chae🫐

The city never truly slept—but at this hour, it pretends to.

Rain glazed the streets in a thin, glassy sheen, catching the glow of neon signs and stretching them into something unrecognizable beneath your feet. 

Every step you took sent quiet ripples through shallow puddles, the sound almost too loud in the stillness. It was the kind of silence that pressed in on you, heavy and expectant—like the world was holding its breath.

You didn’t trust it. You never trusted the quiet.

Your boss walked beside you, unhurried, composed in a way that made it seem like this was nothing more than another routine meeting. His coat hung neatly over his shoulders, movements precise, controlled—never wasted.

You, on the other hand, were already calculating exits.

Your position was instinctive—half a step ahead, slightly angled, close enough to intercept anything that came too fast or too close. 

It wasn’t something you had to think about anymore. Your body had learned it long before your mind caught up.

Protect first. Think later.

The warehouse came into view slowly, its outline jagged against the dim skyline. One flickering light above the entrance. One open door. No visible guards.

That was the first warning.

The second was the feeling in your chest—tight, coiled, the kind that never lied.

“Stay sharp,” your boss murmured, barely audible.

You didn’t respond. You didn’t need to.

You were already listening—to the hum of electricity, the distant drip of water somewhere inside, the subtle shift of air as you crossed the threshold.

The temperature dropped immediately.

Cooler. Denser.

And beneath it—

Metal.

Not fresh. Not sharp.

Old.

Your gaze swept the interior in one smooth motion—crates stacked unevenly, shadows stretching long under the weak lighting, empty space where there shouldn’t be. Too open. Too exposed.

A setup.

“You’re late.”

The voice cut through the silence without effort.

Low. Even. Controlled.

It didn’t echo. That meant he wasn’t far.

You turned before your boss could, your hand already moving—gun raised in a single, fluid motion, aim locking onto the source without hesitation.

And there he was.

Choi San stood partially in shadow, leaning against a stack of crates like he had been there long before you arrived—and like he had nowhere else to be. His posture was relaxed, almost careless, but there was nothing careless about the way his gaze settled on you.

Not on your boss. You.

Like he had been expecting it.

The faint flicker of light caught along the edge of his jaw, tracing the line of a scar you hadn’t noticed in photos. It made him look sharper. More real.

More dangerous.

Your finger hovered just slightly over the trigger.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t reach for a weapon. Didn’t even look surprised.

“And here I thought,” he said, voice quieter now, edged with something you couldn’t quite place, “you’d be the patient one.”

Your grip tightened.

“Move,” you said flatly.

It wasn’t a request.

A beat of silence stretched between you.

Then—slowly—he pushed himself off the crate.

No sudden movements. No attempt to provoke.

Just deliberate. Measured.

Like he was giving you time to react.

Your boss stepped forward then, his presence shifting the air behind you. “We’re not here for theatrics,” he said calmly.

San’s attention flicked to him for the first time—brief, assessing—before returning to you just as quickly.

“Pity,” he murmured. “I thought this might be interesting.”

You didn’t lower your gun. Neither did the tension.

The negotiation started, but it didn’t feel like one.

Words were exchanged—territories, shipments, boundaries neither side intended to respect for long—but they blurred at the edges of your awareness. 

You tracked movement instead. Breathing. Weight shifts. The subtle tightening of hands that might reach for weapons.

And San—

San watched you too.

Not openly. Not obviously.

But you felt it.

In the way his gaze returned, again and again, like a question he hadn’t decided how to ask.

Eventually, the conversation ended the way these things always did—unfinished, unresolved, balanced on a line thin enough to snap at any moment.

No deal. Just delay.

You were the last to move. Always the last.

Your gun lowered a fraction too late, your stance easing only when your boss turned their back completely. 

It was calculated—intentional. A silent message.

You don’t get a second of vulnerability. Not from me.

When you finally stepped away, you didn’t look back.

But you felt it.

That gaze. Lingering.

You told yourself it was nothing.

That the weight in your chest as you walked away was just adrenaline settling, your body coming down from the edge it had been pushed to. 

You’d been in worse situations. Seen worse men.

San was just another name.

Another target. Another problem to solve.

So why—

“Something on your mind?”

Your boss’s voice pulled you back, sharp enough to cut through the spiral before it deepened.

“No,” you said immediately.

Too quickly.

He noticed. Of course they did. He always did.

But he didn’t press.

“His group is shifting,” he says instead. “Closer than before.”

“I know.”

“And?”

You hesitated—just for a second.

“He’s testing,” you said finally. “Not attacking. Not yet.”

Your boss studied you, unreadable. “And what do you think that means?”

You thought of the way he had looked at you.

Not hostile. Not cautious.

Interested.

Your jaw tightened slightly. “It means he’s waiting for something.”

“Or someone,” your boss replied.

The implication settled heavily between you.

You didn’t respond.

After that night, the city felt… different.

Not visibly. Not in ways anyone else would notice.

But you did.

Routes that used to be quiet weren’t anymore. Corners that should’ve been empty felt watched. Information came slower. Cleaner. Like someone was filtering what reached you—and letting the rest disappear.

San’s influence.

You didn’t need proof. You could feel it.

“You’re slipping.”

The words came from one of your own men during a late patrol, quiet but pointed. You didn’t react immediately, your gaze still scanning the street ahead.

“I’m not,” you said.

He didn’t sound convinced.

“You’ve been off since that meeting.”

You stopped.

Turned. Slowly.

He stiffened under your gaze, the weight of it enough to make him reconsider speaking further.

“Do your job,” you said evenly.

He nodded. Didn’t argue.

No one ever did twice.

But the words stayed with you. Because part of you knew—

He wasn’t entirely wrong.

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

The next time you see San, it isn’t planned.

It never is.

The alley is narrow, the kind that traps sound instead of letting it escape. Water drips steadily from somewhere above, each drop echoing just enough to mark time.

You’re alone. You shouldn’t be.

But you are.

And you feel him before you see him.

A shift. A presence.

Something that doesn’t belong—but doesn’t feel entirely unwelcome either.

“Careless.”

Your breath stills.

You turn slowly, controlled, your hand hovering near your weapon but not drawing it.

San stands a few steps behind you, half-shadowed, exactly where you didn’t expect him—and exactly where he wanted to be.

“You’ve been following me,” you say.

“Would it matter if I was?”

“Yes.”

A pause.

Then, almost amused—“Then no.”

You exhale quietly, unimpressed. “You’re not as subtle as you think.”

“And you’re not as unaffected as you pretend.”

That lands closer than it should.

You take a step back, creating space without breaking eye contact. “Say what you came to say.”

He doesn’t answer immediately.

Instead, he studies you.

Not like before. Not distant. 

Closer. Intent.

“You’re loyal,” he says.

It isn’t a question.

You frown slightly. “That’s not your concern.”

“It could be.”

“You’re not recruiting me.”

A faint smile touches his lips. “No.”

He steps closer.

One step. You don’t move.

“Then what do you want?” you ask, quieter now.

His gaze flickers—not away, but down, briefly, tracing the line of your stance, your hand, the tension you haven’t released.

“To understand,” he says.

You almost laugh.

“Wrong line of work for that.”

“Only if you misunderstand what you’re looking at.”

Silence stretches between you again, thicker this time.

Closer.

“You’re wasting your time,” you say.

“Am I?”

“Yes.”

“Then why haven’t you left?”

Your breath catches—just slightly.

Enough.

You don’t answer. Because you don’t have one.

San watches the realization settle in your expression, something unreadable flickering through his own.

“Be careful,” he says quietly.

Your brows draw together. “Is that a threat?”

“No.”

“Then what?”

A pause.

Something shifts—subtle, but real.

“A warning.”

And before you can stop him—

Before you can ask why—

He steps back.

Distance returning like a wall snapping into place.

And then he’s gone.

Leaving behind nothing but the echo of his presence—

And the uncomfortable truth that you didn’t want him to be.

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

The first time it goes wrong, it doesn’t feel like a mistake.

It feels inevitable.

You know something is off the moment the call comes in—too rushed, too clean, too perfectly timed. 

A shipment compromised. A location leaked. Your boss moves quickly, assembling a team before questions can slow anything down.

And you follow. Of course you do.

Loyalty has never been something you questioned.

Not until now.

The building is smaller than expected. Abandoned. Too quiet. Even the air feels still, untouched.

A trap.

You signal it immediately, but it’s already too late.

Gunfire erupts from above.

Sharp. Sudden. Precise.

Your body reacts before your mind does—you move, stepping in front of your boss, dragging them down behind cover as bullets tear through the space where they stood seconds before.

“Ambush!” someone shouts.

You don’t have time to think about who set it up.

You already know.

San.

Or at least—

That’s what it’s supposed to look like.

The fight is chaotic. Controlled, but brutal. Your side retaliates quickly, but the advantage is gone. You’re pinned, forced to calculate every movement, every shot.

You fire twice. Three times.

A body drops. Another.

Your boss shifts beside you. “We need an exit.”

“I know.”

You glance around—windows boarded, doors blocked, routes limited.

Too limited. They planned this.

Which means—

A shot cracks too close.

You turn—

Too late.

The bullet isn’t meant for you. It’s meant for your boss.

You move anyway.

Instinct. Always instinct.

Pain explodes through your side, sharp and blinding as the impact throws you back against the wall. Your breath stutters, vision flickering as sound dulls for a split second.

But you stay standing.

You always do.

Your boss grips your shoulder. “You’re hit—”

“I’m fine.”

You’re not. But it doesn’t matter.

You push forward, forcing movement, forcing control back into your limbs despite the warmth spreading under your clothes. “Go,” you tell them. “Left corridor—there’s a back exit.”

“And you?”

“I’ll cover.”

He hesitates.

Just for a moment.

Then he nods.

Trust. It’s always been there.

He moves. You don’t watch them go.

You turn back to the fight instead, raising your gun again, ignoring the way your hands aren’t as steady as before.

One more shot. Two.

Footsteps—

Not yours. Not your team’s.

Familiar.

You don’t need to turn to know. But you do anyway.

And there he is. Choi San.

Not at a distance this time. Not watching.

Here. Up close.

Your chest tightens—not from the wound.

From something worse.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you manage.

His gaze drops immediately to the blood seeping through your side, his expression tightening in a way you’ve never seen before.

“This wasn’t my doing,” he says.

You let out a weak, breathless laugh. “Convenient.”

“I mean it.”

“You expect me to believe that?”

Another gunshot rings out somewhere behind him, but he doesn’t move.

Doesn’t look away.

“I warned you,” he says, quieter now.

You swallow, forcing yourself to stay upright. “Then your warning came too late.”

Something flashes across his face—anger, sharp and sudden, but not directed at you.

“At them,” he mutters. “This isn’t how this was supposed to—”

He cuts himself off.

Your eyes narrow slightly. “What does that mean?”

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he steps closer.

You raise your gun.

Out of instinct. Out of habit.

But your hand—

Your hand trembles. And he sees it.

San stops. Just within reach.

His gaze flickers between your eyes and the weapon pointed at him, then slowly, deliberately—

He reaches forward.

And lowers it.

You don’t stop him. You should. You don’t.

“You’re bleeding out,” he says.

“I’ve had worse.”

“That’s not reassuring.”

You almost smile. Almost.

Another shot echoes—closer now.

Time is running out.

“Go,” you tell him. “Before your people find you here.”

“They won’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do.”

Your vision blurs slightly, the edges of the world softening in a way that feels dangerous.

“You should hate me,” you say quietly.

“I tried.”

The honesty in it hits harder than anything else.

You shake your head weakly. “You’re bad at it.”

“So are you.”

A pause. 

Heavy. Final.

Then—

He moves. Fast.

One arm wraps around you, steadying your weight before you can protest, pulling you firmly against him as he starts moving toward the back exit you’d pointed out earlier.

“What are you doing—”

“Saving your life.”

“I didn’t ask—”

“I know.”

That shuts you up.

You don’t have the strength to fight him anyway.

Each step feels heavier than the last, your body struggling to keep up, but he doesn’t slow. Doesn’t hesitate.

By the time you reach the exit, your vision is fading.

The last thing you register is the sound of rain again, and the feeling of his grip tightening, like he’s not willing to let you go.

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

When you wake up, it’s quiet.

Not the suffocating kind.

The soft kind. Safe.

For a moment, you don’t move.

Don’t think. Just breathe.

Then it hits you.

You sit up too quickly, pain flaring through your side, forcing a sharp inhale as your surroundings come into focus.

A room.

Clean. Unfamiliar.

Not yours. Not your boss’s.

“Careful.”

His voice. Closer than expected.

You turn.

San sits a few feet away, sleeves rolled slightly, a faint stain of dried blood still visible near his cuff.

Yours. Your pulse stutters.

“You kidnapped me,” you say.

“You were dying.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one that matters.”

You stare at him, trying to piece together what this means, what this changes.

Everything. It changes everything.

“They’ll come for me,” you say.

“I know.”

“And you’re just… waiting?”

“Yes.”

Your breath catches slightly. “Why?”

He doesn’t look away.

Because you matter, is what the silence says.

Because I couldn’t walk away.

But what he says is—

“Because I’m tired of pretending this is just business.”

The room feels smaller. Quieter.

“San—”

“Stay,” he interrupts, softer now.

Not a command. A request.

“I can’t.”

“I know.”

Another pause.

“Then let me make this easier for you.”

Your chest tightens.

“That sounds like a bad idea.”

“Probably.”

A faint smile.

Tired. Real.

“But I think you’re worth it.”

You look at him then—really look—and for the first time, he doesn’t feel like an enemy.

Not fully. Not anymore.

And something dangerously close to yours.

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

They do come for you. Of course they do.

But by the time they arrive, you’re already standing.

Already healed enough to make a choice.

Your boss meets your gaze across the room, sharp, searching.

“You’re coming back,” he says.

It isn’t a question.

You glance at San. Then back.

Silence stretches.

Everything hangs on it.

“I’m not leaving,” you say.

Your boss stills.

San doesn’t move. Neither of them interrupt.

“I’ll still protect what matters,” you continue. “But I’m not doing it your way anymore.”

The tension snaps.

Not into violence. Into something quieter.

Acceptance. Understanding. Loss.

Your boss exhales slowly, nodding once.

“Then don’t die,” they say.

It’s the closest thing to permission you’ll get.

You nod back. And that’s enough.

Later, when the city settles again into its restless quiet, you find yourself standing beside San at the edge of a rooftop, the skyline stretching endlessly ahead.

Different sides. Same view.

“You made a dangerous choice,” he says.

“So did you.”

A pause.

“Do you regret it?”

You think about it.

About everything. About loyalty. About blood.

About the moment you didn’t walk away.

“No,” you say.

And for the first time—

It feels true.

San hums softly beside you, something lighter settling into the space between you.

Not peace. Not yet.

But something close. Something earned.

And when his hand brushes against yours—hesitant, uncertain—you don’t pull away.

You let it stay. Because some things aren’t meant to be clean.

Some things are meant to be chosen. 

Even when they cost you everything.

© lcvejjoong, 2026

The first thing you learned about your husband was that he didn’t smile.

Not at the wedding. Not during the vows.

Not even when the officiant tried to lighten the atmosphere with a joke about “till death do you part” sounding a little too literal considering his line of work.

Kang Yeosang had simply stood there in his perfectly tailored suit, hands steady, expression unreadable—like he wasn’t marrying you, but signing a contract.

Which, to be fair, he kind of was.

You weren’t naive.

You knew exactly what this marriage was: a strategic alliance between your family and his. 

Stability. Protection. Power consolidation. 

All the very romantic things that made mafia deals go smoothly.

What you didn’t expect… was how quiet he would be. Not cold in the dramatic, cruel way.

Just… distant.

Like he existed slightly outside of your world.

He spoke when necessary. Ate with precision. Moved like someone always calculating three steps ahead. 

Even at home, where most people would relax, Yeosang remained composed—back straight, voice low, emotions tucked away behind a wall you couldn’t even see the edges of.

At first, you tried.

“Do you like tea or coffee?” you had asked on the third morning after moving in.

“Either.”

“…Okay, but which do you prefer?”

A pause.

“Tea.”

You beamed. “Great! I’ll remember that.”

He nodded once. That was it.

No “thank you.” No follow-up.

Just… Yeosang.

You refused to let that discourage you.

If he was a wall, you’d be ivy.

You talked about everything.

Your day. The neighbor’s weird cat. A random documentary you watched. A joke you found funny.

He listened, always. That was the strange part.

He never interrupted, never dismissed you, never told you to stop talking. He just… didn’t respond much.

Still, you noticed things.

Like how his gaze would linger just a fraction longer when you laughed.

Or how he’d subtly adjust the air conditioning because you once mentioned you got cold easily.

Or how your favorite snacks would magically appear in the pantry after you offhandedly said you liked them.

He didn’t show his affection with his words.

He… executed it.

Quietly. Efficiently.

Like everything else he did.

You shared a room.

A large one, elegant and impersonal at first, until you filled it with small touches—books on the nightstand, soft blankets, a ridiculous amount of pillows Yeosang never complained about.

The bed, however, remained a clear line of demarcation.

You on one side. Him on the other.

He never crossed it. Not even in his sleep. Not even once.

It wasn’t rejection, exactly. It just… felt like distance.

And sometimes, late at night, when the house was silent and Yeosang’s breathing was steady beside you, you’d stare at the ceiling and wonder—

Does he even like me?

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

If there was one thing you didn’t share with him, it was your stash.

Hidden carefully in the bottom drawer of your desk, beneath neatly folded scarves and old notebooks, was your treasure trove:

Romance novels. Fanfiction printouts.

Dog-eared pages, highlighted lines, sticky notes marking your favorite scenes.

Soft love. Slow burns. Confessions whispered in the dark.

The kind of affection your marriage didn’t quite have.

It wasn’t that you expected Yeosang to suddenly turn into a dramatic romantic lead.

But sometimes—

Okay, a lot of times—

you wished he’d just… reach for you.

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

It happened on a completely normal afternoon.

Which, in hindsight, was exactly how life liked to ruin you.

You had left in a hurry, rushing out to meet a friend, completely forgetting that you’d left your drawer slightly open.

And Yeosang… had come home early.

He wasn’t looking for anything in particular.

Just a document he thought might be on your desk.

He noticed the drawer because it wasn’t perfectly aligned.

And Yeosang was, unfortunately, a man who noticed everything.

So he opened it.

And found…books. A lot of books.

He frowned slightly, picking one up. The cover was… pink.

Suspiciously pink.

He flipped it open.

Read a line. Paused. Read another.

His expression didn’t change much. But his ears turned slightly red.

“His fingers traced her wrist, slow and deliberate, like he was memorizing every inch of her skin—”

Yeosang closed the book.

Very calmly. Placed it back.

Opened another one.

“You don’t understand,” he whispered, voice breaking, “I’ve loved you from the moment you walked into my life.”

Pause. Blink.

Yeosang sat down.

And, for reasons even he couldn’t quite explain…kept reading.

You didn’t think anything was wrong when you walked in.

“Yeosang, I’m back!” you called cheerfully, slipping off your shoes.

No response. That wasn’t unusual.

You wandered into the bedroom—and froze.

Because your husband was sitting on the edge of the bed.

Holding one of your books.

Your brain stopped functioning.

“…”

“…”

He looked up. You looked at him.

The book.

Him.

The book.

Him.

“I can explain,” you blurted.

“Explain what,” he asked calmly, holding up the book, “this?”

You wanted the floor to swallow you whole.

“It’s—uh—it’s research.”

“Research.”

“Yes.”

“For what?”

“…life.”

A pause.

Then—

“…I see.”

He looked back at the page and continued reading.

You stood there. Processing.

“…Wait.”

You stepped closer.

“You’re just going to keep reading it?”

“I was in the middle of a chapter.”

“That’s not the point!”

He glanced at you.

“Then what is?”

Your face burned.

“That’s private!”

“I didn’t know that,” he said, tone even. “It was not labeled.”

“You don’t need a label, it’s obvious—!”

Another pause.

He closed the book gently. Looked at you.

“…Do you like this kind of thing?”

Your soul left your body.

“Why are you asking that?” you said weakly.

“You read a lot of it.”

“That doesn’t mean anything!”

“It usually does.”

“That’s not—” you stopped. “Okay, yes, I like it, but that’s not the point!”

“What is the point?”

“The point is that you weren’t supposed to see it!”

“Why.”

“Because it’s embarrassing!”

“Why.”

“Because it just is!”

Yeosang studied you. Carefully.

“…It is about affection,” he said.

You froze.

“…What?”

“These stories,” he continued, flipping the book slightly, “they focus heavily on emotional and physical intimacy.”

You covered your face.

“I know what they’re about, Yeosang.”

“Do you want that?”

Your hands dropped. The room went quiet.

He wasn’t teasing. Wasn’t mocking. Wasn’t even embarrassed.

He was just… asking.

Direct. Honest.

Like he always did.

And suddenly, it wasn’t funny anymore.

“…I mean,” you started, quieter now, “I don’t expect… all that dramatic stuff.”

He waited.

“I just…” you hesitated. “Sometimes I wonder if you even like me.”

Silence.

“I do,” he said.

You blinked.

“…You do?”

“Yes.”

“…Oh.”

That was… not what you expected.

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

Something shifted after that.

Not dramatically. Not overnight.

But… noticeably. It started small.

One evening, you were reading on the couch when he sat beside you.

Closer than usual. Not touching.

Just… close.

You noticed. Said nothing.

Then—

His hand moved.

Slowly. Carefully.

And rested next to yours.

Not holding. Not quite touching.

Just… there.

You stared at it. Then at him.

He was looking straight ahead, completely composed.

But his fingers… twitched slightly. Like he wasn’t used to this either.

You smiled. And gently placed your hand over his.

He froze.

But he didn’t pull away. Didn’t react.

Just… stayed.

But his grip tightened. Just a little.

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

Yeosang approached affection like he approached everything else:

Methodically.

Which led to… some very interesting moments.

“You look… acceptable.”

“Acceptable???”

He paused.

“…Good.”

You burst out laughing. He looked mildly offended.

Another time, you were in the kitchen when he suddenly hugged you.

From behind. Stiffly.

Like he had read instructions but didn’t quite understand them. 

You nearly dropped the spoon.

“…Yeosang?”

“…Yes.”

“…Are you okay?”

“I am attempting something.”

“…I can tell.”

Pause.

“…Is it working?”

You turned in his arms, smiling.

“Yeah. It is.”

The third time, you came home one day to find candles.

Everywhere. Way too many candles.

“Yeosang—why does it look like a ritual in here?”

“I read that this creates atmosphere.”

“…For what?”

He hesitated.

“…Romance.”

You stared at him.

Then laughed so hard you had to sit down.

He looked deeply confused.

Despite the awkwardness, the stiffness, the occasional complete misunderstanding of fictional tropes—

He was trying. For you.

And that mattered more than anything.

But the real moment—

The one that stayed with you came quietly. Like everything important did with him.

It was late.

You were half-asleep, curled up on your side of the bed.

When you felt it.

A shift. Warmth. Weight.

You blinked your eyes open.

And realized—

Yeosang had moved.

Closer. Not all the way.

But enough that his arm rested lightly over your waist.

Careful. Hesitant.

Like he was giving you the chance to pull away.

You didn’t.

Instead, you leaned back slightly. Into him.

He stiffened. But then relaxed.

And that meant a lot.

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

Yeosang didn’t become a completely different person.

He didn’t start making grand declarations or dramatic confessions.

But you started noticing more. A lot more.

The way he always made sure you ate. The way he’d stand just a little closer in public.

The way his hand would find yours without thinking.

The way he remembered everything you said.

Even the smallest things. Especially the smallest things.

And sometimes, when he thought you weren’t looking… you’d catch it.

A soft expression. A quiet fondness.

Something warm.

Something yours.

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

One night, you found something unexpected.

On your pillow. A book.

One of yours.

With… sticky notes. You picked it up slowly.

Opened it.

And saw annotations.

“This is unrealistic.”

“This is inefficient communication.”

“…This is acceptable.”

You laughed. Then flipped to the last page.

Where a single note waited.

“I am still learning. Be patient.”

Your chest tightened.

Soft. Full. Overwhelming.

You looked up.

And there he was. Standing by the door.

Watching you.

“You wrote this?” you asked.

“Yes.”

You smiled. Walked over.

“And what if I said you’re doing really well?”

He paused.

Then, very gently, he reached out.

Tucked a strand of hair behind your ear.

“…That would be… good.” 

“Yeosang?”

“Yes.”

“…Do you love me?”

A rare question.

Direct. Vulnerable.

He didn’t answer immediately.

You waited.

Then—

he stepped closer.

Rested his forehead lightly against yours.

And said, quietly:

“I would not be doing all of this… if I didn’t.”

Not dramatic. Not poetic. Not straight out of your books.

But somehow better.

Because it was him.

And as his hand found yours—steady now, no hesitation— you realized something.

Maybe your story wasn’t like the ones you read. Maybe it didn’t have grand speeches or perfect moments.

Maybe it was slower. Quieter.

A little awkward. A little clumsy.

But it was real. And it was growing.

And most importantly, it was yours.

© lcvejjoong, 2026