Kasidet

Your blind date had officially entered the hall of fame for worst nights of your life.

You sat in the restaurant bathroom staring at your reflection with complete disbelief.

One hour.

One whole hour.

And somehow this man had managed to talk exclusively about cryptocurrency, his ex-girlfriend, and why he believed washing dishes was "a shared spiritual responsibility."

Which apparently translated to:

"I don't do them."

You had texted Gunil twenty minutes ago.

pls save me.

And because he was Gunil—

Because he had always been Gunil—

Your phone buzzed almost immediately.

outside.

You nearly cried.

By the time you rushed out of the restaurant, he was leaning against his car with his hands shoved into his pockets.

The second he saw you, he laughed.

"You look traumatized."

"I am traumatized."

"You survived, though."

"Barely."

He opened the passenger door for you with exaggerated seriousness.

"Come on. Emergency extraction service."

You climbed in dramatically.

"My hero."

Gunil snorted as he started driving.

"So?"

You groaned.

"Oh my God, where do I even start?"

And just like that—

Everything felt normal again.

Safe.

The drive back to your apartment turned into a full retelling.

Gunil laughed so hard at one point he had to grip the steering wheel tighter.

"He asked if astrology was government propaganda?"

"I SWEAR."

"No way."

"I wish I were lying."

His laugh filled the car.

Warm.

Loud.

Familiar.

And God—you hadn't realized how tense you were until now.

"You know what he said when I told him I liked movies?"

Gunil glanced over.

"I'm scared."

"He said cinema peaked in 2012."

Gunil nearly swerved.

"Okay, no. That's criminal."

"THANK YOU!"

𖹭

By the time you got home, you were both still laughing.

The routine came naturally.

Shoes off.

Sweatpants.

Late-night snacks from your kitchen while Gunil made himself comfortable on the couch like he belonged there.

Which—

Honestly—

He kind of did.

You sat beside him with your legs tucked under you, bowl of chips between you while he listened to your continued rant.

"He talked about productivity apps for fifteen minutes."

Gunil looked horrified.

"Fifteen?"

"Timed it."

"You're brave."

"I deserve compensation."

"You deserve therapy."

You threw a pillow at him.

He laughed again.

And for a while, it was just that.

The easy comfort you always had.

His shoulder brushing yours.

His quiet reactions.

The soft look he wore when he listened to you talk.

You kept going.

How forced the conversation felt.

How awkward dinner had been.

How you kept checking the time.

And maybe it was exhaustion.

Or the warmth of the apartment.

Or the way Gunil looked so comfortable sitting beside you.

But the words slipped out before you could stop them.

You laughed softly.

"Honestly…"

You played with the edge of the blanket.

"I kinda wished it was you."

The room went still

Your smile faltered.

You kept talking too fast.

"Like—not weirdly—I just mean—"

Gunil wasn't laughing anymore.

You looked up.

And your heart nearly stopped.

Because he was looking at you.

Really looking.

The kind of stare that made your chest tighten.

His voice came quiet.

"…Were you serious?"

The air disappeared from your lungs.

Heat rushed to your face.

"I—"

Oh God.

You hadn't meant—

You suddenly became very interested in the chips.

"I mean—forget I said that—"

"No."

Your eyes lifted again

His expression had changed.

Still soft.

But nervous too.

And—

Was he blushing?

Your stomach flipped.

He swallowed.

"Don't take it back if you meant it."

Your heartbeat became embarrassingly loud

You looked down.

Then back at him.

"I just…" You laughed nervously. "I don't know."

He waited.

And somehow that made it worse.

You rubbed your hands together.

"I kept thinking how easy it would've been if it were you.

His ears were definitely pink now.

"You would've made me laugh."

His gaze softened

"And I wouldn't have had to pretend to be interested."

The silence between you felt different now.

Fragile.

Heavy.

Your voice got smaller.

"I think maybe… I wished it was you because it would've been a good date."

Gunil stared.

And for a second neither of you moved.

Just looking at each other.

Shy.

Red-faced.

Terrified.

His voice dropped.

"Can I ask something?"

You nodded.

His fingers curled against his knee.

"If it had been me…"

He looked nervous.

Actually nervous.

"Would you have wanted it to be a date?"

Your breath caught.

And God—

You couldn't even look at him properly anymore.

You nodded once.

Small.

Shy.

The confession hung there.

Gunil exhaled.

Then he smiled.

Tiny.

Disbelieving.

Like he couldn't believe this was real either.

His voice turned quiet.

"Can I kiss you?"

Your entire body went warm.

And maybe you should've said something.

But your brain had stopped working.

So you just nodded.

His eyes flickered to your face.

Still careful.

Still giving you time.

Then he leaned in.

Slowly.

The kiss was gentle.

Soft.

And so ridiculously overdue it almost hurt.

His lips brushed yours once—

Tentative.

Then again.

And your chest melted.

You could feel how nervous he was.

How careful.

Like he was holding something precious and fragile.

When he pulled back, both of you just stared.

Wide-eyed.

And then—

You both started laughing

Not because it was funny.

Just—

Because it was too much.

Too sudden.

Too real.

You hid your face in your hands.

"Oh my God—"

Gunil laughed too, rubbing the back of his neck.

His cheeks were bright red.

And for maybe the first time since you'd met him—

He looked completely flustered.

So flustered, in fact, that he glanced away and awkwardly reached for your hand like he needed something to do with himself.

His fingers shyly played with yours.

Turning your hand over.

Tracing your knuckles.

Not confident.

Not smooth.

Just nervous.

Sweet.

Your stomach exploded.

And maybe it was to distract him.

Or maybe because your heart felt too full.

But you squeezed his hand and mumbled teasingly—

"Well…"

He looked over.

Still blushing.

You smiled, just as shy.

"At least I got the date I deserved."

Gunil froze.

Actually froze.

Then his face somehow became even redder.

"You—"

He laughed under his breath.

"You can't say stuff like that right after kissing me."

You grinned.

"You kissed me."

He looked down at your joined hands.

Still holding yours.

Still absentmindedly playing with your fingers.

Then he looked back at you.

Soft.

So soft it nearly hurt.

And quietly—

Almost embarrassed—

He admitted,

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

Your heart melted.

You leaned closer.

"So."

He blinked.

"Yeah?"

You smiled.

"Still think you're winning against boring date guy?"

Gunil laughed.

Then squeezed your hand.

Having a huge crush on someone at school is something quite normal, right?

But the thing about you and Juhoon was that no one ever thought it was simple.

Not your teachers.

Not the students who watched the two of you stand at the front of the class like it was something natural.

Not even the ones who laughed about it—because even they noticed how it always circled back to the same thing.

You and Juhoon were not subtle.

You were precise.

Balanced.

Always just on the edge of something more.

The only ones who insisted on calling it nothing…

were you.

𖹭

"Vice president," he said without looking up, flipping a page with quiet care.

You didn’t lift your gaze from your notes.

"President."

A pause.

"…you missed a line."

You sighed, leaning back in your chair.

"I didn’t miss it. I chose to ignore it."

"That’s not how responsibility works."

"And yet," you replied lightly, finally looking at him, "you’re still relying on me."

That did it.

His pen stilled.

Slowly—

he looked up.

And there it was.

That look.

Not annoyance.

Not quite amusement.

Something sharper.

Something that lingered just a second too long.

"You’re insufferable," he said calmly.

You smiled.

"So I’ve been told."

And still—

neither of you looked away first.

It had become routine.

Staying late.

Empty classrooms.

The quiet hum of a school that had already moved on without you.

You packed your bag slowly.

He was already standing.

Waiting.

He didn’t ask.

He never did.

And you never refused.

𖹭

The walk was familiar.

Streetlights flickering on one by one.

The air cooler than it had been an hour ago.

You talked about ordinary things.

exams

deadlines

plans that sounded important but felt distant

But underneath it—

there was always something else.

Unspoken.

Persistent.

You laughed at something he said—

something dry, almost unnoticeable—

and for a second—

he forgot to hide it.

That softness.

That quiet, rare shift in his expression.

You caught it.

Pretended you didn’t.

𖹭

When you reached your street, your steps slowed.

So did his.

That same pause.

Every time.

"You don’t have to walk me this far," you said softly.

"I know."

Simple.

Certain.

Like the answer had never changed.

You hesitated.

"…goodnight, Jju."

He looked at you then.

Not past you.

Not distracted.

At you.

"Goodnight, Yn-ah."

A beat.

Like he might say something more.

Like he almost wanted to.

But he didn’t.

You turned first.

Walked away.

Didn’t see the way he stayed there a moment longer.

Watching.

Thinking.

𖹭

The streets were quieter on his way back.

Empty.

Still.

Juhoon walked without rush.

Hands in his pockets.

Mind already moving ahead—

always ahead.

Until he stopped.

A park.

Just off the path.

Dimly lit.

Nearly abandoned.

And there on a bench something out of place.

A notebook.

Black.

𝕯𝖊𝖆𝖙𝖍 𝕹𝖔𝖙𝖊

Worn just enough to feel used—but not forgotten.

He didn’t move immediately.

Just looked at it.

Assessing.

Deciding whether it mattered.

Then he stepped closer.

Picked it up.

It felt… heavier than it should.

He opened it.

First page.

Rules.

Strange ones.

Impossible ones.

Absurd.

His expression didn’t change.

Didn’t need to.

Because Juhoon didn’t believe in things like this.

But still... he kept reading.

And something shifted.

Not loudly.

Not visibly.

Just quietly.

𖹭

Elsewhere you were already home.

Lights on.

Shoes off.

Your bag slipping from your shoulder onto the floor.

You moved through familiar motions.

Routine.

Safe.

Thinking about:

tomorrow

responsibilities

the way he looked at you for just a second too long

You smiled.

Just a little.

Unaware that somewhere not far away, the boy who had just walked you home was standing under dim light, holding something that would unravel everything.

And you didn’t know it yet—

The thing about you and Jay was that no one ever mistook you for anything simple.

Not your families.

Not the guests who watched the two of you orbit each other at galas.

Not the staff who had long since learned to pretend they didn’t notice the way your arguments always softened into something quieter… something closer.

You and Jay were not subtle.

You were inevitable.

The only ones who insisted on calling it teasing were you.

𖹭

"Dinner," your mother said lightly, adjusting the cuff of her silk sleeve as if she hadn’t just dropped a life-altering statement. "Tonight."

You didn’t even look up from your book. "I already have dinner plans."

"Yes," she replied smoothly. "With Jay."

That made you pause.

Slowly, you lowered the book.

"...I beg your pardon?"

Across from you, your father folded his newspaper with a soft chuckle. "No need for dramatics."

"Dramatics?" you repeated, incredulous. "You arranged a dinner between me and him."

Your mother smiled, calm and knowing. "We arranged what should have happened years ago."

You stood, pacing once across the polished floor.

"This is ridiculous. Jay is insufferable."

"And yet," your father added, "you’ve never once refused to stand beside him."

That stopped you.

Because it was true.

Every gala. Every charity function. Every suffocatingly elegant evening where expectations pressed in from every side—

Jay was always there.

And somehow, that made it bearable.

You exhaled sharply. "This is not a date."

Your mother’s smile deepened.

"Oh, darling," she said. "It always has been."

𖹭

Jay’s reaction was not much different.

"A date?" he echoed, leaning against the doorway of his father’s study, brows drawn tight. "With her?"

His father didn’t even glance up. "You say that as if you haven’t been waiting for it."

Jay scoffed. "Waiting? We argue every time we’re in the same room."

"Because you’re both insufferable," his father replied calmly. "And identical."

Jay ran a hand through his hair, exhaling.

"This is absurd."

"Is it?" his mother’s voice cut in softly.

He turned.

She stood near the window, a small velvet box in her hands.

His stomach tightened.

"...what’s that?"

She stepped closer, opening it.

The ring inside was unmistakable.

Antique. Refined. Understated in a way that only true old money ever was—no need for excess when history itself carried the weight.

"My grandmother’s," she said. "Then mine."

Jay stared at it.

"And now," she continued, placing it in his palm, "yours to give."

His throat went dry.

"...to her?"

His mother met his eyes.

"To the woman you’ve loved long enough."

Silence settled heavily between them.

Jay swallowed.

"This is a first date."

His father finally looked up, amused. "No, son. This is the first time you’re being honest about it."

𖹭

You took longer getting ready than you cared to admit.

Your wardrobe was filled with elegance, but tonight—

tonight required precision.

You chose something timeless. A structured dress in deep ivory, the fabric rich but understated, the cut impeccable. Long sleeves, a defined waist, the kind of piece that didn’t demand attention—

but commanded it anyway.

Your jewelry was minimal. Intentional.

Everything about you spoke the same language your world had always spoken:

wealth that didn’t need to prove itself.

When you finally stepped out of the car, the estate stood illuminated in soft golden light, quiet and exclusive.

And there he was.

Jay.

Waiting.

For once, he wasn’t leaning lazily or pretending indifference.

He stood straight, composed, dressed in a perfectly tailored dark suit—classic lines, crisp shirt, no unnecessary embellishments.

Old money, through and through.

But his eyes—

His eyes gave him away.

They softened the moment they landed on you.

And for a second—

he forgot to speak.

You tilted your head slightly. "What? Lost your usual commentary?"

He exhaled, something almost like a quiet laugh slipping out.

"...you look—"

He stopped himself.

Shook his head.

"Never mind."

You raised a brow. "No, go on. I’d love to hear you struggle."

His lips twitched.

"You look exactly like someone I shouldn’t be allowed near."

Your heart stuttered.

"...that’s new."

"Yeah," he murmured, stepping closer. "I’m trying something different tonight."

"Dangerous."

"For me? Always."

He offered his arm.

You hesitated—

only for a moment—

before taking it.

𖹭

Dinner was quieter than usual.

Not awkward.

Just… aware.

Every glance lingered a second longer. Every brush of your hands sent something unspoken flickering between you.

The teasing didn’t disappear.

It changed.

Softened.

Deepened.

Until it wasn’t really teasing anymore.

It was something far more dangerous.

By the time dessert arrived, you could feel it.

That shift.

Jay had gone quiet.

You set your fork down slowly. "...what are you thinking about?"

He didn’t answer immediately.

Instead, he reached into his inner pocket.

Your breath caught.

"Jay…"

He placed the velvet box on the table between you.

And suddenly—

everything sharpened.

"This," you said carefully, "feels excessive. Even for you."

He let out a quiet breath.

"I’m aware."

You didn’t touch it.

Not yet.

"...explain."

His gaze met yours.

And for the first time in all the years you’d known him—

there was no deflection.

No teasing.

Just honesty.

"My parents arranged this dinner," he said slowly, "because they think I’ve been in love with you for years."

Your pulse thundered in your ears.

"And?" you asked, softer now.

"They’re right."

The words settled between you.

Heavy. Unavoidable.

"They’ve been right for a long time," he added.

Your fingers curled slightly against the table.

"Jay…"

"My mother gave me that tonight," he continued, nodding toward the box. "Told me to give it to you."

You finally looked down at it.

"...that’s not just a gift."

"I know."

"It means something."

"I know."

"And you still brought it here?"

His voice dropped.

"I’ve spent years pretending this was less than it is," he said. "I’m done doing that."

Silence stretched.

Then—

"...open it," he said quietly.

You did.

The ring caught the candlelight, soft and brilliant, its elegance undeniable.

Not loud.

Not ostentatious.

But powerful.

Timeless.

Your chest tightened.

"Jay…"

He stood.

You followed, almost instinctively.

The world around you faded into something distant and unimportant as he stepped closer.

Close enough that you could see the tension in his jaw.

Close enough that you could feel his breath.

"I was supposed to wait," he admitted. "Do this properly. Slowly."

A faint, almost self-aware smile touched his lips.

"But I’ve never once been patient when it comes to you."

That was painfully true.

Your voice came out softer than you intended.

"...what are you doing?"

Instead of answering, he reached for your hand.

Warm. Steady.

Certain.

Your breath caught as his fingers slid between yours, lifting your hand just slightly.

His gaze didn’t leave yours.

"I’m choosing you," he said quietly.

Your heart pounded.

"I’ve always chosen you."

And then—

with a care that made your chest ache—

he slipped the ring onto your finger.

It fit.

Perfectly.

Like it had always been meant to be there.

You stared at it, unable to look away.

"...you didn’t even ask."

Jay let out a soft breath, his thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles.

"No," he said. "Because if I asked, I’d give you the chance to say no."

Your lips parted slightly.

"And I don’t think I could pretend that’s an option anymore."

Your gaze lifted to his.

"...you’re unbelievable."

"I’ve been told."

A beat.

"You can still take it off," he added, quieter now. "If this is too much. If I’m—"

You closed your hand around his.

Stopping him.

"Jay."

He went still.

"I’ve been in love with you too," you said softly.

The words landed harder than anything else that night.

His composure cracked.

Just slightly.

"...say that again."

You stepped closer, your free hand smoothing lightly over the lapel of his suit.

"I’m in love with you."

That was all it took.

His hands found your waist instantly, pulling you closer like it was instinct—like it had always been.

"Finally," he murmured, forehead resting against yours.

You huffed a quiet laugh. "You’re one to talk."

"I just put a family heirloom on your finger."

"And skipped the question entirely."

"Details."

You shook your head, smiling despite yourself.

"Unbelievable."

"Yours," he corrected softly.

That—

that did something to you.

Your fingers tightened slightly in his jacket.

"Say that again."

His gaze dropped to your lips, then back to your eyes.

"You’re mine."

The words weren’t possessive in a way that confined you.

They were certain.

Steady.

Like a promise that had been waiting years to be spoken.

"And you’re—?" he prompted quietly.

You lifted your hand, the ring catching the light between you.

"I think this answers that."

He smiled then.

Not the teasing smirk.

Not the sharp grin.

Something softer.

Something real.

And when he kissed you—

it wasn’t rushed.

Wasn’t hesitant.

It was inevitable.

Just like everything else between you had always been.

Across the room, unnoticed by you both—

your parents watched.

His mother leaned slightly toward yours, a satisfied smile playing on her lips.

"I told you," she murmured.

Your mother hummed softly. "They were never going to escape it."

Jay’s father chuckled under his breath. "About time they stopped pretending."

And at the center of it all—

you and Jay stood exactly where you had always been meant to be.

No more teasing.

No more almosts.

Just certainty.

Martin thought confessing would be the hardest part.

He was wrong.

Because now—

Now he had a date.

With you.

An actual, real date.

And somehow that was worse.

"Why do I look like this?" Martin muttered, tugging at the hem of his shirt for the fifth time.

Juhoon didn’t even look up.

"You look good."

"I look like I walked out of a 2004 music video."

Keonho snorted from the bed. "That’s literally the theme."

Martin stared at himself in the mirror again.

Low-rise jeans.

A slightly oversized graphic tee layered over a long sleeve.

A zip-up hoodie he wasn’t sure about.

A chain.

Why did they insist on the chain.

"Whose idea was this?" he demanded.

All three of them pointed at each other.

"Traitors," he said flatly.

Seonghyeon grinned. "Relax. She’s gonna love it."

That didn’t help.

That made it worse.

The party was already loud when they arrived.

Colored lights flashing.

A playlist full of throwback hits blasting through cheap speakers.

People shouting over the music, laughing too loud, dancing like no one cared how they looked.

Martin immediately regretted everything.

"I can’t do this," he said under his breath.

Juhoon grabbed his shoulder. "Yes you can."

"No, I really—"

"Too late."

"Wh—"

And then—

He saw you.

You were laughing.

Actually laughing—head tilted back slightly, eyes crinkled, completely unaware of the effect you were having on him.

And the outfit?

Yeah.

Martin forgot how to breathe.

"…Oh no," he whispered.

Keonho followed his gaze and grinned. "Oh yes."

Because you looked like you belonged in one of those early 2000s teen movies—

The kind where the main couple is obvious from the first scene.

The kind where everything feels a little brighter when they’re together.

And somehow—

Still completely like you.

Effortless.

Dangerous.

Perfect.

"GO," Seonghyeon whispered aggressively, pushing Martin forward.

"I hate all of you," Martin hissed.

"You love us."

"I don’t."

"You will."

He barely took three steps.

Before—

"Well, well," someone said, sliding in front of you.

James.

Of course it was James.

"You look amazing tonight," he told you dramatically, offering his hand. "Care for a dance?"

Martin stopped.

"…I’m going to kill him," he said quietly.

Juhoon held him back. "Nope."

"Move."

"Nope."

"That’s my—"

"Your what?" Keonho raised a brow.

Martin froze.

"…Shut up."

And then it got worse.

Because you laughed.

And took James’ hand.

The music shifted—something loud, upbeat, impossible not to move to.

And suddenly you were dancing.

With him.

Martin stood there, staring like his soul just left his body.

"I hate this," he said.

"This is character development," Juhoon corrected.

"This is psychological torture."

It didn’t stop there.

Because halfway through the song—

Seonghyeon cut in.

"Can I steal her?"

James bowed dramatically. "Be my guest."

Martin made a noise that was somewhere between a scoff and a whine.

"You guys are evil."

"We’re helping," Keonho said.

"Helping who?? Not me."

You were smiling the whole time.

Laughing.

Spinning between them.

And every now and then—

Looking at him.

Just for a second.

Like you knew exactly what was happening.

Like you were in on it.

"Okay that’s it," Martin said suddenly.

"Oh?" Juhoon smirked.

"I’m done being bullied."

"Good."

Martin took a breath.

Ran a hand through his hair.

And walked straight toward you.

Seonghyeon saw him coming.

Grinned.

And stepped aside on purpose.

"Oh?" you tilted your head, amused. "Finally?"

Martin stopped in front of you, trying—and failing—to act normal.

"Can I—" he started.

Voice cracked.

He cleared his throat.

"Can I have this dance?"

You pretended to think about it.

"Hm… I don’t know."

Martin blinked. "What?"

"You took a while."

"I— they—" he gestured vaguely behind him. "They’re sabotaging me."

"They’re helping you," you corrected, smiling.

"Debatable."

A beat.

Then you softened.

And placed your hand in his.

"Okay," you said. "You can have this one."

His brain short-circuited.

"Just one?" he asked before thinking.

You stepped closer.

"Don’t push your luck."

And then—

You were dancing.

Together.

Finally.

At first, Martin was stiff.

Awkward.

Hyper-aware of everything—his hands, your hands, the distance between you, the music, the fact that his friends were absolutely watching—

"You’re thinking too much," you said softly.

"I’m not—"

"You are."

"I just don’t want to mess this up."

Your expression softened.

"Martin."

He looked at you.

"You already didn’t."

That did something to him.

Something quiet.

Something steady.

He relaxed—just a little.

His hand settling more naturally at your waist.

Your fingers lacing more comfortably with his.

The distance between you?

Gone.

"Better?" you asked.

He nodded.

"Better."

A pause.

Then, quieter—

"You look… really good tonight."

You smiled. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," he swallowed. "Like… unfairly good."

You laughed softly. "You don’t look so bad yourself, early 2000s background character."

"That’s messed up."

"You started it."

The song slowed.

Of course it did.

Because the universe had a sense of humor.

You stepped closer.

His hand tightened slightly at your waist.

Your other hand resting against his chest now.

And suddenly—

Everything felt like one of those scenes.

The ones where everything fades out except the two of them.

"Hey," you said softly.

"Yeah?"

"You know this is a date, right?"

He blinked.

"…What?"

You smiled, a little shy now.

"This whole thing? Them inviting me? The party?"

Realization hit him all at once.

He turned his head slowly.

The boys were watching.

Grinning.

Thumbs up.

Menaces.

Martin looked back at you.

Then laughed.

Soft. Disbelieving.

"…I hate them."

"You love them."

"Yeah," he admitted. "I do."

A beat.

Then—

He stepped closer.

Forehead almost brushing yours.

"Do you wanna get out of here?"

Your smile widened.

"Thought you’d never ask."

𖹭

Cold air again.

Quiet streets.

Your hand in his this time—

Not brushing.

Holding.

"Where to?" you asked.

Martin thought for a second.

Then smiled.

"Ice cream."

You laughed. "Classic."

"I’m a simple guy."

"Liar."

And just like that—

You walked away from the noise.

From the party.

From the chaos.

Together.

And behind you—

Three boys watched from the doorway.

"…We’re geniuses," Keonho said.

Juhoon nodded. "Obviously."

Seonghyeon crossed his arms. "He better thank us."

He would.

Just not tonight.

Tonight—

The ring never left your finger.

Not when you slept.

Not when you showered.

Not even when you absentmindedly played with it during quiet mornings.

And Hyunjin noticed.

Every single time.

𖹭

Wedding planning was something.

Chaos.

Absolute chaos.

"You cannot be serious," you said, staring at the tablet.

Hyunjin sat across from you, legs crossed, completely calm.

"I like it."

"You picked three venues."

"I couldn’t decide."

"You booked all of them."

He shrugged. "Options."

You dropped your head into your hands.

"This is insane."

A pause.

Then his hand reached across the table, gently pulling yours away from your face.

His thumb brushed over your ring.

Soft. Absentminded. Loving.

"We can cancel two," he said quietly.

You peeked at him. "You swear?"

A small smile.

"...Probably."

You narrowed your eyes.

He laughed.

𖹭

The members made everything worse.

—or better.

Depending on who you asked.

"Do NOT let Hyunjin pick the flowers," Seungmin said flatly.

"Why?" you asked.

"He’ll make it look like a royal funeral," Minho added.

"I have taste," Hyunjin argued.

"You have drama," Jisung corrected.

Felix leaned toward you, whispering, "He cried looking at peonies yesterday."

"I did not—"

"You did," Jeongin grinned.

Chan just smiled softly from the corner.

"He’s just happy."

Hyunjin went quiet for a second.

Then glanced at you.

And yeah—

He was.

𖹭

Dress shopping was supposed to be simple.

It wasn’t.

You stood in front of the mirror, adjusting the fabric slightly.

The room was quiet.

Too quiet.

"Well?" you asked softly.

No answer.

You turned—

And froze.

Hyunjin stood there.

Completely still.

Eyes wide.

Like he’d forgotten how to breathe.

"Say something," you laughed nervously.

He didn’t.

He just walked closer.

Slow. Careful.

Like you might disappear.

His hand lifted—

hesitated—

then gently touched the fabric at your waist.

"...This is it," he whispered.

Your heart skipped.

"You’re sure?"

He looked at you like the answer was obvious.

"I’ve never been more sure about anything."

𖹭

The wedding day arrived too fast.

Too real.

Too everything.

Hyunjin stood at the front—

Hands clasped.

Shoulders tense.

"Hyung, breathe," Felix whispered.

"I am breathing."

"You look like you’re about to faint," Jisung added.

"I’m not going to faint."

Minho leaned in.

"If you faint, I’m filming it."

"Don’t you dare—"

The music started.

Everything stopped.

You walked in.

And the world went quiet.

No noise.

No people.

No pressure.

Just—

Him.

Waiting.

His eyes softened instantly.

That same look.

The one from the first time he saw you in the dress.

Like nothing else existed.

Like nothing else ever would.

𖹭

The ceremony as beautiful, able to make the coldest person cry.

Extremely romantic, specially when the moment had finally arrived.

"I do," he said softly looking into your eyes.

Without hesitation.

Without doubt.

Like he’d been waiting his whole life to say it.

You smiled through tears.

"I do."

The kiss was soft.

Not rushed.

Not overwhelming.

Just certain.

Like everything that led to that moment had been worth it.

𖹭

After that everything should’ve been calm.

Private.

Quiet.

It wasn’t.

Life always has a funny way to show it.

And it happened on a random night.

Hyunjin was live on Instagram.

Hair messy.

Hoodie on.

Relaxed.

"Hi, stays" he smiled softly at the camera.

Comments flooded instantly.

"Have you eaten?"

"What did you do today?"

"Show us your room!"

He laughed lightly.

"You’re all so nosy."

He started talking about some moments of his year until that night.

Everything normal.

When he decided turn the tablet to his cellphone screen to show some of the moments.

Casual.

Unaware.

Photos.

Art.

Random screenshots.

Notes.

Then—

He swiped.

Too far.

Silence.

For half a second.

But it was enough.

You.

A candid photo.

In your wedding dress.

Laughing.

Head tilted slightly back.

Eyes bright.

Completely unaware of the camera.

Beautiful.

Hyunjin froze.

Eyes widening—

And then—

click

The screen went black.

Locked.

Too fast.

Way too fast.

"...Anyway," he said, voice suddenly tight.

Comments exploded.

"What was that???"

"GO BACK"

"WHO WAS THAT"

"WAS THAT—"

Hyunjin laughed nervously.

"I think my tablet is lagging."

"LAGGING MY ASS"

He rubbed the back of his neck.

"Let’s talk about something else—"

"HYUNJIN."

He sighed.

Smiled.

Soft.

Fond.

"...Goodnight," he said—and ended the live.

𖹭

The internet broke.

Completely.

"HYUNJIN IS MARRIED???"

"WHO IS SHE???"

"THAT GIRL IS INSANE—"

"HELLO??? SHE’S GORGEOUS???"

"THAT WAS HIS WIFE???"

News spread like wildfire.

Articles.

Threads.

Edits.

The photo—

Everywhere.

Non-fans were the loudest.

"I don’t even stan but WHO IS THAT WOMAN???"

"She looks like a literal painting."

"That candid??? ARE YOU KIDDING???"

"He won. He literally won."

Fans were divided.

Love.

"She makes him so happy."

"He looks softer lately."

"If that’s who he chose, I trust him."

Hate.

"She's trapping him."

"Why marry so young"

"I’m heartbroken."

𖹭

Hyunjin read everything.

Of course he did.

Late at night.

Phone glowing in the dark.

Scrolling.

Scrolling.

Scrolling—

Until—

Your hand gently took the phone from him.

"Enough," you said softly.

He looked up at you.

Tired.

Quiet.

"...I didn’t mean for it to happen like that."

"I know."

"They’re saying things about you."

You smiled a little.

"They’re also saying nice things."

He exhaled.

Still tense.

You leaned closer.

Resting your forehead against his.

"I chose this too, remember?"

A pause.

His hand found yours.

Ring against ring.

"I just don’t want you to get hurt."

"I won’t," you whispered.

He searched your face.

Like he needed to be sure.

Then—

He pulled you into him.

Tight.

Protective.

𖹭

The next day—

He posted.

No caption.

Just a photo.

You.

Again.

But this time—

Intentional.

Standing beside him.

Hands intertwined.

Rings visible.

No hiding.

No fear.

The internet exploded again.

But this time—

He didn’t look away.

Because no matter how loud the world got—

He still came home to you.

Still held you the same way.

Still whispered the same words at night—

"I’d choose you again."

And this time—

Hyunjin’s phone hadn’t stopped buzzing all day.

He thought the day would be calm.

Like maybe he’d finally figured things out.

Like the pressure would ease, just a little.

Instead, his day had been filled with noise.

Cameras.

Voices.

Laughter that didn’t quite reach his chest.

"Hyunjin! Over here!"

"Make a wish!"

"Don’t act shy now!"

He smiled when he had to.

Laughed when expected.

Played his role perfectly.

But in every quiet second—

His hand drifted to his phone.

Your chat.

Always your chat.

"did you eat?"

"I love you so so much 💗"

"don’t forget to rest today"

"happy birthday again, jinnie 🤍"

His thumb hovered over the screen.

A small, tired smile appeared.

Real.

"Who are you texting?" Changbin nudged him.

Hyunjin locked his phone immediately. "No one."

"Liar," Jisung muttered.

Felix leaned over his shoulder. "Is it her?"

Hyunjin shot him a look, but his ears were already turning red.

Minho smirked. "He’s been smiling at his phone all day."

Seungmin didn’t even glance up. "Embarrassing."

Jeongin grinned. "Hyung is in love."

"Yah," Hyunjin groaned, rubbing his face. "Stop."

Chan just laughed softly. "Let him be. It’s his birthday."

Changbin crossed his arms. "Shouldn’t you be with your girl right now?"

A pause.

Just a small one.

"I’ll see her later," Hyunjin said.

"Later?" Felix repeated. "That’s serious."

"Four years isn’t casual," Minho added.

Hyunjin didn’t answer.

He just unlocked his phone again.

Typed.

Deleted.

Typed again.

"i’ll come see you later."

Sent.

A quiet breath left him.

Because all day—

Between schedules, between people, between being him—

He was thinking about you.

About your apartment.

About the quiet.

About how he could finally breathe there.

And—

About the small box sitting in his bag.

𖹭

By the time everything ended, Hyunjin was exhausted.

Makeup slightly worn.

Hair falling out of place.

Energy completely drained.

"Finally," Seungmin muttered. "I’m going to sleep."

"Same," Jisung added, already leaving.

Felix flopped onto the couch. "Stay, let’s watch something—"

"I’m going out," Hyunjin said.

Everyone paused.

Chan raised a brow. "Now?"

Hyunjin grabbed his jacket. "Yeah."

Minho smirked. "Of course you are."

Changbin pointed at him. "Don’t do anything stupid."

Seungmin scoffed. "That doesn’t narrow it down."

Jeongin grinned. "Come back engaged, hyung."

Hyunjin froze for half a second.

Then rolled his eyes.

"Go to sleep," he muttered—and left.

𖹭

Your apartment was quiet.

Lights dim.

The small cake you made sat on the table, slightly uneven, frosting not perfect.

You checked your phone.

Nothing new.

You sighed softly. "He’s probably still busy…"

A knock.

You froze.

Another knock.

Your heart jumped as you rushed to the door—

And opened it.

Hyunjin stood there.

Hoodie.

Tired eyes.

Soft smile.

"Hi…"

Your expression softened instantly. "Hi…"

For a second—

You just looked at each other.

Then you stepped aside. "You should be resting."

"I am," he said quietly.

And walked in.

Like he belonged there.

𖹭

The door barely closed before he was close.

Really close.

He let out a slow breath, shoulders dropping.

"I missed you," he murmured.

You smiled softly. "It’s been one day."

"Too long."

You huffed a small laugh. "You’re dramatic."

"Only with you."

Your heart squeezed.

"Sit," you said. "I made something."

He followed, eyes already on you.

When you placed the cake in front of him—

He blinked.

"You made this?"

"Don’t judge it," you said quickly. "It’s not perfect—"

"It is," he interrupted.

And he meant it.

𖹭

Later, soft music filled the room.

You were cleaning up slightly—

When his hand found yours.

Warm.

Gentle.

You looked up.

He was already watching you.

"Dance with me."

You didn’t argue.

You let him pull you closer.

His hands settled on your waist.

Yours around his neck.

Slow.

Close.

Familiar.

His forehead nearly brushed yours as you swayed in the dim light.

His breathing slowed.

Matched yours.

And for once—

Everything was quiet.

𖹭

His hand slid down from your waist.

Finding yours.

Fingers intertwining.

You didn’t think much of it—

Until—

Something cool slipped onto your finger.

You froze.

Looked down.

A ring.

Your breath caught.

"…Hyunjin?"

The music kept playing.

But everything else stopped.

He didn’t pull away.

Didn’t rush.

Just looked at you—

Soft.

Certain.

A small smile appeared.

"So… a fox told me you'd look good as Mrs. Hwang."

Your heart stuttered.

"Hyunjin—what—what is this?"

Your voice barely came out right.

He stepped closer.

Forehead resting lightly against yours.

His thumb brushed over your hand—over the ring.

"I’ve been thinking about it all day," he said quietly.

A small breath.

"Actually… longer than that."

Your chest tightened.

"I kept getting gifts today," he continued softly. "And all I could think was—'you’d like this one'… 'you’d hate this one'…"

You let out a shaky breath.

"Everything just kept leading back to you."

Silence.

Heavy.

Real.

"I don’t want to celebrate things without you anymore."

His hand tightened slightly around yours.

"I don’t want to keep hiding us like we’re temporary."

Your eyes stung.

"I want this. Fully."

Another step closer.

"I want you. For real."

A pause.

He searched your face—

Just for a second.

"Will you marry me?"

𖹭

You didn’t realize you were crying until he wiped your cheek gently.

You laughed through it, breath shaking.

"Of course I will, you idiot."

Relief hit his face instantly.

Soft. Bright. Real.

You didn’t wait—

You pulled him in.

The kiss was deep.

Certain.

Everything finally falling into place.

His hand moved to your waist, pulling you closer like he never wanted to let go.

𖹭

When you pulled away, your foreheads rested together.

Both of you smiling.

Breathing the same air.

He let out a quiet, disbelieving laugh.

"You didn’t take it off."

You glanced at your hand.

Then back at him.

"I’m not planning to."

Something in his expression softened even more.

He pulled you into him again—tight, warm, safe.

Face buried in your neck.

And for the first time that day—

Everything felt right.

"Best birthday," he whispered.

Martin thought turning eighteen would feel different.

More… important. Bigger. Like something in him would shift overnight.

Instead, he was sitting on a random bench with Juhoon, kicking a loose pebble back and forth, checking his phone for the tenth time in the last five minutes.

Nothing.

No new messages.

Juhoon noticed. Of course he did.

"Okay," he said, leaning back and squinting at Martin. "You’ve checked your phone so many times I’m starting to feel ignored on your birthday."

Martin huffed quietly, locking his phone.

"I’m not ignoring you."

“Then what is it?”

A pause.

Then, quieter—

"She texted me earlier. Like, midnight. 'Happy birthday, dummy ❤️' and that was it."

Juhoon tilted his head. "And?"

“And nothing,” Martin muttered. "She hasn’t texted since. I thought… I don’t know, we’d hang out today."

Juhoon tried very hard not to smile.

"Maybe she’s busy."

"Yeah, but—" Martin stopped, dragging his hand through his hair, frustrated. "I wanted today to be… different."

Juhoon raised a brow. "Different how?"

Another pause.

This one heavier.

Martin looked down at his hands.

"…I was gonna tell her."

Juhoon blinked. "Tell her what?"

Martin gave him a look. “You know what."

"Oh."

OH.

Juhoon had to physically stop himself from reacting.

"She—" Martin laughed softly, nervous. "Everyone keeps joking that we’re perfect for each other, right? And I keep pretending it’s just a joke but it’s not."

He swallowed.

"It’s not for me."

Juhoon stayed quiet now.

"I swear," Martin continued, voice softer, "every time I’m with her it feels like I’m in some stupid romcom. Like… everything’s lighter. And I keep thinking—what if she feels it too?"

His fingers tightened slightly around his phone.

"I miss her."

That one came out almost like a confession on its own.

Juhoon exhaled slowly, standing up.

"Alright," he said, stretching. "Come on."

Martin frowned. "Where are we going?"

"Somewhere better than this depressing bench where you’re spiraling on your birthday."

"I'm not spiraling."

"You literally are."

"I'm just—thinking."

"Yeah, dangerously."

Martin rolled his eyes but stood up anyway, following him.

𖹭

Inside the house, chaos.

Absolute chaos.

"KEONHO, THAT’S NOT STRAIGHT—"

"IT IS STRAIGHT, YOU’RE JUST LOOKING AT IT CROOKED—"

"James, stop eating the frosting!"

"I’m taste testing. It’s quality control."

Seonghyeon stood on a chair, trying to hang a banner that very clearly said HAPPY 18TH MARTIN but was currently hanging like it had gone through emotional trauma.

“Someone hold this before I fall and die on his birthday,” he snapped.

A couple of girls were blowing balloons in the corner, laughing as one popped loudly, making everyone jump.

"OH MY GOD—"

"WHO DID THAT—"

"IT WAS THE BALLOON—"

Music was already playing too loud for a "surprise" party.

Someone turned it down.

Then someone else turned it back up.

In the middle of it all—

You.

You were holding tape in your mouth, trying to fix fairy lights that refused to cooperate, your heart beating a little too fast for someone just decorating.

You checked your phone.

Still no message from him.

You chewed your lip.

"…He's probably busy," one of your friends nudged you gently.

"Yeah," you nodded, forcing a small smile. "Yeah, obviously."

But your chest felt tight anyway.

Because you had plans.

You were going to talk to him tonight.

Finally.

𖹭

"Why are we going to your place?" Martin asked, narrowing his eyes.

Juhoon didn't even hesitate. "I forgot something."

"You dragged me across half the city because you forgot something?"

"Yes."

"You're so—"

"Charming? I know."

Martin sighed but followed anyway.

As they got closer, Martin frowned.

"…Why is there music?"

Juhoon opened the door.

"Dunno."

SURPRISE.

"—WAIT WAIT WAIT HE’S HERE—"

"TURN OFF THE—NO, NOT THE LIGHTS—"

"WHO ATE THE—JAMES—"

The door opened.

Lights flicked on.

And suddenly—

"SURPRISE!!!"

Noise.

Confetti.

Shouting.

People everywhere.

Martin froze.

Completely.

"…What?"

His brain lagged behind everything happening in front of him.

James was grinning like an idiot.

Seonghyeon still standing on a chair for no reason.

Keonho holding tape like it was evidence of a crime.

Friends—girls, guys—everyone laughing, yelling, crowding the space.

"Happy birthday, idiot!" someone shouted.

"YOU’RE OLD NOW!"

"EIGHTEEN—LEGAL—"

"SHUT UP—"

Martin blinked.

Once.

Twice.

And then—

His eyes found you.

Across the room.

And everything else just… disappeared.

Relief hit first.

Then something warmer.

Stronger.

Before he could even think—

He moved.

Straight through the crowd.

Ignoring the shouting, the laughter, everything—

Until he reached you and—

Wrapped his arms around you.

Tight.

Like he hadn’t seen you in months instead of hours.

You barely had time to react before you were pressed against him.

“Hey—” you laughed softly, surprised. "Birthday boy—"

"I missed you," he mumbled, voice low, almost buried against your shoulder.

Your heart stuttered.

"I was literally gone for like—"

"I know," he cut in, pulling back just enough to look at you. "I know, I just—"

And then—

Silence.

Not real silence.

The music was still playing.

People were still there.

But suddenly—

Everyone was staring.

James.

Seonghyeon.

Keonho.

Juhoon.

Your friends.

His friends.

All of them.

Watching.

Grinning.

Judging.

Waiting.

Martin slowly realized.

"…Why is everyone looking at us like that?"

No one answered.

Which was worse.

Keonho smirked.

Seonghyeon raised his brows.

James straight up whispered, "Oh this is better than the cake."

Your face burned.

"Okay—" you laughed nervously, stepping back slightly. "This is—wow—hi everyone—"

But Martin didn’t move away much.

He was still close.

Still looking at you like—

Like he forgot how to function.

Juhoon finally spoke, crossing his arms with a smug grin.

"Well," he said. "Looks like someone found the only thing he wanted for his birthday."

Martin blinked.

Then looked at you again.

Then at everyone.

Then back at you.

And something clicked.

Right there.

In the middle of the noise, the embarrassment, the chaos—

He smiled.

Soft.

Real.

A little nervous.

"…Can I still confess," he said quietly, just for you, "or did I just ruin it completely?"

Your breath caught.

"…You might've made it better," you whispered back.

And behind you—

Someone yelled, "KISS HIM THEN—"

"SHUT UP—"

"NO LET THEM COOK—"

The party?

Officially out of control.

And his birthday?

Just getting started

𖹭

The party had burned out the way all chaotic nights do.

Slowly.

Messily.

With half-deflated balloons on the floor, empty cups scattered everywhere, and someone (cof... cof... James) passed out on the couch with a slice of cake still in his hand.

"Don't wake him," Seonghyeon muttered, stepping over him with a trash bag. "Let him suffer."

Keonho snorted from the kitchen. "He is the problem."

Juhoon, meanwhile, stood in the middle of the room, hands on his hips, staring at the absolute disaster.

"…I regret everything."

"You say that every time," one of the girls laughed, tossing another cup into a bag.

Martin wasn't really listening anymore.

Not fully.

Because you were there—on the other side of the room, carefully peeling tape off the wall, your brows slightly furrowed in concentration.

Every now and then, your eyes would flick to him.

And every time they did—

You'd both look away.

Too fast.

Too obvious.

Juhoon noticed.

Of course he did.

He leaned into Martin slightly, voice low. "You gonna confess or just stare at her like a sad puppy all night?"

Martin elbowed him. "Shut up."

"Clock's ticking, birthday boy."

Martin rolled his eyes—but his ears were red.

Eventually, the place was… decent.

Not clean.

But survivable.

People started leaving in groups, tired laughs, quiet goodbyes, promises to meet again soon.

And then—

It was just a few of you left.

Juhoon tossed Martin his jacket. "Go."

Martin blinked. "What?"

"Walk her home," Juhoon said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "And don't come back until you’ve said it."

"I—"

"GO."

𖹭

The night air was cooler now.

Quieter.

A complete contrast to the chaos from earlier.

You walked side by side, not too close, not too far.

Just… enough.

Your hands brushed once.

Then again.

Neither of you said anything about it.

"So," you started softly, "happy birthday.”

Martin let out a small laugh. "Yeah… this one was… something."

"Messy," you smiled.

"Very."

A pause.

Then—

"…I’m glad you were there," he added, quieter.

You looked at him.

"I wouldn't miss it."

Another silence.

But this one wasn’t awkward.

Just… full.

Like both of you were carrying the same thing and waiting for the other to drop it first.

You reached your street.

Stopped.

He stopped too.

The moment stretched.

You both opened your mouths—

Then stopped.

"Wait—" you both said at the same time.

You blinked.

Then laughed softly.

"You go first."

"No, you go first."

"No, it’s your birthday," you argued.

"That doesn’t give me priority," he shot back, smiling nervously.

You crossed your arms slightly. "You dragged me here emotionally all day, you go first."

"I did not drag you—"

"You literally hugged me in front of everyone."

"That was—okay, that was different."

"Then say it."

"You say it."

A beat.

Then—

"…Okay," you said, exhaling. "Fine."

"Fine," he nodded.

You both hesitated again.

Then, almost at the same time—

"On three?"

He nodded. "On three."

You held each other’s gaze.

Heart racing.

"Okay," you whispered. "One…"

His fingers twitched slightly at his side.

"Two…"

You both inhaled.

"Three—"

"I like you—"

"I like you—"

Silence.

You both froze.

Blinking.

Processing.

"…Wait," you said.

"…Wait," he echoed.

And then—

You laughed.

At the same time.

Relief, disbelief, finally—it all spilled out at once.

"Are you serious?" you said, covering your face for a second. “We’ve been doing this the whole time—”

"I was literally planning to confess today,” he admitted, laughing breathlessly. "I thought I ruined it earlier—"

"You didn’t," you shook your head, stepping closer. "You really didn’t."

The laughter softened.

Faded.

And suddenly—

It was just you two again.

Close.

Too close to pretend anymore.

You looked at him.

Really looked at him.

His nervous smile.

The slight flush on his cheeks.

The way he was looking at you like—

Like he still couldn’t believe this was real.

So you didn’t overthink it.

You reached out.

Grabbed his jacket lightly.

And pulled him in.

The kiss was soft.

Gentle.

A little shy.

But real.

So real it made your chest ache.

Martin froze for half a second.

Just one.

Then—

He melted into it.

His hand finding your waist, pulling you just a little closer.

The kiss deepened—not rushed, not overwhelming—just… warmer.

Surer.

Like he'd been waiting for this.

Like you both had.

When you finally pulled away, your foreheads almost touched.

His face was so red.

"…Oh," he breathed.

You smiled softly. "Oh?"

He let out a quiet, embarrassed laugh, immediately pulling you into a hug—tight, warm, like earlier, but different now.

Closer.

Safer.

"I really like you," he mumbled into your hair.

You wrapped your arms around him.

"I really like you too."

And this time—

No one was watching.

No chaos.

No noise.

Just the quiet street, the end of a long night—

The hospital at 2AM felt like a different universe.

The fluorescent lights were softer. The hallways quieter. The chaos muted into distant monitor beeps and the quiet hum of machines keeping people alive.

You were exhausted.

Your scrubs were wrinkled, your hair barely holding on to its ponytail, and your brain felt like it had been microwaved three times too many. Third year residency was not for the weak. And tonight? Tonight was brutal.

You were leaning against the nurse’s station, trying to reread lab results that absolutely refused to make sense, when a familiar calm voice spoke behind you.

"You've been staring at that chart for five minutes."

You didn’t even need to turn around.

Dr. Christopher Bang.

Attending. Cardiology. Ridiculously competent. Infuriatingly kind.

You straightened immediately. "I'm reviewing it."

He stepped beside you, close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating off him. His shoulder almost brushed yours. Almost.

"I know you are," he said gently. "But your eyes stopped moving three minutes ago."

Your ears burned.

You hated how he noticed everything.

"I'm fine," you muttered.

He hummed softly — that thoughtful, low sound that always made your stomach flip — and leaned slightly to look at the chart with you. His arm came up behind you, not touching, but close enough that you were effectively surrounded.

"Walk me through it," he said.

And he didn’t say it in a condescending way. He said it like he trusted you.

You explained your reasoning, your voice shaky at first, then steadier when he nodded along.

"Good," he murmured. "That's exactly what I was thinking."

That word. Good.

You were done for.

Across the desk, one of the nurses smirked.

Oh no.

You ignored her. You absolutely ignored the way she raised her brows at you when Dr. Bang walked away.

This was professional. This was normal. He treated everyone kindly.

…Except he didn't linger with everyone.

𖹭

It started small.

He'd bring you coffee without asking during long shifts.

He'd quietly switch with another attending if he knew you were overwhelmed.

He'd adjust your surgical gown ties before procedures — fingers gentle, careful, brushing the back of your neck for half a second too long.

"Hold still," he'd murmur.

You'd stop breathing entirely.

Once, in the OR, your glove tore.

You hadn't even noticed.

He did.

"Pause," he said calmly, stepping closer. He took your hand carefully, steady, deliberate, and helped you replace it. His touch was firm but careful, thumb brushing against your wrist for just a second.

"You have to be careful," he said softly.

Your pulse was absolutely not careful.

𖹭

Everyone knew.

The nurses knew.

The other residents knew.

Even Dr. Seo from internal medicine knew, and he only came down to cardiology twice a week.

"You're on with Dr. Bang again tonight?" your co-resident asked, far too innocent.

"Yes."

"Wow. What a coincidence."

"It’s not a coincidence," you snapped, too quickly.

She grinned. "Right. Sure."

You tried to ignore the way your heart fluttered every time you heard his voice across the unit.

You tried to ignore how safe you felt when he was around.

You tried very hard not to notice that he hovered when you looked too tired.

But at 2AM, it was harder to pretend.

𖹭

The code blue had ended twenty minutes ago.

It had been messy. Emotional. Close.

You'd held pressure. Followed orders. Kept your composure.

And the patient stabilized.

You should have felt relieved.

Instead, the adrenaline crash hit like a truck.

You found yourself in the empty on-call room, sitting on the edge of the couch, staring at nothing.

A soft knock.

Then the door opening quietly.

"I figured you'd be here."

You didn’t look up. "I'm fine."

He didn’t argue.

He just closed the door gently and sat beside you. Not too close. Just enough.

The silence stretched.

Then your voice cracked.

"I thought we were going to lose him."

"I know," he said.

And that was it.

No lecture. No clinical detachment.

Just understanding.

Your eyes stung before you could stop it. You blinked hard, embarrassed.

"I shouldn’t get emotional," you muttered.

"You're allowed to care," he said softly.

The warmth in his voice undid you more than the code ever could.

He reached over slowly — giving you time to pull away — and rested his hand over yours.

You didn't pull away.

His thumb brushed gently against your knuckles.

"You did well tonight," he said quietly.

Not "good job."

Not "adequate."

You did well.

Your breath trembled.

"Really?"

He turned to look at you fully now, eyes warm, steady.

"I trust you," he said.

And something in your chest cracked open.

You looked at him — really looked at him — at the soft exhaustion under his eyes, the way his shoulders were slightly slumped, the gentleness he never let slip in front of others.

"You don't have to carry everything alone either," you said quietly.

For a moment, he just stared at you.

Then he exhaled — a small, vulnerable sound.

"You notice too much," he murmured.

You smiled weakly. "I learned from the best."

He laughed softly, the sound low and tired and real.

And then, carefully, hesitantly, he opened his arms just slightly.

An offer.

Your heart pounded.

But you leaned in.

Slowly.

Carefully.

He wrapped his arms around you, warm and steady and safe. Not rushed. Not inappropriate. Just… grounding.

His chin rested lightly against the top of your head.

"You're exhausted," he murmured.

"So are you."

He huffed a quiet laugh.

You stayed like that longer than you meant to.

When you finally pulled back, your face was warm — but not from embarrassment.

From something softer.

Something steady.

He brushed a strand of hair away from your face.

"After shift," he said carefully, voice low, "there's a café down the street that opens at six."

Your breath caught.

"Are you… inviting me for coffee, Dr. Bang?"

He smiled — shy this time.

"Off the clock," he corrected gently. "Just Chan."

Your heart melted.

"Okay," you whispered.

𖹭

At 6:17AM, still in wrinkled scrubs and messy hair, you sat across from him in a quiet corner booth.

The city was waking up.

You were both exhausted.

But you were smiling.

He slid a warm pastry toward you.

"You barely ate tonight."

You blinked. "You noticed?"

"I notice," he said simply.

Your cheeks heated.

You talked about everything except the hospital at first. Music. Childhood stories. Favorite comfort foods.

You laughed more than you expected to.

At some point, your knees brushed under the table.

Neither of you moved away.

When you yawned, he smiled softly.

"You need sleep."

"So do you."

He hesitated, then said gently, "Come over. I'll cook something. We can sleep after."

Your brain short-circuited.

"I— I don't want to intrude."

'You wouldn't," he said immediately.

And the way he said it made your chest ache.

𖹭

His apartment was warm.

Cozy.

Soft lighting. A faint scent of clean laundry and something citrus.

He handed you one of his hoodies.

"Change. You’ll be more comfortable."

It swallowed you whole.

He tried not to stare.

He failed.

You both ended up in the kitchen, shoulder to shoulder, making something simple and domestic and quiet.

There was no tension now.

Just softness.

At one point, your hands bumped while reaching for the same spoon.

You both froze.

Then laughed.

The sound felt easy.

Later, curled up on his couch, half-asleep, you felt his fingers gently thread through yours.

No rush.

No pressure.

Just warmth.

"You know," he murmured sleepily, "everyone at work thinks I'm obvious."

Your eyes fluttered open. "You are."

He smiled against your hair.

"Good."

Your heart skipped. "Good?"

"So you'll know," he whispered, voice soft and certain, "that I've liked you for a while."

Your breath hitched.

"I thought I was the obvious one."

He chuckled quietly. "You were."

You laughed, burying your face against his chest.

The hospital would still be there tomorrow.

The chaos. The exhaustion. The tension.

But right now, in the quiet warmth of his apartment, with his arms around you and the sunrise spilling softly through the windows—

You felt safe.

And maybe, just maybe,

this was the beginning of something steady.

Something soft.