well, she can be a bit of a wallflower, I suppose,” he says, belittling you and speaking about you as if you weren’t present. “I mean, I’m sure you’ve noticed in the past weeks, correct?”

Hyunjin's expression darkens at your father's condescending tone and blatant disregard for your feelings. He could see the hurt in your eyes, the way you shrank even further into your seat as if trying to disappear. “I have noticed,” he replies calmly, his voice deceptively gentle. “That she is quiet, yes. That she is a wallflower, no. She is simply... reserved.” His gaze flickers back to your father, his eyes cold and unyielding. “And I prefer that.”

“Oh, but everyone says that you’re the life of the party,” your mother says, getting her voice back. “Charming and funny…,” she says, sighing and glancing at me. “Y/N prefers to have her nose stuck in a book or out daydreaming with the animals,” she says, raising an eyebrow at you, daring you to respond. You sigh and just look down at your food, cold and barely touched. 

“Look at your mother when she’s speaking,” your father scolds.

Hyunjin's jaw clenches at your mother's dismissive remarks and your father's sharp reprimand. “I find her quietness charming," he interrupts smoothly before they can continue their demeaning comments about you. Your parents exchange confused glances at his sudden defense of what they considered flaws. “And her love for animals is endearing,” Hyunjin adds.

“Y/N, sit up straight, you’re slouching, you’ll become a hunchback with the way you sit there like a bag of trash,” your mother says, putting her fork and knife down, the noise loud.

He had had enough. Hyunjin stands up, making them look at him. “I won’t have you speak that way to my wife in my own home,” he says calmly, fire in his eyes. 

Your mother's mouth drops open in shock at Hyunjin's sudden outburst. Your father stares at him, equally surprised and mildly amused by his sudden display of anger. You, however, felt your heart race as you watched your cold, distant husband defend you with a fiery passion you never thought possible.

“She is my wife,” he continues, his voice low and firm. “And she deserves respect, even from her parents.” His gaze locks onto your mother's, daring her to argue back.

Your father places a hand over your mother’s arm. “You don’t know Y/N as we do,” he says calmly back.

“And you don't know me like I know myself,” Hyunjin retorted, his voice cold and commanding. “I married her, didn't I? I see her every day. I know her habits, her routines, her favorite books, and her love for animals. And I respect her for it. Something you two seem incapable of doing.” He pauses, his eyes burning with an intensity that made your heart flutter. “She is my wife, my responsibility. And I will not tolerate disrespect towards her under my roof.” 

The servers go to bring in dessert, but quickly leave when they see Hyunjin standing, pure anger radiating from him. The room fell silent as the servers retreated hastily, sensing the tension. Hyunjin's anger was palpable, his tall frame radiating a dangerous aura that even your parents seemed to recognize.

Your mother's face flushes with a mix of embarrassment and anger, while your father's expression remains stoic but slightly unsettled. “Hyunjin,” your father began cautiously, “we were merely stating facts about our daughter.”

Hyunjin cuts him off sharply, "Facts? Or insults?" His voice is low and dangerous. He clears his throat before your parents could respond, wiping his hands on the cloth napkin and throwing it on the table. “I must ask you to leave. I do not tolerate unwarranted insults and offensive remarks thrown at my wife, no matter the familiarity,” he says, eyes daring them to object.

Your parents exchange stunned glances, clearly taken aback by Hyunjin's sudden and authoritative dismissal. Your mother opens her mouth to argue, but your father places a hand on her arm, silencing her with a warning look. “Of course, Hyunjin,” your father says smoothly, standing up and adjusting his suit jacket. “We didn't mean to offend.” He glances at you briefly before turning back to Hyunjin with a forced smile. “We'll see ourselves out.”

You stay silent as they walk out, eyes following their figures before snapping to his. “They’ll say something to your father,” you say quietly.

Hyunjin's expression darkens briefly at your words before he sighs heavily and runs a hand through his hair. He knew you were right—their pride would likely lead them to complain about his 'overreaction' to his father. “Let them,” he says firmly, turning to face you fully. “My father knows me well enough. He'll understand why I reacted that way.” He pauses, studying your quiet demeanor. “Are you alright?” 

You nod, pushing a potato around on your plate, smiling up at him sadly. “I’m used to it.”

Hyunjin's expression softens slightly at your quiet response. He watches you push the food around your plate, a clear sign of your emotional withdrawal—a habit he was starting to recognize as your coping mechanism. Something inside him ached at the realization that you were so accustomed to such treatment. He walks around the table slowly, his footsteps silent on the carpet. He stops behind your chair, hesitating for a moment before gently placing his hands on your shoulders. “Come with me,” he says softly, his voice surprisingly gentle.

You jump slightly when he places his hands on your shoulders, the second physical contact you’ve ever had with your husband—the first being the day of your wedding. You push your chair back and follow him.

Hyunjin leads you out of the dining room and up the grand staircase. He had felt you tense under his touch, a clear sign of your unfamiliarity with physical affection…or maybe just his. He stops in front of a door at the end of the hallway, pushes it open, and reveals a large, comfortable-looking study.

“Sit,” he says, gesturing to a plush armchair by the fireplace. He moves to the bar cart in the corner, pouring two glasses of a rich amber liquid. 

You look around. You hadn’t been to his side of the house since he’d reprimanded you for entering his workroom without his permission. His study was, of course, beautifully decorated. You felt like you were invading his space once more. You sit in one of the seats, trying not to appear too awkward.

Hyunjin watches you out of the corner of his eye as he pours the drinks. He notices how you seemed to shrink into yourself, making yourself small in his chair as if expecting punishment for being there. It made something twist uncomfortably in his chest. He walks over and places one glass in front of you before sitting down across from you in another armchair. He takes a sip of his drink before speaking softly, “Look at me.” His voice was gentle yet commanding—a contrast that seemed foreign even to him. You take the glass, smell the liquid, then look at him.

Hyunjin holds your gaze, studying your delicate features illuminated by the warm glow of the fireplace. He notices how your eyes seemed to hold a quiet sadness, a constant reminder of the emotional neglect you'd experienced growing up. He takes another sip of his drink, his throat burning slightly as the liquor goes down. “Drink,” he says, nodding at the glass in your hands. “It's not poison.” He tries to keep his tone light, hoping to ease some of the tension between you. “It's whiskey.”

“I’ve never tasted whiskey, just wine or champagne,” you say quietly before sipping the liquid and making a face, eyebrows shooting up as your mouth twists slightly. “It’s good,” you manage to get out, clearing your throat.

Hyunjin's lips twitch into a small, almost imperceptible smile at your reaction. He finds it oddly charming how you wrinkled your nose and cleared your throat after tasting the whiskey—a clear sign of your inexperience with it. He leans back in his chair, observing you closely. “It grows on you,” he says softly. “The first sip is always the worst.” He pauses, then adds, “You're doing fine.” His voice was gentle, encouraging. “Try another sip.” 

You glance at him before taking another sip, the liquor starting to warm you up. It wasn’t as harsh now. You hum softly.

Hyunjin's eyes track your movements as you take another sip, his gaze lingering on your lips as you hum softly. The sound was so innocent, so purely you, that he felt something stir inside him—a feeling he quickly pushed down. He watches as the alcohol begins to relax you slightly, your shoulders losing some of their tension. “Better?” he asks, his voice lower than before. The firelight casts a warm glow on your face, making you look even more ethereal than usual.

“Mhmm,” you say, feet tapping on the floor as you both sit in silence. You bring the glass to your lap, not knowing what to say. 

He watches as you tap your feet gently to some silent rhythm, a small smile playing on your lips as you sip the whiskey slowly. It was such a simple moment—you drinking whiskey for the first time in his study—but somehow, it felt intimate. “You're not going to get drunk on one glass, you know.”

You look at him and smile. “Knowing me, I might. Despite what my parents might say, I’m not that heavy, so it might affect me,” you say, but continue to sip it, feeling like you’re being treated like an equal for once. Like an adult. 

Hyunjin chuckles softly at your words, the sound warm and genuine. He leans forward slightly, his elbows resting on his knees as he looks at you with a newfound interest. "I'll keep an eye on you then," he says, his voice low and almost teasing. 

“Thank you, by the way. For saying those things to my parents. Even if they weren’t true, it was nice to see them…squirm,” you say, smiling at the glass of amber.

Hyunjin's expression softens as he watches you smile into your glass, genuinely grateful for his defense of you. “They were true,” he says quietly, his voice sincere. “Every word.” He pauses, taking another sip of his whiskey before continuing, “And I meant what I said about respecting you—here in my home, you deserve kindness and dignity.”

You press your lips together, not wanting to speak out of turn. Hyunjin notices your hesitation to speak further, understanding it as a product of your upbringing and the constant fear of saying the wrong thing. He felt the need to reassure you, to tell you that in his presence, you were safe to express yourself freely. “You don't have to bite your tongue here,” he says gently. “This is your home now, too. You're allowed to have opinions, to speak your mind.” He set his glass down on the coffee table between them, giving you his full attention.

You hesitate, biting your lip, still not meeting his eyes. “The staff are very kind and welcoming. Your sister is sweet and funny—a friend, I would say, at this point. Chan too. He’s been very accommodating and helpful,” you say, purposely leaving him out, not wanting to call him out for his treatment of me.

Hyunjin listens intently, his expression thoughtful as you speak of the staff, Mina, and even Chan. He notices how carefully you worded your statements, deliberately excluding him from your list of kind individuals. It made him realize the stark contrast between his cold treatment of you and the warmth others showed. “And what about me?” he asks suddenly, his voice soft but direct, breaking the pattern of your careful speech. 

Your fingers trace patterns on the leather of the chair, not meeting his eyes. “I know you’re busy and have a life that I’ve invaded, so I understand that you need your space.”Hyunjin's brow furrows slightly at your response, noticing how you avoided his gaze and attributed his distance to busyness rather than acknowledging his cold behavior towards you. He feels a pang of guilt, realizing that his deliberate aloofness had made you accept such poor treatment as normal. “That's not what I meant,” he says gently, leaning forward to catch your attention. “I meant, have I been kind to you?” 

But you continue with your careful wording, decades of feeling like you were an inconvenience and burden to others. “You’ve been kind to open your home to me. I know it’s not what you wanted. That I’m not what you wanted. But I’m grateful all the same.” 

Hyunjin feels a chill run down his spine at your words, the careful, polite tone laced with a quiet resignation that breaks his heart. He realizes in that moment just how much you had internalized your family's neglect and his own coldness, turning it into gratitude for mere crumbs of kindness.

“Stop,” he says softly, his voice barely above a whisper. “Just stop.” He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated by his own behavior and by the realization that his words and actions—or lack thereof—have shaped your perspective. 

“I’m sorry,” you say, ducking your head, thinking his frustration and anger were directed towards you.

Hyunjin's heart sinks as he hears the immediate apology leave your lips, followed by the closing of your eyes—almost as if you were bracing yourself for his anger. His own frustration boils over, but not at you—at himself. “You never have to apologize for speaking,” he says firmly, his voice low and intense. “Especially not to me.” He pauses, taking a deep breath before continuing, "Have I been kind?" 

Your eyes meet his, your voice wavering slightly. “Can I be honest?” 

Hyunjin's jaw clenches slightly, bracing himself for your honest response. He knew it wouldn't be pretty. He nods, giving you permission to speak your mind freely for once. “Always,” he says simply, meaning it deeply. He wanted—needed—to hear your truth, no matter how harsh it might be. His cold treatment of you suddenly felt like a heavy weight on his conscience. 

“It’s not that you haven’t been kind. It’s that you’ve been…distant towards me. I know what you think of me,” you say, eyes soft despite the words that leave your mouth. “That I want your money. That I want your power. That I’m like my parents and sister. But I promise, if I had a choice in the matter, I would never have burdened you or anyone with a marriage to me.”

Hyunjin felt as though he had been punched in the gut by your honest words. Your words echoed in his mind. I would never have burdened you. “Stop.” 

“I’m sorry, I went too far,” you say, putting the glass down, going to stand up. “I’ll leave you to your thoughts.”

Hyunjin watches as you quickly stand up, apologizing again and moving to leave. Before you can walk away, he reaches out and grabs your arm gently but firmly. “Sit back down,” he says softly but commandingly, “Please.”  He leans back in his chair, studying your folded hands and calm demeanor. His next words are chosen carefully, “You didn't go too far. I asked for honesty.” He pauses, “And I'm sorry.” 

You shake your head slightly. “For what?”

Hyunjin's gaze meets yours, his eyes softening slightly—an uncommon display of vulnerability for him. “For treating you like you were just... like them.” He gestures vaguely towards the door, indicating your family. “For assuming the worst of you without even giving you a chance.” He runs a hand through his hair again, frustrated with himself.  “You're nothing like what I thought.” His voice drops lower, "And that confuses me.” He adds quietly. 

You wait for him to continue, and when he doesn’t, you ask, “Why does that confuse you?”

Hyunjin hesitates before answering, choosing his words carefully. He didn't want to hurt you further with his honesty. “Because I expected you to be like them—greedy, manipulative, using me for my money and status.” He sees you flinch slightly at his words. “But you're not. You're quiet, respectful, almost...” He pauses, “...almost too humble.” His brow furrows, “It's confusing because it makes me question everything I thought about marriage and relationships." He admits honestly. 

You shift slightly in my seat, almost awkward at how vocal he’s being after weeks of not communicating. “Well, all relationships are different, I suppose,” you say softly. “Not one is the same, I imagine. For instance, your parents have a beautiful marriage, full of love and affection. And my parents’ is…respectful. They love each other, I assume, just not in the outward way your parents are.”

Hyunjin listens carefully to your analysis of relationships, impressed by how insightful you sounded despite your quiet nature. “You're right,” he acknowledges softly. “My parents have always been affectionate with each other. And yours...” He trails off, not wanting to insult them further after witnessing their treatment of you. “They seem to respect each other deeply.” He leans forward slightly, “But there's a difference between respect and affection.”

You nod. “Yes. A very big one,” you say. “Your family is very affectionate,” you comment, smiling at him. “I’m not used to so many hugs. Your sister gives me one almost every hour.” 

Hyunjin's lips twitch into a small smile at your mention of Mina's frequent hugs. It was true, their family was very affectionate, and he could only imagine how overwhelmed you must feel after a lifetime of emotional distance from your own family. “She's always been like that,” he says fondly. “Overly affectionate and warm-hearted.” He pauses, studying you carefully. “Do you... like it?”He asks softly.

You ponder the question. “Yes, I think so. Forgive me, I’m just not used to it quite yet,” you say, smiling.

Hyunjin nods understandingly at your response. He could see how the sudden influx of affection was a bit overwhelming for you—like being thrown into an ocean after only knowing puddles.

“It's okay,” he reassures gently. “You'll get used to it.” He hesitates before continuing, “And if it ever becomes too much... just let me know.” His voice drops lower, “...I can ask Mina to tone it down if needed.” He offers quietly.

You shake your head. “No, don’t mention it, please. I revealed to her my family dynamic, and she’s made it her mission to ‘make up for it, ” you say, laughing lightly, sipping at your glass of whiskey. 

Hyunjin laughs softly at your words, imagining Mina's enthusiastic mission to ‘make up for lost affection.' He could see how she would take it upon herself to shower you with hugs and kindness—trying to compensate for what your family lacked. “She means well,” he says warmly. 

“I’m sorry for my mother’s treatment of Misook. I’ll apologize to her later. My mother has never been very kind to the staff at our—their home,” you say, correcting yourself. He appreciated your apology for your mother's behavior towards Misook—it showed how much you cared about the staff's feelings. “You don't need to apologize,” he says gently. “It's not your fault.” 

You smile. “Misook has been so sweet, making sure my favorite things are made. She’s made these cookies that I love into heart shapes. Oh, and Seohee has been so kind, letting me help her with the garden,” you say, referring to the groundskeeper. 

Hyunjin feels a warmth spread through his chest as you list off the staff members who had welcomed and included you in their routines. “They've grown quite fond of you,” he says softly. “Seohee rarely lets anyone help with the gardens except Chan.”

You laugh. “She says it’s only because he’s handsome,” you say, eyes sparkling.

“She's not wrong,” he teases gently, leaning back in his chair. “Chan does have a certain charm.” He pauses before asking, “Do you help out in the kitchen too?”

You groan softly. “I try to, but I’m not that great of a cook or baker, so I just help prep things. Jun showed me how to chop properly,” you say, laughing at the memory of the sous chef showing you how to hold a knife properly. 

Hyunjin smiles warmly. “Jun is a patient soul,” he comments softly. “He'll make a great executive chef one day.” He pauses before adding, “You seem to be fitting right in here.” His tone was surprisingly gentle.

You blush softly at his gentle tone. “I’m trying to. I don’t want to be the mistress of the home who doesn’t know or respect her staff that takes care of everything for us.” Hyunjin's heart swells at your words. “And that's why they love you,” he says quietly, noticing how your cheeks flush prettily when embarrassed or complimented. “Because you treat them like human beings instead of servants.”

“They are. They’re hardworking people with lives of their own,” you sigh, remembering how my mother and father were so cruel to the staff. You’d have new ones rotating constantly because of their poor treatment. You smile as you remember the stories everyone had been sharing. “They tell me about you all the time. Misook has known you since you were just a little boy. She’s told me stories about you.” 

Hyunjin's eyes widened slightly at the mention of Misook sharing stories about him from when he was a child. He hadn't expected the staff to talk about him so openly with you. “She has?” He asked softly, a small smile playing on his lips as memories flooded back—Misook baking cookies for him and Mina after school, scolding him when he got into trouble... “What did she say?" He asks curiously.

“How you were a mischievous little boy. That you were always dirty with paint, and always off on some adventure out in those woods. She told me this was your family home, the one you grew up in. Your parents gave it to you and moved to a different home. Same with Mina. She moved to her new home with Changbin, her husband,” you tell him, recounting what the staff have told you. Hyunjin listens attentively as you speak, painting a picture of his childhood through Misook's eyes. He found himself smiling at the memories. “She's right,” he admits softly. “I was always getting into trouble.” He pauses before asking, “Did she... say anything else?” he asks curiously, “About me?” 

“Your sister told me about…about Yuna,” you say softly, not knowing if it was okay to say his ex-lover’s name. Hyunjin's expression falters slightly at the mention of Yuna's name. It was a subject he avoided discussing—even with Mina. He sees the hesitation in your eyes, the uncertainty about whether it was okay to bring her up. Something about your gentle demeanor made him want to open up, just a little.

“It's okay,” he says quietly. “You can say her name.” He pauses, collecting his thoughts before continuing, “Mina told you about her?” 

You nod. “About how you were in love with her…and she betrayed you.” 

Hyunjin's jaw tightens slightly at the memory of Yuna's betrayal. It was a wound that still ached, despite the years that had passed. He appreciated your cautious approach to the subject—how you acknowledged the pain without prying for details. “She did,” he confirmed quietly. "We were together for a long time, and we’re going to be for many more years…or so I thought.” He takes a deep breath, staring into the fire as memories flood back. “She left me for someone else.” He admits softly. 

You stay silent, knowing an ‘I’m sorry’ felt hollow and disingenuous. “Do you miss her?”

Hyunjin considers your question carefully. He missed the idea of Yuna—the person he thought she was—not the reality of her betrayal and deception. “Sometimes,” he admits honestly. “Not her specifically... but what I thought we had.” He glances at you briefly before looking back into the fire, “...What I lost.” His voice held a hint of sadness mixed with resignation. “But it’s been years.” He adds quietly. “I’ve moved on.” He lies slightly.

You finish your glass of whiskey, feeling a bit lightheaded. “It’s okay if you haven’t,” you say softly, placing your hand over his gently, tentatively. “It’s okay to mourn what you had.”

Hyunjin felt your small hand cover his, the light touch sending a strange warmth up his arm. Your gentle words caught him off guard—no one had ever been so understanding about Yuna. They usually either pitied him or judged him for still caring after so long. Your acceptance of his past pain made something inside him crack open slightly.

“...Thank you,” he whispers softly, turning his hand over so his palm pressed against yours instead of the tabletop. “...For listening." 

You smile softly at him before sighing and standing up. “I should probably go wash off my makeup and shower for bed,” you say quietly, not wanting to interrupt his thoughts. 

Hyunjin watches you stand up, already missing the gentle warmth of your hand on his. 

“The whiskey might make you dizzy,” he comments softly, standing up as well. You stumble a bit as he says that, feet unsteady in your heels. You laugh softly and take them off, feeling much more balanced. 

Hyunjin's lips curved into a small smile as you stumble out of your heels, finding your balance without them. He follows you silently, watching as you walk carefully towards the stairs in your bare feet. “Careful,” he murmurs behind you. “Do you need help with the stairs?” He asks softly. 

You turn to him, blushing slightly. “Could you?” You ask shyly. 

Hyunjin's heart flutters at your shy request. He quickly moves behind you, placing a gentle hand on your lower back to steady you as you climb the stairs. The contact was innocent—but something about it felt intimate. He focused on keeping you from stumbling, his hand steadily supporting you. “Lean on me,” he suggests softly. Your slightly uncoordinated state was actually kind of cute—he was seeing a side of you he hadn't seen before. “You're wobbling.” He murmurs.

“I think I’m drunk,” you say, laughing. “I’ve never been drunk before.” 

Hyunjin chuckles softly at your admission while guiding you carefully up the stairs, his hand never leaving your body. “I've noticed,” he teases gently. “You're a bit more... open.” He pauses as you reach the top of the stairs, turning you gently to face him. “And a bit less coordinated.” His eyes crinkle slightly with amusement. “Let's get you to bed.”

. . . .

It happened quietly. After that evening in his study—the one where you sat with him in companionable silence, sipping tea while he worked—Hyunjin didn’t turn into someone vulnerable or talkative. But something in him softened, almost imperceptibly at first. He wasn’t cold anymore. Just… careful. But kind.

In the mornings, he began greeting you first. A gentle “Good morning,” sometimes accompanied by a small smile that felt like a secret offered only to you.

He’d wait for you before sitting at the table, pulling out your chair without thinking about it. When you reached for the teapot, he’d slide it closer. When you spoke, he listened, really listened, even if he didn’t always know how to respond.

In the evenings, you found a rhythm. Not quite togetherness, not quite distance. Sometimes he’d be in the study again, the warm glow of the lamp spilling into the hallway. If you appeared with tea, he’d look up, not startled, not annoyed, but quietly pleased.

“You can stay,” he’d say, voice low, gentle but still reserved. And you would. You’d read while he worked. He’d work more peacefully when you were there. He wasn’t vulnerable yet—not fully. But he’d started sharing small pieces of himself. Commenting on a book you carried. Asking what you liked about the rain. Telling you, softly, that his sister had laughed at something you said earlier that day. Little things. Safe things. But they felt like stepping stones. He wasn’t a man with walls around his heart anymore. He was a man opening a window, slowly, letting fresh air in bit by bit.

And when you brushed his hand one evening while passing him a cup, he didn’t pull away. He let his fingers linger, just long enough for you to feel it. Not fully open. Not yet. But undeniably warm. Undeniably kind. And undeniably moving toward you, one gentle moment at a time.

The car ride home from the art event hummed with a quiet warmth. Not silence, just the comfortable kind, the one that settles between two people who are slowly learning each other’s rhythms. Hyunjin wasn’t fully steady himself; he’d had a few glasses at the exhibit, enough to loosen the lines of his expression, enough to make his voice quieter, gentler.

When you reached the house, he held the door open for you, fingers brushing your back as you walked inside. There was no hesitation when he said, “Come to the study for a little while?” Not an order. An invitation.

The two of you sink into your usual seats—him behind his desk, you curled into the armchair near the lamp. He pours whiskey for both of you, the amber liquid catching the soft glow between you.

You take a sip. “Still better than champagne.”

Hyunjin huffs a faint laugh, swirling the glass in his hand. “I still don’t know how you manage to get tipsy off two sips of this.”

“You’re tipsy too,” you remind him, pointing your glass in his direction.

He leans back in his chair, eyes warm, the sharpness replaced by something softer. “Maybe I am.”

The air settled. Quiet, but not empty.

“You did well tonight,” he says suddenly, surprising you. “People liked you.”

You blink. “I wasn’t trying to impress anyone.”

“I know,” he murmurs. “That’s why they liked you.”

Your heart flutters at the rare honesty. He looked at you—not guarded, not distant, but openly, as though the whiskey had softened the armor instead of breaking it.

After a moment, he pushes to his feet, grabbing both glasses as he approaches where you sit. He sets them aside on a side table.

“Come on,” he says softly. “Let me take you upstairs.”

“I can walk,” you laugh, but when you stand, your knees wobble just enough to prove him right.

Hyunjin catches your hand instantly, steadying you. “You’re tipsy,” he says, but there was a smile tugging at his lips.

“So are you,” you shoot back.

He doesn’t deny it. Instead, he keeps your hand in his and walks you down the hallway and up the stairs. His thumb brushes against your knuckles, unthinking, gentle.

Halfway to your room, he speaks again, quiet and unguarded.

“It’s… nice,” he says. “Sharing nights like this with you.”

You look up at him, startled by the honesty.

He meets your gaze, eyes slightly glassy from the whiskey, but steady. “I don’t say things like that often. But I mean it.”

He walks you into your room. As you throw your heels in the closet and start taking your jewelry off, he takes a second to look around your room, having only been inside the one time—the day you came to live with him. Since then, you’ve made the space your own, filling the room with knick-knacks and personal items. His eyes sweep over everything until they land on a piece of art hung on the wall—his art. It’s an early piece he’d painted. Abstract and chaotic.

You see him eye it and blush. “I hope it’s okay that I have it. Your parents gave it to me, but I can take it down if it bothers you.”

He approaches the painting slowly, his expression thoughtful. It was an early piece—one he'd created during a particularly tumultuous period in his life. The colors were intense, the strokes passionate. Seeing it hanging in your room did something unexpected to his heart. “Why would it bother me?” he asks softly, his fingers brushing against the canvas gently. “I painted this... a long time ago.” He turns to look at you, his eyes searching yours. “You like it?” He asked quietly, almost shyly. 

You approach him slowly, timidly. “I love all your art.” His eyes flicker with warmth at your softly spoken words. He'd never really discussed his art with anyone outside of professional critiquing. Yet here you were, this quiet, innocent woman, admitting that she loved his work. It was... unexpectedly touching. “Thank you,” he murmurs, genuinely grateful. 

For the first time, he saw your room through different eyes—saw the small personal touches that made it feel lived-in and loved. “You've made this room... yours.” He comments softly.

You nod, looking around. It was neat and organized. A reflection of your upbringing. “I wanted a piece of you here…even if it wasn’t you physically.”

His heart skips a beat at your words. The realization that you'd sought out his art, that you'd wanted something that represented him, was strangely touching. He looked back at the painting, his fingers still brushing against the canvas. “You could have asked for something more recent,” he says softly, his voice barely above a whisper. “Something... better.”

You look at him, brows furrowed. “What’s wrong with this one? I think it’s beautiful.” You look at the canvas, touching the paint strokes, the blotches, and splashes. “It’s chaotic and disorganized, pain and torment…it’s you going through something and needing to express yourself, if not in words than with art…” You trail off, looking at the painting before turning to him.

He watches as you touch the canvas, your fingers tracing the chaotic lines and splashes of color. Your words...they struck him like an arrow to the heart. You saw the pain and torment in his art that no one outside his immediate family noticed. No one else had ever understood that his art was his way of screaming when he couldn't speak. 

“It's not pretty,” he admits softly, his gaze locking onto yours. “It's messy and raw and... real.” His voice was barely a whisper. 

You smile at him. “The most significant things in our lives usually are.” You turn back to the painting. “We humans have a tendency to hold onto painful memories and negative words because the feelings associated with them are sometimes stronger than happier ones,” you say before turning to him, eyes shining. “It’s a flaw in all of us. But from those bad memories, bad experiences…there’s always something to learn or grow from, making the aftermath beautiful, don’t you think?” You smile at him, eyes wide in wonder.

He stares at you, his heart pounding in his chest. Your words—they were like a balm to his wounded soul. Your perspective on pain and growth…it was profound coming from someone so young, so innocent. “You're wise beyond your years,” he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion. “Most people see only the mess, the chaos. They don't understand that it's a reflection of my soul.”

“They choose not to,” you correct him, carefully stepping closer to him, slowly pressing your palm against his chest—over his beating heart. “Truth hurts. But it’s also necessary.”

His breath hitches as your palm presses against his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart beneath your touch. Your words pierced through him. It echoed with everything he'd ever felt but never articulated. No one had ever stood so close, both physically and emotionally. "And what if the truth is too much to bear?" he whispers, his hand covering yours over his heart. “What then?” His voice cracks slightly. The vulnerability in his question was raw and honest.

You ponder the question. “Friedrich Nietzsche once said: ‘to live is to suffer, to survive is to find meaning in the suffering’…But I disagree. To survive is to suffer and continue despite it. To live is to find the meaning in the suffering. When you understand why, it’s easier—no, not easier…but more bearable to accept and move on.”

He listens to your words, his eyes never leaving yours. You were quoting Nietzsche at two in the morning—it was surreal and utterly captivating. Your perspective on suffering and meaning... it resonated deeply within him. He felt his heart ache and swell at the same time.

“You... you have a way of making sense of the senseless,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing gently over your knuckles. “Of finding beauty in the ugly.” His voice was low, reverent almost. “It's...”

You laugh softly. “Annoying? My family would agree.” His lips twitch into a small smile at your self-deprecating laugh. He could imagine your family finding your philosophical musings annoying—too deep for their shallow lives. But to him, it was refreshing, enlightening even. “Not annoying,” he corrects gently, his hand still holding yours over his heart. “Inspiring.” He pauses, choosing his next words carefully. “I envy that about you.” His thumb continues its soft caress on your knuckles absentmindedly. “Your ability to find light in the darkness.”

You move your hand to cup his cheek, eyes shining. “You may not yet feel prepared to face the light, but darkness is never permitted to linger forever,” you say softly.

His eyes flutter close at your gentle touch, feeling the warmth of your palm against his cheek. Your words, soft and melodic, wash over him like a gentle tide. It was a profound statement, a reminder that even in his darkest moments, the sun would eventually rise.

“And what if I prefer the night?” he asks quietly, his voice muffled against your palm. His eyes remain closed, savoring the rare moment of tenderness between them.

You smile sadly at him. “Then I shall be the moonlight that shines upon your dark nights, reminding you that there is still a light there to guide you.” 

His heart clenches at your sad smile and poetic words. The image of you as moonlight guiding him through his dark nights was almost too beautiful to bear. It was a promise, an offering of comfort and light in his perpetual darkness. 

Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes unexpectedly. “Don't...” he whispers hoarsely, capturing your wrist gently. “Don't make promises you can't keep.” His voice cracked with emotion. The whiskey and vulnerability had completely lowered his defenses.

“Hyunjin,” you say softly, stepping forward carefully, wrapping your arms around his tall, broad frame. “Anyone can speak a promise; only the patient knows how to hold one. And I’ve been patient my whole life,” you whisper, bringing him closer to you.

He stiffens initially at the sudden embrace. But as your gentle words wash over him and your arms wrap around him, he feels something inside him crumble. A wall he'd built high and strong came tumbling down, leaving him bare and exposed in your arms. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling your soft scent. “You're too good,” he chokes out, his voice muffled against your neck.

You sigh and hold his head against your neck, raking your fingers through his hair soothingly. “You are my husband now. For better or worse. For richer, for poorer. In sickness and in health. I vowed to be by your side no matter what.”

He'd repeated those vows during their wedding ceremony, but they'd felt hollow and meaningless at the time. Now, hearing you repeat them with such sincerity and devotion...it was almost too much to bear. He tightened his arms around you possessively. “Until death do us part,” he whispers against your neck, completing the vow. “You mean that?” He asks softly. “Even after everything I've done to push you away?”

You smile up at him, pushing his hair out of his eyes. “I don’t believe that you’re the cruel man you pretend to be. You’ve been hurt. Hurt people hurt people,” you say simply, tilting your head at him. “You’re still the mischievous boy running off into the woods that Misook speaks of. You’re just lost. But I’m here to guide you out of the woods.”

He gazes at you with wonder, your gentle touch pushing his hair away and your simple yet profound words cutting through his defenses like a warm knife through butter. The lost boy in the woods...that was exactly how he felt. And here you were, offering to be his guiding light. “You see too much,” he whispers hoarsely. “Too much goodness... too much kindness.” His voice breaks as he slowly leans down, pressing his forehead against yours

You close your eyes at the contact. “I see only what my eyes see. And I see you, Hyunjin. I see you.”

Those three words broke something inside him completely. It wasn't just seeing his surface—the cold, distant husband—but really seeing him—the hurt, lonely boy beneath it all. The tears that had been welling up finally spilled over, falling silently onto your cheeks as your foreheads pressed together. “I don't deserve you," he whispers brokenly, his hands shaking slightly as he slowly  rests them on your waist. “You should have gotten someone kind and gentle... not this mess.” 

“Oh, Hyunjin,” you say, cupping his cheeks, kissing his forehead. “I don’t want anyone else. Will you still have me, husband? Will you let me in and be your wife?”Hyunjin's heart shatters into a million pieces at the sight of you kissing his forehead—something so tender and intimate that it made his knees weak. He feels a lump form in his throat as he whispers, “Yes.” One simple word, filled with vulnerability and longing. He wraps his arms around you tightly, pulling you into a hug that feels like a surrender. “Be my wife,” he pleads softly, “In every sense of the word.”

You close your eyes and hold him. “I know it won’t be easy. You have a lot on your shoulders. In your heart.” You pause, leaning away to look into his eyes. “I know it’ll take time. There is no timeline for healing. But I promise—I vow to be consistent with you, even if you can’t with me.” 

Hyunjin's breath hitches at your words, your unwavering commitment despite knowing the darkness that resided within him. He looks back into your eyes, seeing nothing but sincerity and love reflected back at him. “You don't understand,” he whispers intensely, “...what it means for someone like me to have someone like you waiting patiently while I heal…I might never be whole enough for someone like you." His voice cracks emotionally. "...But God," he chokes out. Hyunjin's expression turns fierce and desperate as he struggles to find the right words. His hands grasp onto your arms tightly, pulling you closer as if seeking physical grounding for his emotional turmoil. “...If someone like you is willing to wait... to understand... to love me even when I'm broken...then maybe—just maybe—I can start putting myself back together. One day at a time.” He buries his face back into your neck. “You're my hope,” he whispers hoarsely.

You press a kiss to his temple. “And you’re my future.” Hyunjin feels your gentle kiss like a seal on your promise—a tangible mark of your love and support. He wraps his arms around you tighter, holding onto you like a lifeline. In that moment, he realized that he had never felt so seen, so understood, so loved in his entire life.

You end up retreating to your separate rooms, both of you still not fully ready to sleep together—even for something as innocent as slumber. But the message was clear: from that day forward, you would be living truly as husband and wife, or at least some semblance of it.

As you both retired to your respective rooms, Hyunjin felt a profound shift within him. The walls he had built around his heart began to crumble, replaced by a fragile but growing warmth. He lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying your words. He knew it wouldn't be easy—the road ahead was uncertain and likely painful—but for the first time since their marriage began, it felt possible.

. . . .

–

In a world where everyone has a soulmate and the markings vary based on each pair, you were stuck with one of the most annoying markings: the unknown.

Some people had their soulmate’s first words to them, some had a countdown. Red string, lost items, colorblindness, shared pain. You had none of the above. You didn’t even have a mental marking, like feeling their emotions or tasting what they ate. No, you had absolutely nothing.

You knew, logically, that many people were the same. It didn’t mean you didn’t have a soulmate, it just meant that your marking was likely something physical. You’d know it when you touched them or when you saw them.

It was frustrating. Sometimes you thought you’d never find your soulmate, since there was nothing actually leading you to them. It was just luck—or, you supposed, fate—if you would meet them.

It turned out that you were wrong. So, so wrong.

When you felt a sudden wave of dizziness and opened your eyes to see that you were definitely not on the couch of your apartment anymore, you thought you were hallucinating. You were exhausted, had been up all night studying; you must’ve passed out on the couch and were having a lucid dream.

You slowly looked around, noting your new surroundings. You were in a living room you’d never seen before, standing behind a large brown couch that faced a flat screen TV. There were a few paintings on the walls, blankets scattered around, and various knick-knacks and trinkets littering the TV stand and tables. It was homey.

You didn’t know why you were dreaming of a room you’d never been in. As you walked around, touching blankets and observing pictures, you thought that this seemed a little too real. You were in grad school for law, not neuro or psych or whatever studied the human brain, but even you knew that lucid dreams weren’t normally this… lucid.

You also felt off. You didn’t know how to describe it. Your body felt different. Taller, maybe. Stronger. As you walked, you felt like you were controlling a body that didn’t belong to you, feeling weirdly uncomfortable in your skin.

(You would soon find out that your description was extremely accurate.)

“Chan?”

You startled, stumbling as you whipped your body around to face the speaker. You hadn’t realized that anyone else was in the room with you or had entered, too caught up in your dream-not-dream.

You now faced a brown-haired man you had no recollection of, but for some reason felt the slightest bit familiar to you. Like you’d seen him before. You briefly remembered something you’d read online—your brain couldn’t come up with new faces—so this must be some random stranger you’d seen on the street or something, here to play a starring role in your incredibly realistic dream.

“Hi?” You asked after a very long pause.

The man—who for some reason reminded you of a squirrel—just stared at you, eyes wide and expressive. He seemed concerned, confused, looking at you like you’d gone crazy. He’d probably seen you earlier, looking at blankets and pictures way too intensely to be normal. Yeah, that made sense.

“Are you– are you okay?”

“I think so.”

“You seem really out of it, Chan. Are you, like, tired or something?”

There was that name again. Why was he calling you that?

“Who’s Chan?”

The man’s face, already concerned, seemed to grow even more worried at that.

“Are you joking? Is this a prank? You’re scaring me, hyung.”

You were starting to get scared, too. Was this actually a dream? It felt way too real. You slowly brought your hand to your arm and pinched yourself as hard as you could. Nothing happened, except for the shock of pain that quickly ran through your arm.

“Wait. This is real? I’m not dreaming?” Your expression mirrored the stranger’s. He stayed silent, apparently too confused or in shock to talk. “What is going on?” You asked again, voice growing louder.

Your conversation drew attention, and soon two more men you didn’t recognize but felt the same familiarity of entered the room.

“Is everything okay?” Asked the one with huge muscles. “We heard you yelling.”

“I think Chan’s gone crazy,” replied the squirrel guy. “That, or he’s playing a really weird prank on me.”

“Who are you? Where am I?” You asked, ignoring their words. You were scared now, very much so, because you were not dreaming which meant somehow you had left your room and ended up in this house being called ‘Chan’ instead of your name.

“You’re at home. In our living room. What the hell is wrong with you, Chan?” Asked the third man, who had the most insane face card you’d ever seen.

“I don’t know,” you said, voice quiet and shaky. “I- I need to use the bathroom.” You quickly rushed past the confused men, down the hallway and through a door, somehow getting to the bathroom on the first try. How did you know this room was the bathroom? It was like your body knew, even though your mind didn’t.

You turned to the mirror, hoping to regain your bearings, but instead let out a yelp of surprise at what greeted you. Looking back at you in the mirror wasn’t you, but a man.

Well, not just a man. The most gorgeous man you’d ever seen. Pink lips, wavy black hair, dark brown eyes, all combining to form a man who, if you saw on the street, would make you stop walking for a minute just to reconnect with reality, because men should not be allowed to look this good.

But that was besides the point. You were in someone else’s body. In someone else’s house. Talking to their roommates. How the fuck did this happen? What was going on?

A quiet knock sounded on the door, and you opened it after hesitating for a second. All three men were standing, worried, in the doorway.

“I’m not Chan,” you blurted, needing to express the situation to someone, no matter how insane you might sound. When they looked at you with blank faces, you continued. “This isn’t my body. I don’t know what’s happening. I was in my room, in my house, and then I looked up and I was here and I’m so confused and I don’t know what’s going on and–” Your rambling was cut off by hands resting on your shoulders, pulling you out of your panic.

It was the buff man, now looking you in the eyes, trying to calm you down. “It’s okay. You’re okay. I think I know what’s happening.”

“You do?” You asked at the same time as the squirrel man and face card man.

“Body switching. It’s a soulmate mark, though it’s really rare. You don’t have some other mark, do you?”

“No.”

“Chan doesn’t either,” face card man chimed in, putting the pieces together. “Oh, that’s crazy! Body, switching, holy shit.”

Well. It seemed your soulmark wasn’t a mystery anymore. And it definitely wasn’t boring, or based on luck—this was all fate.

The boys led you back to the living room, sitting down on the couch. They introduced themselves, and you found out that the squirrel man was Jisung, the face card man was Hyunjin, and the buff man was Changbin. You didn’t know why those names sounded so familiar.

You and the boys talked for a while, growing more comfortable with each other as time went on. Your soulmate’s roommates were really nice, and hilarious. Also, gorgeous. You didn’t understand how all four of these men could be so beautiful. It was unusual.

Not long after, you felt another wave of dizziness wash over you, and you were back on your couch.

–

When Chan suddenly found himself in a stranger's room, alone, he didn’t know what to think. He pulled his phone from his pocket, hoping to check his location or call a friend or do anything to help him get his bearings, but immediately realized that what he held was not his phone.

A quick check in the phone camera revealed a pretty girl he’d never seen before, but then the information registered and he blanched because why was the camera showing him a random girl and not his own face?

After a bit of thinking and a lot of stressing, he finally came to the conclusion that this was his soulmark. It calmed him down, having an answer, but his mind was still reeling. Body switching was an incredibly rare mark, and it was so sparsely documented that he had little idea what it actually entailed. All he knew was that the two of you would keep switching bodies at random until he met you in person.

He didn’t want to invade your privacy, but Chan was also bored and extremely curious, so after a short internal debate, he began looking around your house. It was small, one bedroom, a bathroom, a living room and a kitchen. Not very big, but enough for one person to live comfortably.

It was warmly decorated, with soft rugs, plants on every shelf, ceramic bowls holding random items and various posters brightening the walls. It was very homey. He liked it.

A bit more observation revealed that you were a student—a fact which almost sent Chan into a spiral before he realized, with a wild amount of relief, that you were a grad student—textbooks and notebook paper littered all over your desk and kitchen counter, all heavily annotated.

It was too bad you lived alone. He wished he could talk to someone, a roommate or friend or sibling. He wanted to learn more about you. He sat back down on the couch. Before he could consider doing anything more, the same dizzy feeling came over him and he was back in his own house.

Hyunjin, Changbin, and Jisung were all on the couch with him, looking at him expectantly.

“Are you… back?” asked Jisung.

“Yeah, I’m back.”

His friends broke into exclamations immediately.

“Oh my god-!”

“Can you believe-!”

“-seemed really sweet-!”

“-your soulmate!”

Chan laughed at his friend’s shock. “Yeah,” was all he said. He was happy.

–

“Did you get his number?”

You looked at your friend blankly. It had been a day since your body switching experience, and you were finally able to tell your friend about it. You didn’t feel like it was something to share through text, so you’d forced her out to get coffee with you this morning before class.

She’d freaked out, asked a million questions that you tried your best to answer, and froze. Then, she’d asked this. You stopped. Thought for a second. Then another second.

“Shit.”

“Are you kidding me, [Y/N]? You didn’t get his number? This is your soulmate, for god’s sake, you need his number!” She took a furious sip of her iced latte.

“I know, I’m sorry. I didn’t even think about it. I was so caught up in the moment, at first, and then I was too busy talking with his roommates.”

Yuna looked at you, thinking. “So, just how gorgeous were they?”

You let out a small laugh. You’d only briefly mentioned that part during your retelling, but it seemed she’d come back around to the topic.

“Insanely. Like, they could all be male models. And my soulmate, god, he was just perfect. I can’t believe it.”

“Girl, you’ve got your work cut out for you. If your man really is that gorgeous.”

You didn’t miss the subtle jab at your appearance, but you didn’t take offense. Yuna was right, you really could stand to look a little better. You could be skinnier, put on makeup more often, wear cuter outfits. Your appearance has always been a pretty big insecurity of yours, and this new soulmate thing definitely wasn’t going to help.

You hadn’t told Yuna Chan’s name, some part of you feeling like it was better to keep it secret. You couldn’t ignore the nagging inside you that you recognized it, somehow, so when you got home you looked him up on your computer.

You only had his first name, so it didn’t give you much, but the real shock came when you looked up his and his roommate’s names all at once.

Stray Kids.

Your soulmate was the leader of Stray Kids. The incredibly famous, incredibly talented K-pop group. You didn’t really listen to their music, but you’d heard of them before and seen pictures, which was why all the boys looked so familiar to you.

You spent a lot of time after that researching, finding pictures and reading articles, unable to stop yourself.

Yeah, this was definitely not good for your self-esteem.

–

The second time you switched, it was right before class started. You were sitting near the back of the lecture hall, pulling out your notebook and pens—this teacher didn’t like students using their computers in class—when you felt that same dizziness.

You were in a big, open room, mirrors taking up an entire wall and smooth floors underneath you. It was entirely void of furniture, the only items being various bags and water bottles stuffed against the wall and a single table with a computer and speaker on it.

Also, there were seven boys standing around, staring at you.

You recognized Jisung, Hyunjin, and Changbin from last time, and the rest of them from the looking online you’d done. You still weren’t sure of their names, though.

“Hey,” you said, drawing out the word. “I’m back.”

Jisung’s face lit up into a smile. “[Y/N]?”

“Yeah.”

The four boys you hadn’t met were in shock, all speaking over each other.

“Wait, [Y/N]??”

“Chan’s soulmate?”

“You switched again?”

“Oh my god!”

You let out an awkward laugh. You weren’t used to having so much attention on you. “Yeah, that’s right. It’s nice to meet you all.”

The rest of the boys introduced themselves to you—Felix, Seungmin, Jeongin, Minho.

After you’d gotten over the initial shock of switching again and meeting new people, you realized where you were. The lack of furniture, mirrors, and speaker? This was a dance studio.

You turned to the three roommates with a bone to pick. “Hey, you guys didn’t tell me you were idols! I would’ve appreciated the information, y’know.”

“Sorry, it slipped my mind!” said Jisung.

“Yeah, I didn’t even think to mention it,” added Hyunjin.

Changbin just shrugged.

You huffed, not actually upset.

“I hate to say this, but we do kind of have to practice our dance while we’re here. We don’t have much time in the studio today,” Minho said.

“[Y/N], you should watch,” Felix exclaimed.

“Well, she’s in Chan’s body. Do you think she knows the choreo?”

“Oh, that would be cool!”

“I kind of doubt it.”

You just listened as the group argued over whether or not you would know the dance if they put the music on. It was cute. They seemed like a really nice group of friends. You wished your friends were like this. You didn’t have many, but even the friends you did have weren’t as lively or as fun.

“Well, let’s just see, shall we?” You joined the conversation, feeling bad that you were stopping them from practicing.

After a series of agreements, everyone got into their positions. Minho showed you where to stand, then moved to start the music.

As soon as it started playing, you felt something take over your body. Muscle memory, but on another level. You immediately started moving, not at all knowing what you were doing or how you were doing it but somehow managing to stay in time with the members and hit the right moves.

It was an amazing feeling. You weren’t a particularly active person, spending much of your time studying or going to class, so dancing like this felt… freeing.

You messed up a few times but fixed yourself and kept going until the song ended. When you finally stopped dancing, the muscle memory no longer overtaking you, you looked around and saw everyone looking at you. They seemed to do that a lot. You didn’t like it.

“What?”

“That was amazing!”

“You knew the whole dance!”

You flushed, embarrassed at the praise. “Well, I did mess up a few times.”

“In the exact spots that Chan always messes up,” Seungmin added quietly, more to himself than the group.

“Wait, really?”

“Body switching is so cool.”

You laughed at the boys’ antics. This was fun.

–

Chan was in a class. In school. God, he did not miss this. The professor had been talking for almost an hour about the most boring and incomprehensible thing he’d ever heard. He wanted badly to zone out, or to just leave, but he knew he couldn’t. For your sake, he couldn’t.

When the class finally ended, Chan almost jumped for joy, packing up your bag, very ready to leave. As he exited the lecture hall, he heard a girl yelling your name. He turned, seeing two girls walking up to him.

“[Y/N], hey! How have you been?” One girl asked.

“Yeah, it feels like it’s been forever since we hung out!” The other added.

“Oh, I–” Chan paused. He wanted to talk to your friends, that was true, but he wasn’t sure how close you were to these girls. He didn’t know if you’d told them about the soulmark, or if you even wanted them to know. He figured he wouldn’t risk it. “I’m good. Yeah it’s – it’s been a while. We should make plans soon.” If he couldn’t tell them they’d switched, then he’d just talk to them as you. Easy enough, right?

“Are you free right now? Let’s go to lunch!”

At the question, Chan somehow immediately knew that yes, he was free, and that he didn’t have another class until the next morning. He didn’t know how he knew that. He agreed to lunch, walking with the girls to the dining hall. He felt something else, this time a sense of dread. Weird. He ignored it.

Listening to the girls talk to each other as they walked, he learned that their names were Jiyeon and Nari. They talked mostly to each other, only sometimes asking him questions to let him join in the conversation. Kind of odd, considering they had asked him to lunch.

The three of them bought lunch at the dining hall and found a seat by the windows. Jiyeon and Nari immediately began gossipping about various other people and events that Chan pretended to understand. He couldn’t help but notice how mean they were, though. He really hoped that the girls they were talking about weren’t their friends, because Jiyeon and Nari ripped into them with no remorse, criticizing outfits and new haircuts and talking about situations that they weren’t even a part of.

Chan hoped that you weren’t like this. He didn’t want his soulmate to be as mean as her friends were—if these even were your friends. From how little they included him in the conversation, he was starting to think that maybe you weren’t very close with them. It was an odd dynamic.

When they did say something to Chan, it was usually a poorly-hidden jab or passive aggressive comment that he was beginning to realize wasn’t in good spirit. They made fun of a bad outfit they’d seen, then described it as being similar to a specific piece of clothing you owned. They talked about a difficult class they were taking, then said, “even you wouldn’t be able to get an A.” On the surface it seemed harmless, but the way they said it made Chan feel like they were making fun of you.

Chan was starting to think of these girls as bullies more than friends. He understood now why he felt that sense of dread when he agreed to hang out. That must’ve been a gut feeling from you, who knew how these girls really were.

As much as he hated the way they treated you, it did bring him some relief to know that you weren’t like them. Which he pretty much knew already, from the raving reviews he’d received from his roommates after the first switch.

When he finished his lunch and watched as the girls shared a look with each other about it, he knew it was time to leave.

“Wow, the dining hall food must have been really good today,” Jiyeon said. It would have seemed like an innocent comment if Nari hadn’t snorted quietly in response, clearly at your expense.

Chan put the fakest smile he could on his face. “I actually have to go now. I just remembered I have plans. See you guys later,” he excused himself, quickly throwing out his trash and leaving the premises. He wished he could have defended you more or been a little more direct, but he knew it wasn’t fair of him to do anything in your body that might come back to bite you later. So, he left peacefully. For now.

Chan didn’t like your friends.

–

When you returned to your body, you were in a good mood. You’d had a lot of fun hanging out with the boys. You thought about what Chan might have done in your life today, and immediately your smile dropped. Your class. Shit.

It was an important one—well, they were all important to you, but that was beside the point—so not being actually present in class today to remember anything wasn’t good. This teacher was awful, never posting any notes or reviews online, explaining that it was your fault if you missed class or didn’t pay attention. You could ask someone else for notes, but the only friends you had in that class were Jiyeon and Nari, and there was no way in hell you were asking them for anything. You were not going to open that can of worms.

In the middle of your internal panic, you felt a sudden urge to check your notebook. You didn’t know why, but you listened to it, pulling it from your bag and flipping to the most recent page.

What greeted you was notes, meticulously written, documenting the entire class you’d missed. Well, you hadn’t actually missed it. Chan was there. Chan was there, and he’d taken notes so that you wouldn’t fall behind. Tears welled up in your eyes that you quickly blinked away.

He was so nice. He was gorgeous, and kind, and thoughtful. You didn’t deserve him. Why would the universe pair you with someone so perfect? He was too good for you.

Once you’d gotten over your slight internal breakdown, you noticed something in the top corner of your notes. It was a message from Chan. All it said was ‘text me :)’ with his number written underneath. You broke into a smile. You’d forgotten, yet again, to leave your number for him, but thankfully he hadn’t forgotten.

You added it into your phone, but paused, finger hovering over the keyboard. What were you supposed to say to him? ‘Hi, I’m your soulmate’? Maybe. Simple was probably better. You tried not to overthink it. He was the one who told you to text him, after all.

You typed out a simple ‘hi,’ hitting send before you could regret it. Then, you added, ‘this is [Y/N]!’ Good enough.

You set your phone down, but felt a buzz and immediately picked it back up. Chan sure was a fast texter.

When you looked at the notification, you saw that it wasn’t Chan replying, no, it was someone much worse. It was Jiyeon.

‘Hey girl, you seemed a little off at lunch today. I don’t know what’s wrong, but I hope you feel better! We should definitely do it again soon!’

You stared blankly at your phone. You had lunch today. With Jiyeon. Chan had lunch with Jiyeon. Yeah, that wasn’t good.

The text seemed nice. If anyone else was looking at it, they would think it was sweet, a friend checking in on you. But you knew better. When Jiyeon called you ‘off,’ that meant that you hadn’t done a good enough job at hiding your reactions to her insults. When you were too quiet, your face showed a hint of the hurt you felt, or, god forbid, you actually said something back to her and defended yourself. That was you being ‘off.’

You didn’t know what they’d said to Chan, or how he’d reacted, and honestly you didn’t want to know. You’d rather just forget it happened. You hoped Chan forgot it, too.

So, when he replied to your text a few minutes later with a ‘hey!!’ you didn’t say anything about it.

–

It had been a few weeks since you and Chan had last switched bodies. You’d been texting ever since he left his number, and he had to say, he really enjoyed it.

After the initial period of awkwardness, you’d warmed up to each other, and now texted each other every day. You would text just to talk about random things that happened throughout the day. Chan talked a lot about the kids’ antics, which you enjoyed since you’d met them all. You only really talked about your classes and what you were doing, which was usually just studying or reading.

It made Chan a little sad, that you didn’t seem to do much else. He knew that law school was serious, but that shouldn’t mean that you never got to do anything fun. He hoped that you were doing more fun things than you let on, but you never let a conversation get very far. You seemed like an open book, but the more Chan thought about it, he realized that he actually didn’t know very much about you.

He hoped that you were just shy and still getting to know him; maybe you’d tell him more later. After all, though it had seemed like you’d known each other for a while, you’d only had that first switching experience a little under a month ago.

He would learn more about you soon, anyway. It was hard not to when he was in your body, in your life.

–

You weren’t doing very well. Finals were approaching, and you stayed up late every night to study. You were exhausted, not getting anywhere near enough sleep, and were often so caught up in your tasks that you forgot to eat.

You were also lonely. You didn’t have very many friends, and the ones you did have were just as busy as you. You lived alone, so you didn’t have many interactions throughout the day. The only person you had was Chan. His texts were the only things keeping you going, encouraging you and giving you someone to talk to.

It didn’t help that after finals, you had to visit home for a week. You hated being home. Your eomeoni never got off your back about anything, always finding something to criticize. If you didn’t do well on finals, it would be about your grades. About not being able to make it as a lawyer. Plus, she never let a single visit go by without mentioning that you had gained weight and needed to ‘take care of yourself,’ even if you’d actually lost weight since you’d last seen her. It didn’t matter that you were a full adult in grad school. She was always the same.

So, with all that in mind, you studied even harder, forgot to eat even more, and isolated yourself in your apartment. You wanted to give your eomeoni as little as she could to insult, even though you knew she’d manage to find something anyway.

Still, you made sure to keep your texts to Chan upbeat and happy. He didn’t need to know about this. It was your problem, not his. He probably already didn’t like having you as his soulmate, and this would just solidify that in his mind.

–

Chan was worried about you. You were texting him less often, and although nothing in them implied something was wrong, he just felt… off. Something felt wrong within him, and he thought it had to be traced back to the soulmate bond. Something was wrong with you. He just wished he knew how to fix it.

He was lounging on a couch backstage, waiting for his turn for hair and makeup before an interview, when he felt that familiar dizziness that had eluded him for weeks.

All he could think about before his vision blacked out was that this was not good timing.

He regained his sight to find himself in an entirely unfamiliar location. He was in a bedroom, sitting at a desk with various makeup products in front of him. He assumed you’d been doing your makeup when you’d switched—funny coincidence.

Still, he had no idea where he was. He’d been in every room of your apartment, and this was not it. He noticed some of your items strewn about the room. Were you at a parent’s house, maybe? A friend’s?

As he stood up to get a better look around, a sudden wave of exhaustion and dizziness washed over him, though not the comforting dizziness that accompanied a body switch. No, a terrifying one that had him gripping the desk to stay upright. Why was he so tired, and why did he feel so awful? Were you sick?

A few seconds later, your phone began ringing, violently vibrating against the wooden desk. He picked it up, noticing that it was his number that was calling. Ah, so it was you. He smiled.

“Hey.”

“Chan,” your—his—shaky voice greeted him, quickly dropping his smile.

“[Y/N]? What’s wrong?” He asked.

“Chan, you need to listen to me. Please, this is important,” your stressed tone had him stressed, too, though he still couldn’t help but think how weird it was to hear his own voice over the phone. You two had never called before, only texted, so this was new.

“Okay, I’m listening.”

“Chan, you’re at my parents’ house right now. I’m home for a week over break.” So he’d guessed right. You continued, “my parents don’t know about the body switching. I didn’t tell them anything. So you can’t say anything, okay? Please, I need you to pretend you’re me.”

Chan froze. It had been a month, and you still hadn’t told your parents? “Why haven’t you told them?” He asked. “Is something else wrong? [Y/N], please, talk to me.”

After a moment’s hesitation and quiet, shaky breath, you responded. “Chan, my eomeoni and my abeoji aren’t– they aren’t nice people. They’re not nice to me, so they won’t be nice to you today. I don’t talk to them very often, so I haven't had a chance yet. I was– I was going to tell them this week.” Your voice grew quieter. “But I don’t want that to fall on you. So you need to pretend, please.”

Chan’s heart ached for you. “Of course, I can pretend.”

You let out a sigh of relief. “Thank you. And, please try not to let them get to you. They’re talking about me, not you. And don’t try to defend me, either. It just makes things worse. Okay?”

Chan was getting nervous. What could they possibly be like to preempt this kind of conversation? “Okay. Oh, by the way, you have your work cut out for you today, too.”

“What do you mean?”

“We have an interview today. In, like, an hour. I don’t know where you’re calling me from, but you need to go get your hair and makeup done,” Chan explained. When he received no response, he kept going. “And I’m the leader, so they’re going to expect me to talk the most—you to talk the most.”

“What??” You blanched.

“Yeah. I’m sorry, sweetheart,” the term of endearment slipped from his mouth easily. “The boys will help you. Tell them what’s going on, and they’ll cover for you if you need it. It’ll be okay.” He tried his best to sound reassuring, not wanting to add any more stress onto what he knew you were already feeling.

“Oh – okay. Um, I should go, then. Bye,” you said.

“Bye,” Chan replied, hanging up the call.

He tried not to show it on the call, but your words set him on edge. He had no idea what he was about to encounter when he went downstairs. He needed to prepare himself.

He looked in the mirror, making sure he looked okay. You had been in the middle of doing makeup, so he didn’t want to go downstairs with only half his face done or something. When he was sure that the makeup looked fine and he was dressed in a normal outfit, he left the room. Your phone told him it was ten in the morning.

He entered the kitchen, noticing who he assumed was your mother sitting at the table, reading a newspaper. She looked up at his arrival.

“Oh, look who’s finally up. Really, [Y/N], you need to wake up earlier. You won’t get anything done when you sleep in half the day.”

Wow. What a lovely first thing to hear in the morning.

“Uh– sorry, eomeoni,” Chan replied, using the same word you’d used to refer to your mother earlier.

She barely acknowledged the apology, turning back to her newspaper. After a long minute of silence, she started talking again, not looking up from the paper. “Your abeoji and I are going out with friends today for lunch. You’ll have to fend for yourself. We’re having dinner together tonight, though, so be sure you’re home for that.”

“Yes, eomeoni.”

It seemed that that was the end of the conversation. Chan opened the fridge, looking for something to eat. He was starving. There wasn’t much in there, so he settled for cereal and some fruit.

He felt wildly uncomfortable. This was your parents’ home, and he had no idea how to act. What did you normally do when you were here? Where did you sit, what did you talk about, did you even talk at all? He didn’t want to give himself away, but also had no clue what to do. He should’ve asked, but he knew he couldn’t now. You were busy in an interview.

A bit later, your parents left for their lunch plans. Chan let out a sigh of relief, glad that he didn’t have to be under scrutiny anymore. Not that your parents had even glanced his way or said a word to him since breakfast.

He wasn’t used to this. His parents were kind, he loved his siblings, and their home was always a lively one. It was nothing like this.

He decided to go for a walk. He didn’t know where he was, so he figured a little tour of the neighborhood could be a fun way to pass the time.

He quickly learned that you’d grown up in a small, adorable town. The center wasn’t a far walk from your house, so he’d found it soon into his walk. He went in and out of stores, browsing and talking to the workers and townspeople. They all seemed to know you. Almost everyone he walked by waved or said hi, and some even stopped to chat and ask about law school. He tried his best to come up with vague but satisfying answers.

He got lunch in town, finally returning home hours later. He really liked it here. It was quaint, and very homey. Though he couldn’t ignore how an uncomfortable feeling settled over him as soon as he walked back through the threshold of your house.

He was surprised that he was still in your body. The switches had never lasted longer than a few hours, but it seemed that today was different. Your parents hadn’t returned yet, so he went back to your room and opened the computer that was sitting on your desk. He’d been meaning to do some more research on his soulmark, but hadn’t had a chance. Now was as good a time as any.

Though information was scarce due to the rarity of the soulmark, he still found a few good articles and webpages. Soulmates with this mark would switch bodies at random, starting on a random date and not stopping until they met in person. The longer they went without meeting, the more often the switches would occur and the longer they’d last.

Chan thought about this. Things had been okay so far, but with his job, switches were bound to happen at inopportune times if they became a more common occurrence. Today was just the start of that, with you being forced to do an interview for him. He didn’t even want to think about what would happen if you switched during an exam. He would definitely fail it, and he would never forgive himself. He hoped it didn’t come to that.

He needed to meet you, and soon. He knew you went to a university in Seoul, so you really couldn’t be very far from each other. He just needed to find a time to meet you. He hoped you would be okay with that—you seemed like the type to want to take things slow.

Some time later, Chan heard your eomeoni calling you down for dinner. Time had flown by, it seemed. He’d hoped that you would’ve switched back by now, because he really wasn’t prepared for a whole dinner with your parents. He didn’t know what to say. He took a second to hope that everything would go well, and then walked downstairs.

Your parents were already sitting at the table, so Chan sat in the only available seat left, across from them. Dinner started silently, no one saying a thing as they served dinner onto their plates. Finally, your eomeoni spoke.

“So, [Y/N]. How did you do on finals?”

The information came to Chan’s brain immediately, words coming out of his mouth before he could even think them. “Good, eomeoni. I passed them all. I emailed you all my scores, remember?” Chan was surprised by his own words, but tried not to show it. This must be muscle memory, or something. He liked it. It would definitely help him get through dinner.

“Yes, I did see them,” she replied, tone dismissive. Chan wondered why she would ask if she already knew what they were. “You passed, but that’s it. Really, [Y/N], an eighty-five on Administrative Law? A ninety on Civil Procedure? You can do better.”

Chan had to stop himself from showing the absolute shock he felt on his face. Those scores were amazing, if you asked him. You were in law school in one of the most prestigious universities in the country, and the lowest scores you received on finals were an eighty-five and a ninety? To him, that made you a genius. He didn’t understand why your eomeoni thought they were so bad.

He tried to take your advice to not defend you, but he couldn’t just let it go. “Those are good scores, eomeoni. Much better than most other people in my classes.”

“I don’t care about the other people in your classes, I care about you. And I know you can do better,” she rebutted immediately. Chan had no idea what to say to that. “Work harder next time.”

After a long moment of inner struggle, Chan replied, “yes, eomeoni.” The words came to him so easily, like he’d said them a million times before in a million conversations just like this. That was probably exactly right, he realized, for you.

The conversation continued after that, your mother reminding him very much of your friends, Jiyeon and Nari—she insulted so many people that Chan assumed were her friends or neighbors, speaking scathing comments about things that didn’t seem very serious to Chan. She soon turned her insults onto you, talking about how a friend’s daughter “really needs to lose some weight, and speaking of that, you seem like you’ve changed since last break too, [Y/N].”

She mentioned it casually, but it was clear by the emphasis she put on ‘changed’ and the tone of her voice that she had been looking for a way to bring the topic up.

“Really, honey, what do I tell you every time? That just because you need to spend so much time studying, that doesn’t give you an excuse to stop eating healthy.”

Chan wasn’t sure what to say. He’d heard many conversations like this before, most of them back as a trainee when he’d overheard managers talking to the female trainees. They were harsh conversations, but it was always direct, to the point, and not as passively cruel as your eomeoni was currently being. Also, you weren’t even an idol! Chan disagreed with the dieting culture as a whole for idols, but your mother didn’t even have that excuse. You were just a regular girl, who, by the way, was absolutely just fine the way you were. Chan didn’t think you needed to change anything about yourself.

Still, Chan didn’t know quite what to say to that, and felt something in his head urging him not to reply. Before he could decide what to do, your eomeoni changed the topic. “But really, honey, if you want to be unhealthy and are fine with the way you look, that’s your choice. Anyway, did you see Mrs. Choi’s daughter in town today? She really needs to fix–” Chan stopped listening, your mother’s words becoming a blur in his head as he fumed in anger. His fists were clenched under the table so hard it almost hurt, and he was sure that if anyone looked at him, his feelings would be made perfectly clear by his expression.

He was going to say something. He was. You didn’t deserve to be spoken about like this. He didn’t care that you said not to defend you, not anymore. He opened his mouth to speak—

—and felt a sudden, familiar wave of dizziness. No. Not right now, not now. He tried to fight it, but Chan was powerless to the will of the universe. He opened his eyes and was back in his own body.

–

You had prayed to not switch bodies with Chan while visiting your parents. You begged, pleaded with the universe, not ready for Chan to see that part of your life. You were not listened to.

When you switched, you almost fell into a full-blown panic attack, painfully aware of what Chan was going to encounter in your life today. You couldn’t, though. Not here. Actually, where were you?

Distracting yourself from your inner panic, you looked around. You were in some sort of dressing room, sitting on a couch with Felix and Jeongin, who were both busy on their phones. Lining the walls were small desks covered in makeup products and mirrors with bright lights hanging on the walls in front of them. The room was bustling, staff members running around, yelling things, calling times that had no meaning to you.

You didn’t care. Wherever you were, whatever was happening, it could wait. You needed to call Chan.

You grabbed your phone, jumping up from the couch and slipping out the door, finding a bathroom to hide yourself in. On your way out, you missed Felix and Jeongin’s surprised glances and confused “where are you going”s.

You sunk down on the bathroom floor and unlocked Chan’s phone, extremely grateful for facial recognition. He picked up immediately.

Voice shaky and holding back tears, you were sure you sounded awful, but you didn’t care as you quickly explained the situation. You were thankful for Chan’s hesitant agreement, hoping that he wouldn’t change his mind when he actually met your parents.

You stalled at his mention of the interview. “What??” you said into the phone, already falling back into the panic you’d barely managed to wrench yourself out of. Chan’s assurance that the boys would help you calmed you down a bit, but you ended the call quickly after, not wanting to stress him out too much with your worries.

An interview. That’s why everyone was getting their makeup done and staff was running around like someone was chasing them. You needed to get back.

You returned, relief dawning on Felix and Jeongin’s faces as soon as they saw you.

“Chan! Oh, thank god you’re back. Where did you go? Are you okay?” Felix asked.

“It’s your turn for makeup,” Jeongin said, gesturing to a waiting makeup artist, antsy with impatience.

You felt disconnected from your body, unsure what to do. “Oh, okay,” you said, coming out much calmer than you felt, body on autopilot as you sat down in the empty chair.

As the artist began applying product to your face, you saw realization dawn on Jeongin’s face. “Wait, Chan, did you–”

“Yes,” you cut him off, voice quiet and laced with anxiety.

Felix gasped. “Oh, shit, you swi–”

Minho cut Felix off this time with a harsh glare, apparently having overheard the conversation. “Not here, Felix,” he said, eyes flitting to the various staff members within earshot.

“Right, sorry,” Felix replied. Before he could say anything else, he was ushered away to another chair to get his own makeup done. Minho, seemingly all made-up with nowhere else to be, stayed by your side as you got your own make up done. When your artist left for a minute to find an eyeliner she’d let someone else borrow, Minho immediately began talking to you in a low tone.

“This is an interview about our new album. Have you listened to it?” You nodded, and he continued, “okay, good. Then if someone asks about a song or something, just answer as truthfully as possible. If any of that dance muscle memory works with talking, too, use that. If you look like you need help, we’ll jump in. I’ll tell everyone else. Okay?”

You stared at him for a second, still taking in the barrage of information he’d just relayed to you. Your brain, overwhelmed from everything that had happened in the last ten minutes, was a bit slow on the uptake.

“Okay,” you replied eventually. The make-up artist came back, then, effectively ending your conversation. Minho gave you a reassuring pat on the shoulder before walking off to inform the others.

The next half hour passed in a blur. You were ushered from room to room, finishing your makeup, changing into your interview outfit, getting your hair done. Before you knew it, you were sitting in a comfy chair with the seven other boys, cameras pointed towards you and lights shining bright in your eyes.

A brief countdown sounded, and the interview began.

As soon as the cameras turned on, you felt something take over your body. An unknown force pushed you out of the driver’s seat and you were left to observe, your body acting on its own, just like in dance practice. You answered questions with words you didn’t even think of before you spoke them, yet as you talked you knew it to be true.

You didn’t want to push the limits of whatever this was that was helping you, so you stayed relatively quiet, letting the other members do most of the talking. Still, when a question was directed toward you, you somehow knew exactly what to say, playing the perfect ‘Bang Chan’ role.

The interview finished, and with the sound of the cameras being turned off, you felt yourself come back to your body. Internally, you mused how Chan must have his idol persona drilled into him for it to be able to overtake you so fully when the cameras were on.

The minute you and the other boys were left alone to get changed back, you were tackled into a hug by multiple members.

“[Y/N], that was amazing!”

“You’re a natural!”

“I would’ve never been able to tell it wasn’t Chan!”

You blushed at the praise, unused to so much attention. “Thanks, guys,” you said softly.

The eight of you got unready and then were taken back to the company for the rest of the day’s schedule, which consisted solely of dance and voice practices—no more public appearances for you today, thank god.

When you finally got a minute to yourself on the car ride back to the dorms, you remembered Chan, and where you’d left him today. Your stomach sank. You’d been so busy that you forgot all about it, but now, you were terrified. You hoped your parents hadn’t done anything crazy or said anything particularly mean to him, though you knew that was highly unlikely.

He hadn’t texted you, but that was probably just because he knew you’d be busy. Now that you thought about it, you’d been switched for quite a long time today—much longer than usual. The universe seemed like it was out to get you, switching you today of all days and having it last for the entire day.

The boys noticed you lost in your thoughts and tried to ask what was wrong, but you just gave a vague answer and changed the subject. There was no reason to involve them in your own issues. It wasn’t fair to them.

Seeing that you weren’t going to give them a real answer, they instead decided to just be very rowdy and energetic, all coming back to Chan’s shared dorm at the end of the day. You played video games and had dinner, and you had to admit, it was fun. Chan was lucky to have such good friends.

Still, when the dizziness took over your vision, you almost felt thankful. You didn’t think you could handle all the happiness anymore. You didn’t deserve it. Chan deserved to be having fun with his friends right now, not stuck in your miserable childhood home with your parents.

Your vision cleared, and you found yourself at your parents’ kitchen table, untouched food in front of you. Your mom was in the middle of one of her usual rants, talking about the latest neighborhood gossip—which girl had found a bad influence of a boyfriend, which old high school acquaintance was currently doing better than you in life, the usual. You weren’t even a little bit surprised that your parents hadn’t noticed the switch. You never talked much at dinner anyways.

–

Chan’s concern for you grew by the day.

It had been a week since the last switch. You were back in your apartment now, and Chan felt a surprising amount of relief at knowing you weren’t at your parents’ place anymore. He’d texted you the day after the switch, but you’d brushed him off. You said it was fine, your eomeoni was always like that, it wasn’t that serious, and so on. Chan didn’t believe you.

Chan was worried about a lot of things. He was worried about your friends, your parents, your over-studying, your eating habits, your sleep schedule (if that exhaustion he felt when he first entered your body was anything to go off). He was worried. But he didn’t want to ask you about it, he didn’t want to seem like an overbearing boyfriend. You weren’t even technically dating, since you hadn’t had that conversation yet, hadn’t even met in person, but Chan wondered if being soulmates allowed him to breach those topics.

Still, even being soulmates, Chan never found a time he felt comfortable bringing any of it up. It didn’t help that you primarily talked through text, with calls being few and far between, and text didn’t seem like the right method of communication for this conversation. So he waited.

Chan did the next best thing: he talked to his friends about it. He hated to share your personal issues with them, but they were basically your friends too, he reasoned, and it was important. He was trying to help you.

“Wow, they sound awful,” Jisung said after Chan told them all about his experience with your parents.

“God, no wonder she ran off so fast to call you. She looked really scared,” Felix added, remembering your panicked eyes as you’d jumped off the couch that day.

“I don’t know what to do. Her parents are awful, and so are her friends. Or, at least, the ones I’ve met. I don’t know if she has anyone to lean on, and she won’t talk to me,” Chan explained, defeated. “I don’t know how to help her.”

“You need to see her. In person. Maybe you’d get through to her then,” Hyunjin suggested.

“I really want to, but you know how busy we are right now. I’d need to plan a whole outing, which wouldn’t be able to happen for weeks, and I don’t even know what I’d tell the company,” Chan replied.

“Ah, right. They don’t know,” Changbin said. Chan had decided not to tell anyone but the boys about the soulmark, worrying about what the company might do. Force you two to see each other so the switching would stop and then ban you from seeing each other again? That seemed most likely. JYPE wasn’t exactly the biggest supporter of idol relationships, even if it was soulmates.

The conversation had continued with more suggestions, but it was fruitless. There was nothing Chan could do for you right now. He felt better that the boys knew, though. Maybe next time you switched, they could talk to you for him.

–

You were spiraling. After the week of the cruel and unusual punishment that is your parents’ house, you were finally back at your apartment. You were supposed to be better now that you were back—that’s what you told yourself every day of last week until it was time to come home—but you were failing even at that.

Being back home meant being back at school, so you were immediately back on your grind, staying late at the library to study, or in your kitchen with the lights on late into the night.

You were eating less, too. Much less. You hated to say it, but your eomeoni had gotten to you. The combination of her comments all throughout the week, your friends’ regular digs, and your stress at having Chan as your soulmate broke you. It wasn’t even very difficult, either. You were always in class or studying, so you’d often forget to eat or not notice your hunger anyway.

You were eating less than you ever had before, skipping most meals but always making sure to have just enough in your system to get you through the day. The last thing you wanted was to collapse in front of someone—it was mortifying even to think about.

What spurred you on even more was the encouragement you were receiving. Jiyeon and Nari had stopped you after class again this week, wanting to walk with you and chat, and they both complimented you, saying “girl, you look good!” It was a genuine comment, which threw you for a loop, because you’d never heard an actual compliment from them the entire time you’d known them. Yuna, your closest friend, had also noticed, telling you quite directly that you looked “so skinny, oh my god.”

You were glad. For the compliments, for one, but also for the fact that they didn’t seem to notice the heavy eye bags you tried so hard to cover or the effort it took for you to walk long distances. You were just so tired lately. It was okay, though. Nothing you couldn’t handle.

Chan texted you a lot, which only increased the guilt you felt for putting this on him. You tried your best to brush it off, change the topic, tell him you were doing fine, but he just wouldn’t let it go. You could tell that he was trying to seem unbothered, but the did you eat yet texts every day and the good night, get some rest texts every night gave him away, especially because you knew Chan wasn’t going to bed when he texted you good night. His workaholic tendencies and insomnia kept him up just as late as you, if not later, you were sure.

Chan was so sweet, so caring, and it was getting harder to ignore the voice in your head that told you you didn’t deserve him. It got louder every day, every time he texted you a reminder to eat and you lied that you’d eaten already, every time he asked how your day was and you told him it was great. You were a burden, an exhausted, ugly burden with too many problems and you couldn’t bear the thought of Chan taking them on for you. It wasn’t his job—his job was to be an idol, and he already had plenty on his plate that came with that. You just needed him to stop worrying about you. You could take care of yourself.

–

Last time you and Chan had switched, Chan complained about the timing. Well, the universe must have heard him and decided to one-up itself, because this had to be the worst timing in the world.

He and the rest of the Stray Kids were backstage at an awards show, waiting to perform. They watched in the wings as another group performed. After that, there would be an award and a speech, and then they would go on to perform.

As he stood, half watching and half listening to his members’ whispered conversations with each other, he felt the all too familiar and in this moment, incredibly awful feeling of dizziness that accompanied a body switch.

As soon as he opened his eyes to his new surroundings—the kitchen table of your apartment—a huge wave of exhaustion and hunger and a different, worse kind of dizziness crashed over him, and he was sure he would’ve collapsed to the ground if he weren’t already sitting down.

He didn’t know how long he sat there, hands gripping the table, desperate for something to ground himself while he recovered from and adjusted to the drastic change in feeling. He felt something like this last time you’d switched, but it wasn’t anywhere close to this level. When he’d finally recovered enough for thoughts to get through his head again, he swore. Loud and harsh and unlike him, but he couldn’t help it. He’d messed up.

He tried to get through to you, to talk to you, but you kept brushing him off, saying you were fine. And after a while, he started to believe it. At least a little. He could’ve done more, damn it, he should’ve done more. All he’d done for the past two weeks was ask if you were eating and imply for you to go to bed. And for the past two weeks, you’d clearly been lying to him, sending responses only to placate him, to make him believe that you were okay.

But you weren’t okay. And Chan couldn’t help but think that it was all his fault for not noticing.

He needed to do something. He was in your body, right? So what could he do to help? He got his answer from the loud rumble that sounded through your stomach.

Chan slowly stood up, careful not to fall back down onto the chair, and made his way over to your fridge. He internally wondered how you’d gotten anywhere recently, considering how tiring it was just for him to stand up and walk to the fridge.

The fridge was worryingly empty, only holding some fruit and few, scarce leftovers that he assumed were from meals you didn’t finish. He pulled everything out, heating up some old pasta and washing and cutting the fruit into a bowl. If you wouldn’t eat, then he would have to do it for you.

He ate the pasta quickly, the fruit following soon after. His stomach felt better for a second, glad to finally have some real food in it. Then, it flipped. A sudden but strong wave of nausea shot through him, and he barely made it to the bathroom in time before he was puking out everything he’d just eaten. Fuck.

Of course, he was so fucking stupid. You hadn’t eaten anything substantial in who knows how long, so of course your body wouldn’t react well to a sudden influx of food. He wanted to hit himself for being so dumb.

Once he’d finished emptying his stomach and cleaned himself up, the only thing he had enough energy left to do was stumble to the couch and collapse on it. He didn’t know how long he laid there for until a rush of energy woke his body.

He jerked up, suddenly finding himself standing, back at the awards show (dressing room? he registered sluggishly), surrounded by his friends. He must have been so out of it in your body that he didn’t even feel the dizziness. That wasn’t good.

The complete change in feeling jarred him, again, even though it was a change for the better. His legs wobbled and he pitched forward, managing to catch himself on Changbin’s shoulder. His friend, concerned, quickly moved to help support his weight, letting Chan lean on him until he was able to regain his balance.

“Chan? Are you back? What’s wrong?” Changbin asked.

Chan righted himself, taking a step back to look at everyone. They were all sweaty, out of breath, but glowing—aside from their current worry for him. Chan took stock of his own feelings, finding himself to be a bit tired (though compared to what he’d just felt in your body, he actually felt so energetic he could run a marathon) and adrenaline coursed through him, like it always did after a performance. His eyes widened, remembering.

“Did we perform? Did she perform? How did it go?” He asked instead, in a panic now that he had enough energy to feel anything other than exhaustion.

“Wha- Chan, forget about the performance! What happened to you?”

It was apparently clear that Chan was in a state, but he had no care of how he looked right now. All he cared about was you.

“I’m fine, but [Y/N]’s not. She’s not okay, guys. It’s so much worse than I thought, fuck, it’s bad,” he rambled, unable to stop thinking about how awful he felt for the short time he was in your body, how awful you must have felt for weeks without anyone knowing. “I need to find her, I need to help her. Please, we need to go–”

Seungmin gripped his shoulders. “Chan, calm down. It’s okay. It’s going to be okay. Take a breath.”

“No, you don’t understand!”

Another hand came to rest on his back, rubbing slow circles. His friends talked to him, but the words didn’t make it through to his head. His breaths came out fast and shallow, and he slightly registered someone trying to get him to follow their breathing. He couldn’t stop thinking about you, and what he’d just felt.

Eventually, he came back to himself. Everyone looked extremely worried. For him, his brain supplied, because he’d just had a panic attack.

“I’m okay,” he said, ever the leader, because he absolutely was not okay, but he didn’t want his members worrying for him any more. He heard a chorus of relieved sighs, his friends glad he was finally back and lucid. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize, Chan,” said Jeongin.

“Yeah, we’re here for you.” Felix.

“Can we do anything to help?” asked Minho. “Tell us what to do and we’ll do it.”

–

You were sitting at your kitchen table trying to study, books and papers spread out in front you, to no avail. You just couldn’t seem to focus, and you knew why. You were tired, dizzy, hungry, and your body protested so much that you couldn’t get anything done. Usually you were okay, you could push through no problem, but today was worse.

You’d had a test this morning, an important one, so last night you’d stayed up studying. You only got an hour of sleep, maybe two, and it was coming back to bite you today. Thankfully, you’d made it through the test and actually thought you did pretty good, but the exhaustion hit you as soon as you stepped out of the classroom. It was probably the relief that did it, the sudden release of tension that allowed all the other feelings you’d pushed away to come back full force.

You pushed the books away from you, giving up. Maybe you should just call it a day and take a nap or something. You could give yourself that, right?

As you decided on what to do, a different kind of dizziness came over you, and your sluggish brain only remembered what that meant just as your vision changed.

You were in a big, dark room, surrounded by people trying to be as quiet as possible. Following the only source of light you could find, you turned to see curtains, and beyond them, a stage.

You weren’t thinking about the connotations of that realization, though, because as soon as the body switch had been completed, a sudden and violent rush of energy crashed into you, feeling more like a bad thing than good with the force of it.

You stumbled but quickly caught yourself, standing still to feel the new energy coursing through your body. It felt amazing. You’d been feeling so bad for the past few weeks that you forgot how it felt to be fully energized, and god, did you miss it. It felt so good that you almost considered stopping your recent habits, but you quickly brushed that thought off. It was working. What you were doing was working, if the compliments you’d received recently had anything to say about it, so you could handle a little tiredness. It was worth it.

You were drawn out of your thoughts as a whispered conversation near you grew louder. You looked back to the stage, finally realizing what that actually meant for you, and paled. You looked down at yourself and found you were wearing very fancy and high-quality clothes. Your hair felt hard, like it had been sprayed in place, and you could feel the makeup on your face.

Oh. Oh, shit.

Your head whipped to look at the people closest to you, which happened to be the ones having the whispered conversation. Seungmin and Jeongin. They saw you looking, and mistook your expression for you being mad at them for being loud. “Sorry, Chan,” Jeongin said, quieting down.

You shook your head. “I’m not Chan,” you whispered, voice barely audible. The boys must have heard you, though, because their eyes immediately widened, surprise and worry clear in their gaze.

“Oh, fuck,” Seungmin said, full volume. That drew the attention of the rest of the members, who came over to see what was going on. “It’s [Y/N],” Seungmin explained quietly once everyone had gathered.

A series of gasps sounded from the group.

“What do I do? What are you even performing?” You asked.

“It’s okay. You have that weird muscle memory thing, right? Won’t you know the dance?” Jisung said, hopeful.

“Oh, yeah! Like in dance practice,” Felix said.

“And the interview,” Hyunjin added.

“Um, yeah, I guess so. I just– I’m not super confident in it.”

The boys tried their best to reassure you, but it was clear they were worried as well.

“Well, there’s nothing else we can do. You have to go on, so just do your best,” Minho told you, ever the voice of reason.

“Yeah. You’re right,” you agreed, taking a deep breath. You could do this. You could do this.

In the background, you heard the voice of someone announcing Stray Kids’ performance. The lights dimmed. You walked on stage with the boys, finding your place, whole body shaking. Fuck, this was scary.

Last time, in dance practice, you’d known the moves but messed up where Chan usually messed up—at least, that’s what the boys said. You only hoped that Chan knew this dance well enough for you to not mess up at all right now.

The lights came up, the music started, and your body moved. You didn’t know what you were doing, but you were moving, dancing, singing, an ‘oh thank god’ ringing in your head as you hit every count. You let yourself get carried away in the dance, ignoring the huge audience that, if you paid full attention to, would probably scare you out of your muscle memory.

When the song finally ended, feeling like it had lasted for years, you quickly excited the stage with the rest of the group, out of breath but glowing. You felt incredible. It probably felt even better than it otherwise might have, given that you felt like exactly the opposite of this constantly in your own body. Maybe… maybe it wasn’t worth it. What you were doing to yourself. You didn’t know.

You followed the group to an empty dressing room, being told that you could change and get ready again before heading back out to sit in the audience. Instead of changing, the boys immediately turned to you, cheering and patting your back at a job well done.

You smiled at their praise, but it faded in your ears, replaced by overwhelming dizziness, and then nothing.

It was quiet. Silent. No one was talking anymore. You lifted your head up, seeing your kitchen table, and winced as your exhaustion slammed back into you. Well, great. You were back now. Yay.

Really though, you were happy to be back, if at least it meant that Chan wasn’t suffering anymore. You didn’t deserve to feel happy and energetic if it meant that he felt like this. You chose to do this to yourself, so you would be the one to deal with it. Not Chan.

You stood up slowly, carefully, and walked to your bedroom. You had done enough today. You’d allow yourself a break, an early bedtime. It was Friday, too, so no classes tomorrow. You collapsed on your covers, falling asleep before you could even crawl under the blankets.

When you woke up, it was to three missed calls and ten messages, all from Chan. Whoops. You scrolled through them, reading them with eyes still bleary from sleep.

Are you okay?

Please call me back

[Y/N], I’m worried about you

Please just answer the phone

Are you sleeping?

Just text me if you’re reading these

I’m here for you

You can tell me if something is wrong

[Y/N]

Please answer

Oh, shit. You checked the time. It was eleven in the morning. Shit, you never slept this late. Thank god it was the weekend.

Chan had called you three times last night and sent half the texts. Then he’d texted the last few at eight in the morning. Fuck, he’d been worried about you all night? You hated that you slept through it all.

You quickly typed out a response, not trusting yourself to be able to keep up the act if you talked to him directly.

I’m fine

I’m sorry, I was asleep. I just saw all of these

I didn’t mean to worry you. I’m okay though

Chan’s response came immediately, like he’d been staring at his phone, waiting for a reply. Honestly, he probably was.

Are you sure?

When we switched yesterday, it just seemed like

Well, I don’t know. You just didn’t seem okay

You almost started crying at how nice he was being. He didn’t need to care this much about you. No one else did. You needed him to stop caring.

I swear I’m fine

You don’t need to worry about me, I can take care of myself

Chan took longer to reply this time. His speech bubble popped up and disappeared multiple times before he finally replied with a simple, okay.

You sighed and set down your phone, feeling relieved but also strangely guilty. You got what you wanted—Chan to stop worrying, stop asking if you were okay, at least for now. But you really didn’t like lying to him. Hopefully if he stopped asking, you’d stop needing to lie.

You crawled out of bed, feeling much better than yesterday after all the sleep you’d gotten. You still felt the ever-present rumble in your stomach, but that wasn’t anything new.

Yesterday was one of your worst days, which was mainly just because of the stress and lack of sleep due to the test you had. You usually were much more functional. You felt bad that Chan had experienced that particular day in your life—it wasn’t a good example to go off of.

You walked to the bathroom, beginning your morning routine. You washed your face, did your skincare, and ate a granola bar for breakfast. You got dressed in comfy clothes, not having the need nor the energy to look cute today. Then, you set off to the library. You needed to find a specific book to help with an essay you were working on.

You brought your laptop to the library with you, thinking that the quiet and calming ambience of the building would help you get some essay writing done after you’d located the book. You were right, and you ended up staying in the library for much longer than you’d planned.

By the time you returned home, bag heavy with your laptop and books—okay, so maybe you’d gotten carried away while looking for that one book—your stomach was growling much louder now, upset at being ignored for so long. You paid no attention to it.

You set your bag down and promptly dropped yourself down on the couch, not quite tired enough to call it a ‘collapse’ but still pretty close. You sunk into the comfort of the fluffy pillows, but your relaxation time was soon ended with a knock at your door.

Your eyebrows furrowed. Who would be knocking on your door right now? Your friends weren’t really the type for spontaneous hang-outs, at least not without texting first. You stood up on shaky legs and padded over to the door, opening it.

You were greeted with a very familiar face.

“Chan?” you asked, eyes raking over his gorgeous frame. Everything you’d seen online and in the mirror when you were him—perfect skin, dreamy eyes, and literally everything else about him because he was perfect, despite the mask and hood he currently wore—was now directly in front of you, and my god was he even more incredible to see in person.

Once you’d finished admiring Chan’s beauty, you started to wonder why he was actually here. He seemed incredibly nervous, his eyes were wide and concerned, and he was here standing in your doorway oh my god what was Chan doing at your apartment? He’d said okay, you thought that meant he’d drop the subject, not find where you live and meet you on a random Saturday!

Chan said nothing, instead stepping forward and engulfing you in the most comforting hug you’d ever felt. You froze for a second, surprised, but quickly melted into it, wrapping your arms around him. He held you tighter, like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go. You felt the unmistakable feeling of your soulmate bond running through you, especially strong now that you were physically meeting and touching each other. Now that you had met, you two would never switch bodies again.

As you stood in your doorway, wrapped in Chan’s embrace, you allowed yourself a moment of happiness. You felt good in his arms. Safe.

He finally let you go, seemingly less nervous than before. You let him into your apartment, not wanting anyone to walk by and recognize him, or even just wonder why you were hugging a random man outside your door.

When you’d closed the door behind him and stood to face him directly, mask and hood off, he finally spoke.

“[Y/N].” Your name sounded like a prayer on his lips. You stood still, waiting to see what he was going to say. Was something wrong? Did he come find you just to stop switching bodies, because it was such a hassle? Was he going to break up with you, if there was even anything to break? The suspense was killing you. Then, he smiled. “You’re even more gorgeous in person.”

Oh. You were not expecting that.

You let out a startled laugh, a self-deprecating smile forming on your face. “What?” You asked, looking down at the sweatpants and ratty crewneck you’d thrown on this morning. You didn’t have any makeup on, your hair was down but definitely frizzy and tangled, and you were wearing your glasses instead of your regular contacts because, like you’d thought this morning, there was no need to look cute today. You were an insane contrast to the effortlessly beautiful man that stood across from you, so much so that his compliment was literally laughable. You couldn’t keep the disbelief from your voice when you spoke.

Chan’s smile dropped at that, eyebrows furrowing as he stepped closer to you, raising a hand to cup your face. He tilted your head up, making you look at him.

“You’re gorgeous,” he said. “You are.” The look in his eyes as he said it was hard to argue with.

“Oh – Okay,” you stuttered. “You’re also, um. Well. You’re the most handsome person I’ve ever seen in my life, I think,” you rambled out, your nerves making you spew out every thought in your head, no matter how embarrassing or badly worded. Chan just chuckled, murmuring out a ‘thanks,’ but you could tell by the slight flush of his cheeks that he felt similar to you.

“What are you—I mean, not that I’m not happy to see you, because I absolutely am, but—what are you doing here?” You asked.

“I needed to see you,” he replied. “I just – I was worried. About you.” The way he said it made you think there was more to the explanation that he wasn’t saying.

“Chan, that’s so sweet, but I told you. I’m fine, there’s no need to worry,” you told him. “Besides, aren’t you, like, a famous idol? Isn’t there some event or practice you need to be in right now?” You didn’t mean to sound like you were trying to push him out, but you didn’t like him being so worried over you. It was embarrassing, really, that he was so worried about something that was so not serious.

“No,” Chan replied, a tad aggressively. He looked hurt, or like he was hurting for you. “No, [Y/N], I’m supposed to be here right now. I got them to let me come because I’m worried about you. Rightfully. Because you’re not fine,” he said, gaining steam as he talked. You were too shocked at how serious he seemed to be on the matter to interrupt. “[Y/N], what I felt when we switched yesterday—that’s not fine. That’s not normal! I – I’d never felt so bad before, and you – you feel like that all the time? That’s not fine, you’re not fine.”

You stood, frozen, as Chan argued. He was worried, stressed. About you. You felt your heart constrict, some unknown feeling flooding through you. No one had ever cared this much. No one had ever even sent a text to check in when you were sick, much less track you down to find you and help you even after being told you were fine and could handle yourself.

Chan cared about you. The realization hit you like a train. He didn’t think you were ugly, he didn’t loathe the fact that he had a soulmate or that you were his soulmate. He didn’t think you were a burden, he didn’t come find you just so you would stop switching bodies. You’d never even met before, only texted for like a month, and he still cared about you so much that he dropped everything after finding out something was wrong to find and help you.

Tears welled in your eyes, and you didn’t have the energy to try to stop them or blink them away. You didn’t have the energy to do anything. You were so tired, so hungry. You’d been doing such a good job at ignoring all the pain and exhaustion you felt for weeks, but now the floodgates were open and everything was rushing out. All it took was a few sentences from Chan, and everything was coming out.

Chan had been waiting for a response from you, it seemed, because he’d just been staring and looking deep into your expression the entire time you’d stood still, thoughts running rampant in your head. Because of his focus, he noticed the second that tears began rolling down your face. He lurched forward, hands coming up to cup your face and thumbs moving under your glasses to wipe away the tears.

As soon as you felt his skin against yours, you went limp. You couldn’t hold yourself up anymore. You fell into him, and he caught you, hands shooting down to hold your waist, steadying you. When it was clear that you would not be regaining your balance any time soon, Chan carefully picked you up and carried you to the couch.

“It’s okay, baby,” he reassured softly. “It’s okay. I’m here. I’ve got you, you can let it out. It’s okay.” He rubbed circles on your back with one hand, the other brushing your hair from your face as you cried into his shoulder. You were curled into his side on the couch, leaning fully against him with your head buried in between his neck and shoulder.

He held you until your cries stopped and your breath evened out, not saying anything until you lifted your head to look at him with red-rimmed eyes. You didn’t know what to say. You looked at his shirt, which was now damp with your tears. “I’m sorry,” you let out, voice hoarse from crying. You weren’t sure if the sorry was for the shirt or for forcing him to comfort you as you sobbed.

“No, baby, don’t apologize,” Chan replied, and you didn’t know when or why he started calling you ‘baby’ but you’d definitely be lying if you said you didn’t like it. “Are you feeling better?”

“Yeah."

“Good,” he smiled, arm still slung around your back, his hand now rubbing soothingly up and down your arm. You weren’t sure if he even knew he was doing it.

“So you–” you hesitated, unsure. You took a deep breath. “You don’t have anywhere else to be? You can – you can stay?” You weren’t used to being so open, so vulnerable with anyone. But with Chan, you felt like you could be.

Chan hummed in agreement. “Nowhere to be,” he said, “I’m staying right here.”