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âSTUPID CUPIDâ
pairing: fuckboy! na jaemin x secret identity! reader | genre: rom-com | words: 24k+
synopsis -> mr. cupid â anonymous radio host. running the #1 most popular radio show on campus. famous for his thoughtful advice and classified as a true hopeless romantic. na jaemin â photography major, the sweet fuck-boy. described to be affectionate and gentleâŚbut donât fall for his tactics! once heâs done with you, heâs gone with the wind. your best friend unfortunately happened to be on the receiving end of this. what happens when you find out that the anonymous radio host is none other than na jaemin himself? sweet revenge.
warnings -> tooth rotting cheesiness youâll roll your eyes, a hundred different synonyms for a gentle smile, pet name unlocked: angel, lots of stolen kisses, thereâs only one bed, reader and jaemin are stupid and selfish sometimes, a tiny bit of angst, a hole in the wall, +18, crude language, fuck-boys, mentions of drugs, alcohol, make outs, one night stands, more than one boner, smut! oral-m/f receiving, fingering, slight nipple play, blowjob, handjob, sex, a brief conversation with his cock, jaemin is whiny and vocal and big, masturbation, public sex if u squint.
an -> the first installment of the loverboy series is finally yours. i hope you love (and hate) it as much as i do. i had so many moments in the three months iâve had with this work where i almost scrapped this as i couldnât figure out how to progress the story without it being so cheesy. i wanted something grand, something never been done before! but (fortunately) with rom-com, and the amount of lovely fiction out there, everything has been done before. so i succumbed to the inevitable cheesiness and made something i was happy with. hope you enjoy! with love, c.
dear, mr. cupid,
my best friend slept with her crush! problem is, heâs a total fuckboy and doesnât even remember her. he walks around pretending he doesnât know her. what can i do to get back at him?
love,
heart
mr. cupid reads the anonymous confession of the day, ready to give his think piece.
âhi heart, hmm,â he pauses, seeming to be in deep thought, âfirst of all, i think you should be there for your friend. let her know that no man, especially a fuckboy, is worth any of her precious time. as for the guy, let him have a taste of his own medicine, he deserves it. no man should ever treat a woman like that,â he sweetly advises through the radio, making you scoff in disgust.
his fake persona was sickening considering you couldn't even count the number of girls he has been with in both of your hands in just a span of one year.
taste of his own medicine, huh?
two days later, you got all dolled up, looking exactly like the girls you know are his type â all pretty in pink, a cute skirt around your waist, pretty bow adorned on your hair, paired with heels that made your legs look longer.
you couldnât even recognize yourself when you looked in the mirror. gone were the oversized t-shirts and sweats that usually hugged your body. you were going to make him notice you, one way or another.
it was all part of the plan â itâs simple, really! the entirety fitting in a page in your notebook, titled the downfall of na jaemin:
step one - introduce yourself.
step two - make him fall in love with you.
step three/four - break his heart and reveal to the whole world (university) that their beloved mr. cupid is a phony.
see, easy!
hence, we begin.
youâve mapped out the trail he took after his first period. and like the mastermind you are, you were right where you needed to be at the right time. walking hurriedly past him and âaccidentallyâ bumping into him, the books and papers in your hand flying out of your grasp, an exaggerated gasp slipping past your lips.
jaemin, quick to his feet, was already on the ground, picking up your fallen items, âsorry about that,â he apologizes.
âno it's okay, i wasnât looking where i was going, sorry,â your sweet voice captures his attention as he finally gets a good look at you. a devilishly sweet smile growing on his features, eyebrows ever so slightly raising in a way that if you werenât so observant, you wouldnât have noticed.
âjust be careful next time, beautiful,â he flirts, handing you back your things, the smile on his face never leaving. you fight back the urge to roll your eyes.
âthanks handsome, iâll see you around?,â matching his energy, voice going softer, eyes flirtatiously but calculatively drooping, as you grab your books out of his hands, making sure your fingertips touch, just a little bit, before turning away and quickly walking the opposite direction.
the boy quickly called out to you, âhey!, what's your name?!â
leaning over your shoulder, plastering on the sweetest smile you can give him, you waved away like you were some kind of princess â classic romantic first meetings.
he watches your retreating figure, a small smile visible on his features. he has half the mind to follow you until the sound of his phone buzzing snaps him out of his daze.
mark: where are u? need help setting up
jaemin: omw
đ˛đ˘
âdid we get new students?,â was the first thing that jaemin asked when he entered the room, his friends quickly glancing at his direction before continuing their tasks â setting the house up for the fraternityâs highly anticipated valentines day party that was two days away. it was really the only party (besides halloween, christmas and new year) that they prepared for. all the other ones, didnât require this much work.
ânot that i know of?,â mark â leader of the dream fraternity, music major, the favorite fuckboy. unlike jaemin, he doesnât hide under sweet pretenses. he tells you what he wants from the beginning, never leaving you doubting his actions. whether or not you continue, is up to you. so you canât exactly blame him when he breaks your heart in the end.
âhuh..,â he ponders.
âwhy?,â his leader ask, curiosity piqued.
âsaw the prettiest girl today, never seen her before,â he says nonchalantly.
âmaybe she was just passing by?,â haechan â member of the dream fraternity, theatre major, the most popular fuckboy. girls love him. boys love him. heâs funny and charming but also very straightforward. you wonât catch him in a single lie because he doesnât tell any, even if that means ruthlessly hurting peopleâs feelings.
âcanât be, her books were from our library,â jaemin reasons, remembering the âstep by step: how to art?â book that he picked up from the ground stamped with the universityâs seal. maybe you were an art major?
âwhat does she look like?, i can ask around,â jeno â member of the dream fraternity, architect major, the chill fuckboy. doesnât really like the whole hopping from one girl to another so he ends up in a bunch of meaningless situationships. his current one has been going on strong â a good new record of four days.
âexactly my type, long hair, soft skin, pretty smile, dressed in the cutest outfit,â jaemin sighs hopelessly, like he was just shot with the lust arrow.
âuh oh there you go again, falling for nameless girls,â chenle smirks, throwing him the streamers he was assigned to put up.
chenle â member of the dream fraternity, business major, the lowkey fuckboy. doesnât get around as much as the rest but also doesnât do relationships either and he makes that very clear. no use of pet names, or flowers, or chocolates or anything romantic.
âactually, she was holding an art book. renjun, have you seen anyone today wearing a pink top with a white skirt, a pretty white bow on her pretty head?â
renjun â member of the dream fraternity, art major, the fuckboy by association. only got labeled a player due to his friends. doesnât actually care too much for romantic relationships, but he will have one night stands here and there, he still has a working dick after all. #1 person to call out the boys if they over step a line but will also fight a girl for his friends.
âdidnât go to class today, too busy setting up,â he shrugs, âleave the poor girl alone jaemin, we donât need a repeat of last time,â he adds sternly.
âhey!, that one was not my fault, that girl was crazy,â jaemin reasons out earning a snort from jisung.
âyeah, hyung, crazy because she told you she loved you and you said it back then proceeded to avoid her,â jisung â member of the dream fraternity. dance major, the fuckboy in the making. he was in a relationship, once. the girl cheated on him so now heâs decided that loveâs not real and is taking fuckboy 101 classes from mark and haechan.
âwho tells you they love you while your balls deep in!?,â jaemin practically shouts, âmy dick was my brain, okay!, besides who even says i love you to a guy youâve only been talking to for a week, not to mention we barely talked!,â jaemin quickly defends himself for the umpteenth time.
âyeah, yeah weâve heard it all before and wellâŚthatâs what you get for being sooo sweet,â haechan points out, laughing at his friend.
âthatâs why next time you donât put so much effort in,â chenle adds, joining in on the laughter.
âyeah dude, or maybe next time just tell them you just want sex? it works for me all the time i never have anyone crazy coming in like that,â mark teases, the entire group laughing as they recall the situation.
âwell damn! god forbid i actually throw in a little bit of romance before i fuck their brains out,â jaemin sighs.
he canât help it, he was a romantic at heart.
âfuck your brain out you mean?,â jeno snorts, causing jaemin to chase him around the house, fist ready for a punch.
âbe careful! if you break any of the decorations i am not helping!,â renjun yells after them, the rest of the group breaking out into a chaos of laughter.
đ˛đ˘
dear mr. cupid,
i accidentally ran into someone todayâŚmy books flew everywhere! i swear some even landed on his feet but he was so kind about it, picking it up for me and calling me beautiful and now i canât stop thinking about his sweet smile. problem is i donât even know his name, what should i do?
love,
angel
jaeminâs jaw drops, this has to be his mystery girlâŚright? how many people go bumping around others and dropping their books?
he found himself liking the fact that his identity was unknown. to you he was just the kind boy who helped you out and not one of the schoolâs residential fuckboy. he thinks this is somehow a work of fate and was sure he had to thank divine interventions for landing you straight into his lap.
clearing his throat, he starts with his advice, âinteresting, what should you do, angel?,â he clicks his tongue, âi think you should go to the place you saw him at, maybe heâll be there again? who knows, he could have felt the same thingâŚi guarantee you if he did, heâll walk up to you and say hiâŚmen are simple creatures, after all. if they like you theyâll do something if not, well, you deserve a better man, angelâŚâ
angel â a pretty name for a pretty girl, jaemin thought.
âand of course to all you lovely ladies out there, advice of the day from your favorite cupid is: never accept anything less than the bestâŚgoodnight lovelies,â ending the session for the night.
âangel, angel, angel,â the name glides off his tongue. did he just use mr. cupid to get to you? of course he did, but you didnât have to know that.
just like how he didnât have to know that everything was falling into place, exactly the way you planned it.
like clockwork, you end up meeting him at the exact same place at the exact same time, your books safely secured in your bag â it was time to put things in motion.
jaemin spots you first, walking up to you this time, âhi angel,â you turn towards the sound of his voice, taking in his appearance, noticing the camera that hung around his neck.
ây-you listen to mr. cupid?,â you ask, playing dumb, of course he listens to mr. cupid. he is mr. cupid. you just didnât expect him to bring the persona up at all.
âwho doesnât? itâs the number one radio show on campus,â he smirks, âand thank god i do or else i wouldâve never known you were looking for me,â he shoots you a wink and it makes sense to you now how heâs never gotten caught. itâs because he doesnât hide the fact that he âlistensâ to mr. cupid. he talks about mr. cupid like he was just a casual listener.
too bad for him, you saw him sneak out of the studio late that one evening, catching sight of the mr. cupid neon sign before the door shut.
you let out a playful laugh, âof course, i guess we have mr. cupid to thankâŚso whatâs your name, handsome?,â
âyou truly donât know?,â it takes every ounce of you not to scoff.
âshould i?,â you ask innocently, completely opposite from the rage you were feeling inside.
âof course not,â he shakes his head, âjaemin,â he introduces himself, hand reaching out for a handshake. you give him a soft smile before slipping your hand in his, ânice to meet you jaemin, iâm y/n.â
ânot angel?â
âyou didnât think iâd actually tell mr. cupid my real name did you? it would be so embarrassing for me,â you explain and jaemin just shakes his head lovingly.
âdo you want to get coffee?,â you ask, making jaeminâs smile grow wider.
đ˛đ˘
dear mr. cupid,
how do I get a fuckboy to fall in love with me?
love,
heart
âit doesnât matter if heâs a fuckboy or not, to get anyone to fall in love with you, you have to dig deep, find out what they like and get to know them beyond surface level.â - mr. cupid.
the air in the coffee shop was buzzing with the faint hum of quiet conversations and light tunes playing from the cafeâs speakers. you sat across from him, sun rays from the window illuminating his sharp features. na jaemin, the playboy who had stolen hearts without a second thought, was now sitting before you, completely unaware of your secret identity.
âtell me about yourself,â you say as soon as the two of you got comfortable.
âwell, i'm a photography major, part of the dream fraternity,â he gives the basic answer, not giving you anything else.
âgirlfriend?,â you ask, eyebrows raising up as you took a sip of your drink.
âwouldnât be sitting here with you if i had one, angel,â he responds smoothly, the use of the nickname he has insisted on continuing to call you rolls off his tongue, making you want to gag every time you hear it. perhaps you should have just given your real name.
instead you force yourself to blush, breaking eye contact like it was all too much, smiling down at your hands.
he finds it adorable of course. from his perspective, he had you right in the palm of his hands, all he had to do was catch you.
âyou said you were a photography majorâŚcan i see your photos?,â you point to his camera, an innocent look displayed on your face, catching jaemin slightly off guard.
no girl has ever asked to see his work, always only curious about his reputation and seeing him as a challenge â maybe this was your ploy, pretending to care about him just so he would sleep with you.
he almost wants to tell you that you didnât have to go through all that effort. just say the word and heâll be in between your legs in a second but this is amusing and heâll let it drag on for as long as you want.
âhmm, maybe later angel, how about you tell me about yourself first?,â his shit-eating grin appeared as fast as it disappeared and you knew that you wouldnât be able to crack him so easily. you were prepared for that. in the three years youâve heard about this boy, you have never heard of him being in love. you knew this would be hard. you had to break down your walls first if you ever wanted to see through his.
âokay, i'm an art major with a focus on painting, my favorite color is pink and i love iced americanos,â you point down to your matching drinks, letting out a soft giggle.
âhey, weâre pretty similar,â you hear the smile in his voice. of course, you calculatively said things you knew he also liked, things heâs mentioned in his show, you were an avid listener after allâŚbefore you knew it was him.
âwhat is it about painting that draws you in?,â he continues.
then it clicks for you â this was his own test wasnât it?
he was using his own advice against you. he was digging deeper. his own personal trick to get you to fall for him. you give him exactly what heâs looking for.
âi guess i just love watching simple colors and lines all come together to create something beautifulâŚthe way it can be interpreted in so many ways by different people, you know?,â you take a quick pause, making sure he was still listening to you. he nods encouraging you to go on, âthe way it can carry emotions, i can look at it one day and feel happiness and then another day i could look at the same painting and feel sadness,â you continue, letting your heart talk for you. the passion you had for art clearly on display.
âtell me more, angel,â jaemin looks at you with a soft glow in his eyes like he's really taking in everything youâre saying and storing it somewhere safe. maybe it was because of how the sun rays hit his eyes? maybe it was genuine curiosity? or maybe heâs just mastered the act of pretending to care? you wouldnât know. but you do know that it was easy to get lost in his gaze and it makes sense how he has succeeded in making everyone fall for him.
âhmm, i like how you can find a story within each painting if you look deep enough and i love the way that story changes depending on whoâs looking,â you finish.
he smiles, a gentle smile â this one different from the grins that you were used to seeing and you knew you hit the spot.
âyou know something, y/n? i think you and i are a lot alike,â he starts, âexcept for me, my photos are my painting,â he reveals a little but not too much, hushed voice, leaning towards you as it it was a secret. maybe it was? maybe it was something heâs never shared to anyone but you? again, you wouldnât know.
you watch him reach for the camera sitting quietly on his side of the table, and before you could process what was happening the shutter of the flash has blinded you.
âw-why did you take a picture of me?,â you asked in quiet shock.
âi like this story, i think i want to keep it forever,â he casually admits, making your heart skip a beat. he was good and you realize now how tough this could be as you sat there thinking, was it this easy to fall for someoneâs words before?
âwhat do you say angel, you want to go to a party with me tomorrow night?," and just like that, the grin was back on his face, snapping you out of your trance.
the NCTU valentines party â youâve always heard about it being one of the best parties on campus, whether youâre single and ready to mingle or taken and want to party with your significant other, everyone goes to have a great time: sex, free alcohol, drugs and good music. how could anyone pass it up?
âi would love to,â you reply sweetly.
you needed to get into his room.
after all, you had no physical proof that he was mr. cupid.
đ˛đ˘
âi need to borrow a dress,â you rummage through your best friendâs wardrobe, looking for something pretty and pink.
âfor what?,â giselleâs attention snaps toward you, her curiosity at its peak. she doesnât even remember the last time you wore a dress.
âumm for a party,â you mumble, âexcuse me?,â she walks over to you, not entirely sure if she heard correctly, âdid you say party? youâre going to a party?!â she practically shouts, excitement bubbling through her.
âcalm down, itâs not that big of a deal,â you sigh, still looking through her closet.
âuhm, yes it is! iâve been trying to get you to a party since freshman year and you always turn me down,â she pouts, âin your own words, âparties are sooo lame, i have much better things to do,ââ she playfully mocks, earning an eye roll from you.
âi don't sound like that,â you snarked, eyes narrowing at her.
âyesâŚyou do,â she says, pushing you out of her closet and pulling out a pretty pink dress youâve never seen before, exactly in your size. it was the perfect dress for the perfect girl you were currently playing.
giselle hands it to you with a smile on her face, âhere, i bought it for you just in case this day ever happened,â making you chuckle, âi canât believe you, thank you,â taking the dress out of her hands.
âwhose party are you going to anyway?,â she asks.
âuhmm,â you take a second to think about whether or not you should lie but giselle knows you more than anyone else, sheâll see right through your words, so you decide to come clean, âtheNCTUvalentinesparty,â you mumble and giselleâs jaw drops in shock, âthe wildest party of the year for a party virginâŚare you sure about that?,â she asks, voice laced with concern.
âdonât worry, iâm not gonna drink or anything,â you shrug and you see the way her mind works, piecing it all together.
âwho are you going with?,â she inquired, afraid that she already knew the answer to the question.
âdoesnât matter,â you gulped, looking everywhere but your best friend.
âoh my god!,â she gasped, âdonât tell me youâre going with na jaemin?!â
âok, i won't tell you i'm going with na jaemin,â you joked, trying to keep the energy light but you see the way her smile has disappeared into a thin line, eyebrows slightly furrowing.
ây/n-, i told youâŚyou donât have to do anything,â she breathes out, almost angry.
âgiselle, you lost your virginity to him! and then he pretends you donât exist?!,â you point out, reminding her of his faulty actions and how much he deserves whatâs coming to him.
âso what!?, i probably would have lost my virginity to another jerk if not him, at least he gave me a good time,â you actually canât believe sheâs defending him right now, a frustrated expression appearing on your face.
âare you kidding me?! you cried over him for a week!,â you cursed, remembering the time you had to pick up the mess jaemin made.
âyes because i lost my virginity to a fuckboy!âŚnot because that fuckboy was him, it could've been any one of them and i still would have cried,â she explains, â...but i'm over it!, iâve been over it!,â she yells, arms flinging around, âbesides virginity is a social construct anyways i feel much better without that word hanging over my head and since heâs slept with me iâve had soooo many guys in my dmsâ,â she reasons out, rambling, almost losing focus until she caught herself.
ââso please y/n,â she snaps her attention back to you, holding your hands ââdonât waste your time on na jaemin and justâŚenjoy a good fucking party,â she practically begged.
âno,â you reply sternly, letting go of her hands âhe needs to know how it feels like to get his heart broken. if not for you then i'm doing this for all the other girls who have cried over him,â
giselle sighs, your stubbornness was always a problem and she knew well enough that once youâve set your mind on something, nothing can change it, âwhatever y/n, donât come crying to me when this blows up in your face, he isnât as dumb as you think,â she walks out, leaving you to wallow in your thoughts alone.
đ˛đ˘
dear mr. cupid,
iâm going to my first party ever! how can i make sure i catch the attention of the person i like?
love,
heart
âbe safe. donât let anyone take advantage of you. and for the person you like? confidence is key. wear your head high, flash on your beautiful smile and always be one step ahead.â - mr. cupid.
loud music, red solo cups, couples sticking their tongue down each other's throat, a guy wearing a diaper holding a toy bow and arrow drunk in the front lawn and itâs only 9pm.
this is the infamous valentines day party?
you wanted nothing more than to turn around and go back to the safety of your dorm room, hide under the blankets and binge watch cheesy rom-com movies until the sun comes up.
before you can psych yourself out, an unknown voice makes its way to your ears, âyou must be, angel?,â the figure walks up to you, a smirk etched onto his face.
âand you are?,â you ask, already feeling a bit uncomfortable.
âhaechan,â he introduces, hand going up for a handshake. he waits for yours but you never give it, only glancing at his hand with a slight look of disgust. quickly retracting it, the boy runs a hand through his long dark hair, laughing it off.
âhe was right,â he comments, looking you up and down, âsorry?,â this is by far the most confusing conversation youâve ever had. youâve decided you hated parties.
â...long hair, soft skin, pretty smile and dressed in the cutest outfit, you are exactly his type,â he mumbles, sipping from his cup and taking a step towards you.
ahhh so heâs talked about you.
haechanâs figure towers over you and youâre now very aware that heâs an intoxicated man and youâre in nothing but a tight pink dress who forgot to bring some sort of self defense weapon. you hold onto your purse a little tighter, ready to swing if it comes down to it.
âback off, haechan,â jaeminâs deep voice echoes from behind you. his familiar presence brings you a sense of comfort. youâd take him over this random guy in front of you any day. though youâre not entirely sure itâs better.
âjust introducing myself,â haechan smirks, raising his hands in mock surrender as the taller boy steps up beside you, âsee you later, angel,â haechan bids his goodbye, walking back into the loud frat house.
âsorry about that, he gets a little too confident when heâs drunk but heâs never physically hurt anyoneâŚjust a whole lot of talk really,â jaemin snaps your attention back to him.
âphysically?,â you question, head tilted.
âwell, i canât say the same for emotionally, heâs a heartbreaker you know?,â jaemin chuckles, taking a step closer to you.
âand youâre not?,â you look at him quizzically, smirk on your lips, challenging him.
âyou look really beautiful, angel,â he ignores your question, choosing to lean in and compliment you instead, playful smile on his lips, âstick close to me tonight okay, you donât want another heartbreaker getting near you,â he whispers, sending goosebumps throughout your skin.
jaemin watches you intently, ânow, câmonâŚletâs go inside,â he leads the way to the entrance with you following right behind him, head held high.
if you thought the outside was bad, the inside of the house was a whole different nightmare. the music booming filling up every corner of your mind, sweaty bodies bumping and grinding against each other, more lip locking, not entirely sure whoâs paired up with who, everyone just kissing everyone, one side of the room chanting âshot, shot, shot,â the other side carrying someone on the keg stand. the air was thick with the stench of alcohol and a mix of different flavors of vape smoke, hitting you all at once. you were definitely out of your element, panic settling in the pit of your stomach.
jaemin quickly senses your discomfort, your feet frozen to the ground, wincing as you look around the room, taking it all in. he walks towards you, gently lacing his fingers around yours, âjust stay close to me, okay, y/n?,â gone was the smirk that you swore was glued on to his face, eyes full of concern. you nod, tightening your grip around his hand before he led you deeper into the room and into the kitchen where there were less people.
âahh, there they are, took you guys long enough, i thought you may have just led her right to your bedroo-oW,â haechan fumbles over after the guy next to him punched him in the stomach, âwhat the fuck, mark?,â he groans in pain, mark ignoring him.
âplease ignore hyuck, heâs had too much to drinkâŚiâm mark,â mark smiles at you, he seems normal enough. this time you accept the handshake, âim y/n,â you reply, shooting him a quick smile, âi thought his name was haechan?,â your eyes darted between the three boys, pointing at haechan who was still soothing his pained stomach.
âhaechan when heâs flirting, donghyuck to his friends,â mark says, clearing it up for you.
âyou donât have to tell her that, weâre not friends,â the boy chimes in and you agree, âheâs right,â making him perk up, âon a second thought, maybe we can be friends,â he says cheerfully, âsorry about my behavior, y/n,â he drunkenly apologizes, pout on his lips and youâre confused at the sudden change in his behavior.
âpraise him once and heâll do anything for you,â jaemin explains, chuckling at his friendâs antics and handing you a cup, âdrink?,â he asks.
you eye the red cup suspiciously, âitâs just coke and henny,â jaemin says, taking a sip out of the cup to let you know that itâs safe to drink. you appreciate the action, âthanks,â you say, taking the cup from his hold and taking a sip. the taste was absolutely repugnant and you try your best to not let it show on your face.
âoooh thatâs basically a kiss,â renjun from your art class walks in, teasing, and your eyes almost bulge out of their sockets. thereâs no way heâs here right now? renjun was so polite and proper, what the hell was he doing here?
you realized now that you actually had no idea what happens in your university. too absorbed in your own bubble to know whoâs friends with who, âooooh jaemin and angel sitting on a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g,â haechan sings making the boyâs chuckle as you tried to hide your face behind the red solo cup.
jaemin shoots you a smile before getting dragged away by mark to the other side of the room, creating more mixed drinks for the party, leaving you with haechan and your fellow art classmate.
âhey, iâm renjun,â he walks up to you casually earning a slight nod from you, âyou must be angel?,â he questions and all you do is nod, downing your drink, trying to ignore the burning in your throat, âokayy?,â he eyes you suspiciously and youâre afraid your cover has been blown until haechan grabs his hand, âdonât stare at my friend, it makes her uncomfortable,â he steps in and suddenly youâve decided that haechan is your favorite.
âletâs go look for jisung, i still gotta teach him how to do that tongue thing,â haechan says, grabbing renjun and mark out of the room. you donât even want to know what tongue thing theyâre talking about, just grateful for the fact that renjun was finally gone.
âwoahh, slow down angel,â jaemin makes his way back to you, taking the cup out of your hands, âwhat?,â you didnât even realize you were still drinking it, too caught up in trying to not get caught.
âyou finished it,â he says, almost proud, chuckling at your actions.
âohâŚ,â you sigh, looking at the empty cup. well, thatâs not good. youâre not exactly a pro when it comes to alcohol and you can feel it catching up to you now, the heat in your face growing as a carefree laugh slipped from your lips, âi guess i did.â
jaemin finds you absolutely adorable, âletâs go dance, angel,â grabbing both of your hands and dragging you out of the kitchen, into the crowded living room, a strong hold around your waist, making sure you donât trip amongst the crowd of people.
the music sounds so much better with the alcohol in your system. for a moment you let yourself enjoy it as you swayed to the beat, singing at the top of your lungs, jaemin right behind you, hands on your waist as your bodies were pushed closer and closer until there was no longer any space in between you.
maybe you understand parties now? you have never felt more free than you did now, all the worries and anxiety that came from school completely leaving your body. the only thing on your mind is the alcohol and jaeminâs warm hands electrifying your waist.
he turns you around in his embrace, coming face to face with his huge smile, âare you having fun!?,â he yells over the loud music.
the red heart shaped lights flashes around the room, illuminating his features, making him glow.
mr. cupidâs words ringing in your ear â be confident.
and so with the help of liquid courage, you wrap your hand around his neck, the smile on your lips never leaving as you made the first move, pulling him towards you, and catching him by surprise, âyes,â you whisper against his lips before finally connecting like they were magnets.
his lips were so soft against yours, jaemin quick to lead like this was a rehearsal heâs rehearsed a million times.
if you were to ask him, he knew you wouldnât last long â this whole act of pretending to care about his photography. heâll give you credit for being clever, for letting the romantic in him live for a couple of hours but at the end of night he is who he is. you want one thing from him and he wants one thing from you. he knows how this goes.
his hold on your waist tightened pulling you even closer, the growing bulge in his jeans felt hot against your thigh. one of his hands made its way to your cheeks, thumb softly grazing your cheekbone as he deepened the kiss, tongue swiping at your bottom lip for entrance. the taste of alcohol and spearmint lingers as your tongue meets â he was a good fucking kisser and so dangerously intoxicating. he lightly bites your bottom lip, slowly pulling away and making his way down your neck.
âwhat do you say, we take this up to my room, angel?,â he whispers, sucking the sensitive spot right below your ear, earning a light moan from you. the mention of his room reminds you of why you were here in the first place. thatâs the location you needed to get to. you nod, giving him the go signal, the smirk back on his face as he led you up the stairs. you hear the hollers of the people around you. to them, you were going to be another name under his belt and youâve never felt more sick to your stomach than now. to think, for a brief moment, you were actually having fun with him.
as soon as you entered the quiet of his room, the only sound that filled the air was the faint hum of music drifting from downstairs, helping you think a lot more clearer. jaeminâs lips were littering kisses down your neck, body trapped between his large figure and his bedroom door. this was enough.
âjaemin-,â you sigh, âyes, angel?,â he murmurs against your skin. you lightly push him away, âi-i donât want to do this,â you mutter out, looking down at the floor, making sure you look embarrassed from your actions.
jaemin immediately stops, taking a step back and giving you space, âthatâs okay, we donât have to do anything,â you look up at him, expecting to see an annoyed expression at you wasting his time but all that greets you is a quiet shock on his face, a momentary confusion before his eyes turned upwards, kind and gentle. the same genuine smile you briefly saw at the cafe making an appearance and it surprises you.
âsorry,â you whispered softly.
âno need for apologies, y/n, you didnât do anything wrong,â he says gently, grabbing your hand and leading you to sit on his bed. you take note of the way he calls you by your actual name when it matters.
âuhm can i get you anything?,â he asks you sweetly, a little awkward.
this entire situation has got you wondering if he was more like his fake persona in real lifeâŚbut you canât be blinded by his sweet actions. this is his tactic.
ladies and gentlemen â the sweet fuckboy.
âcould you get me a glass of water?,â you ask and he quickly complied âof course, iâll be right back, make yourself comfortable,â he smiles at you, still that same genuine smile and you almost believe it.
the sound of the door shutting has you on your feet in no time, ignoring the dizziness and blurred vision that came with the alcohol.
you quickly look around his room for any signs of mr. cupid, taking note of his bare walls â absolutely nothing that leads to him being the anonymous radio host.
making your way over to his dresser, you rummage through his drawers, shutting the first drawer as soon as you opened it, the space filled with packets and boxes of condoms and a bottle of lube. the next drawer you opened, to your luck, was his underwear drawer, you shut that one tight as well. you quickly look through each one, not finding a single thing, eyes quickly scanning the room, heart beating quicker as you feel yourself running out of time and then you see itâŚa box hidden at the bottom of his desk tucked all the way in the backâŚjackpot.
you open the box to pictures of him at the studio, the mr. cupid neon sign logo right behind him as he sits prettily behind the microphone. you find yourself laughing like a maniac, here it is! proof!
you can finally take him down.
quickly taking one of the pictures, you neatly tuck it in your purse before placing the box back where it belonged, running back to his bed to compose yourself, feeling like you just ran a half marathon.
đ˛đ˘
âthat was quick,â jeno snickers as jaemin enters the kitchen, grabbing you a cold glass of water.
jaemin shakes his head at his friendâs comment, âwe didnât do anything, she actually told me to stop,â he explains leaving both of them dumbfounded.
âreally?,â chenle inquired, a puzzled look on all of their faces.
âreally,â jaemin confirmed, âi told you, she might be different,â he smiled a lovesick smile and they knew their friend was in trouble â he was letting his hopeless romantic side win once again.
âyouâve only known her two days, jaemin,â jeno reminds him, âhow can you be so sure?,â he challenged.
âwell, if she was like the rest, i would be inside her right now,â jaemin points out, earning a playful punch from the two boys.
jaemin was used to girls wanting him for one thing and one thing only â bragging rights.
itâs not a secret that he was known for only sleeping with the hottest, prettiest girls on campus. in turn, he has been a personal target for them, feeling justified and confident when jaemin gives them the time of the day and well, how could he pass up the offer?
they used him for reputation and he wasnât a saint. he used them for easy sex. everyone wins. after a while he stopped trying to remember their names but the hopeless romantic in him lives on through his persona. he tries his best to add in a bit of romance but no girl could even fathom the idea of one of the fuck boys falling in love. no girl could even trust him to do so. only one girl told him she loved him but how could she? when all she knew about him was that he was incredibly good in bed.
so this, right now, the rejection he just received from you â it feels sweet on his tongue.
jaemin notices your disheveled appearance as he walks back in his room. youâre still sitting where he left you, sweat trickling down your forehead. he glances around his room, concern creeping into his voice, âyou okay?â
were you okay? hell yeah, you felt fucking great you could hardly control the giddiness seeping out of you.
âi-uhm, donât think the alcohol is settling in my stomach properly,â you lie. well, it was a half truth. the alcohol coursing through your system doesn't feel as great anymore and now that the adrenaline has worn off, an overwhelming wave of nausea hits, leaving you feeling sick to your stomach.
âcâmon, drink this,â he makes his way over to you. the cool water is refreshing, but it does little to ease the churning in your stomach.
jaemin grabs something on his desk before making his way behind you, gently brushing your hair out of your face, carefully tying it up into a ponytail. he was surprisingly really good at it and you canât help but wonder how much practice heâs had.
he kneels before you, gentle eyes matching his kind smile, ânot much of a party goer are you?,â earning a soft nod from you, âitâs my first partyâ you confess, earning a shocked expression from him, âi shouldnât have given you that cup,â he sighs, grabbing one of his jackets and softly placing it around your shoulders.
âletâs get you home, angel,â he says sweetly, placing a soft kiss on your forehead before helping you up and leading you out of the fraternity.
đ˛đ˘
âyou really donât have to walk me all the way to my dorm,â you say again for the third time.
âi told you y/n, iâm not letting you walk home alone, youâre drunkââ
âi'm pretty sober now! i really am okay!,â
ââand itâs late, i donât feel good about leaving any woman out here at this hour,â he insists, tightening the hold he had on your hand. with his caring nature, he reminds you more and more of mr. cupid.
itâs confusing. or maybe it was still the alcohol?
âwell, here we are,â you point to the building of your dorm room, âthank you for walking me home, i'm sorry i crashed your party so early,â you apologize, taking note of the time, it was almost midnight.
âthere will always be another party,â he shrugs, not at all caring about missing out on the fun, âthank you for showing up by the way, for letting me walk you home andâ,â his hands finding that same spot around your waist, âhappy valentineâs day, y/n,â eyes gazing into yours, voice barely a whisper, âcan i kiss you goodnight, angel?â
instead of the usual teasing tone that accompanied the nickname, this time it was soft, calm, almost hypnotic.
he was so close, invading all your senses, and you couldnât help but close your eyes, fingers clenching his shirt as you waited, heart racingâŚyouâre definitely blaming this on the alcohol.
jaemin takes this sign as a yes and soon enough his lips were on yours in a slow, intimate kiss â different from the rush kisses youâve shared earlier that night.
before it could get deeper, jaemin pulls away, leaving a soft kiss on your forehead, eyes fluttering open, âgoodnight y/n,â he says, soft smile on his lips and your breath catches in your throat, unable to speak, âg-goodnight, jaemin,â you whisper.
he finally lets you go, but doesnât leave until heâs sure youâre safely inside.
his lips still seem to linger on yours as you stood there, body pressed against the door, replaying everything that just happened.
đ˛đ˘
âSTOP!-,â you point at the mirror, âwhat are you doing!âŚstop it now!,â you tell your reflection, who was looking back at you with a giddy smile.
âyouâre still thinking about the kiss, i know you are!,â you talk to yourself and you swear maybe youâve finally lost it.
âyou canât do this! this is part of his game plan and you have your own!,â you continue, arms flinging around like a crazy person.
âstick to the plan!,â you huff out, grabbing your laptop and shooting an email to mr. cupid.
dear mr. cupid,
i found that sweet guy i told you about. we spent valentineâs day together and i know this is cheesy but there were butterflies and all. i wanted to thank you for the helpful advice. please donât read this out loud because i know he listens to this show and this is a bit embarrassing to say.
love,
angel
the next morning was a saturday and lucky for you, you had no saturday classes which meant you could go run to the safety of the art studio and paint to your heartâs content.
a way to debrief and just be yourself, shut your mind out from the rest of the world, even if it is just for a couple of hours. ditching the cute pink outfits, you settled for your go to paint splattered oversized t-shirts, matching your oversized sweatpants, hair in a messy bun, ready for the day.
as soon as you stepped outside, the sunlight blinding your eyes, a familiar voice hit you, halting you in your tracks, âgood morning, angel!,â na jaemin stood before you, radiant as ever, eyes sparkling, smile beaming.
ohâŚwhy the hell did you bring him here last night?
now he knew exactly where you lived. now he knew exactly what you looked like. the real you, anyways. the alcohol truly was a horrible idea because him showing up here unannounced was something you didnât plan for.
âwhat are you doing here?,â you say, almost harshly.
âi thought you would be hungover, so i brought you tea,â he says, walking over to you, finally taking note of the cup in his hand, âi promise you this is the only remedy you need to get rid of any headaches, proven and tested,â he smiles proudly.
you wait for him to say something about your appearance â a snide remark, a look of disgust, anything that shows his feeling of indifference but all you were met with were his eyes that for some stupid reason, canât stop shining as he looks at you.
âthanks,â you say, grabbing the cup, âiâm busy right now though, so iâll just take this and be on my way,â you finally shoot him a quick smile before turning around and briskly walking away.
âhold on, angel!,â jaemin yells out, quickly jogging up to you, making you curse under your breath. thereâs no way youâre going to the art studio now.
âjaemin, i would really like to just have a me day,â you force out a smile before he could say anything else.
âof course,â he nods, completely understanding, âi-just, i-,â for the first time since youâve met him, his confidence falters a bit, words getting lost in stutters.
â-is everything okay?,â worry laced in your voice. you canât help it. this was abnormal behavior coming from him and you had a tendency to care too much.
he gives you a shy smile, âeverythingâs okay and i promise to leave you alone, i just need to ask for your help,â he finally says, you look at him quizzically, urging him to explain, âi have a project due at the end of the month, the theme is ârecreating romantic cliche scenes,â itâs exactly how it soundsâŚi was hoping you could be my partner,â he finishes, expectantly waiting for your answer.
âwhy me?,â
âthereâs no one else i want to do this with but you, y/n,â he quietly confesses, cheeks turning pink, slightly embarrassed â different from he's usual flirting.
truth is, jaemin saw your confession in mr. cupidâs mailbox this morning. it was his final confirmation. you truly were different from the rest and he canât help but feel those butterflies you were talking about.
you ignore the way your heart skipped a beat. it would be weird to say no, besides you have yet to accomplish step 2 - make him fall in love with you. so you answer with one word that captures jaemins attention, a smile of gratitude on his lips, âok.â
as promised, jaemin left you alone for the rest of the day after asking for your phone number and an agreement to meet on monday which is when you would start. you agreed on one scene per day, a total of three scenes for his project.
you canât expose him just yet and this project is the perfect way to stop finding excuses to meet up with him. itâs easier this way. the more time you spend with him, the more you can play the perfect girl.
the faster you can get na jaemin to fall in love with you.
đ˛đ˘
jaemin: hi angel, i'll meet you tomorrow at 7pm at the cafe at 127th street, wear something cute
the text message pops up on your phone on sunday night. you ignore the slight tingle in your stomach seeing his name on your phone.
the cafe at 127th street was a vintage coffee/bar, popular for its retro style and smoothies. you already know the kind of cliche scene he has prepared â sharing a smoothie.
y/n: canât wait! see you there, jaemin <3
dear mr. cupid,
how can i tell if the guy i like, likes me back?
love,
heart
âif a guy likes youâŚyouâll know it, not a single doubt will cross your mind. youâll see it through his actions, hear it in his words. heâll share with you things heâs never shared with anyone else,â - mr. cupid.
the sound of 80âs love songs hit your ears as you entered the cafe. seeing as itâs a monday night, the space wasnât filled and as loud as it usually is on weekends â most of it being taken up by retired senior citizens coming for a good time, away from the crowd of college students this place usually brought.
jaemin waves at you from the red booths, his angelic smile on his lips, the one youâve grown accustomed to seeing. the smile that annoys you because of the feelings that were starting to appear every time you saw it.
you notice the camera has been set up to face the booth you will be sitting on, proper lighting placed around it to really illuminate the space, âhey, quick question,â you ask, greeting him. he gives you a quick side hug, before letting you ask your question, âsince this is for your photography class, shouldnât you be behind the camera?,â you wonder.
âwell, photography is also all about the proper lighting and the editing which is the main focus for this project,â he answers your questions while clicking buttons on his fancy camera, eyes focused on the task at hand, ââand besides, if i have to take pictures of you acting these scenes out with someone else, i might crash out,â he winks at your direction, earning a playful eye roll from you.
âokay so what am i supposed to do,â you await his instructions, standing awkwardly.
âjust wait a while, iâm still waiting on that chocolate smoothie,â
âahhh so we are doing the âsharing a smoothieâ scene?,â you ask, eyes full of curiosity. he sends you a smile of confirmation, finishing his set up as you continue to watch him work. his eyes flickering around his camera, making sure everything is perfect. in a quick second, the flash of the camera blinds you.
âsorry angel, practice shot,â he smiles apologetically as you got up to see the photo he took. he moves to the side a bit, giving you room to see behind the lens. âoh my god, i look ridiculous,â you giggle at the expression you were making, a light shock on your face as you were staring not right at the camera but the figure behind it, âyou look beautifulâŚas always,â jaemin whispers by your ear, a small smile starting to form on your face as you take note of all the colors and shadows the camera has picked up, âit looks really pretty,â you comment and jaemin observes the way you're taking every detail in.
you turn your face towards him, finally realizing how close he was to you. so close to the point you could remember the lingering feeling of his lips on yours. you could feel yourself leaning in when the waiterâs voice snaps you back to reality, the chocolate smoothie being served.
jaemin instructs you on what to do. sitting right across from him, the chocolate milkshake placed right in the middle of the table in between you, one straw for him, one straw for you.
âready, angel?,â he asks you from across the booth, starting his countdown ââŚ3, 2, 1âŚâ as soon as he reached 1, you both leaned in, taking a sip out of your separate straws, eyes locked together, FLASH, you held your breath, making sure not to move, only focused on the warm brown eyes that seemed to look right into you.
after making sure the camera captured the moment perfectly, you finally break away, giggles erupting from both of you as you reach over to wipe the whipped cream that painted the corner of his lips, before getting up to check the picture.
âlooks good to me,â you say, opposite to jaemin sighing next to you, âthereâs a glare on the corner,â he comments, his attention to detail spot on as you looked a little closer and noticed exactly what he was referring to.
âletâs take it again,â he instructs, ordering another chocolate milkshake.
âjaemin, canât we just drink from the same one?,â
âno, the whipped cream is already a mess,â he pouts and you respect it.
as an artist yourself, his attention to detail was admirable and you find yourself liking this serious side of him. how much time and effort he puts into it â completely opposite from the way he treated his relationships. this was a side of him youâve never heard of, a side of him that you wished to know.
the waiter comes back again, serving a new set of chocolate milkshake, snapping you out of your thoughts as you make your way back into the booth, ready to pose for the camera.
this time the picture turned out perfectly. you can tell by the way jaemin's eyes lit up like a child on christmas day, the way his smile grew on his face before turning to you and nodding his head in approval.
you find yourself getting lost in him. he was so beautiful like this â indulged in his work, an innocent glow radiating off of him, âcome, take a look,â he invites.
immediately, you could see the difference. youâre not sure what he did, which buttons he pressed to make this picture turn out like this but it looked straight out of a movie scene and he hasnât even edited it.
the two of you spent the rest of the night finishing the two chocolate milkshakes, listening to whatever song people chose to play on the coin jukebox. at one point, jaemin even got you dancing with him, joining the crowd of elderlyâs on the dance floor. he shows off his silly dance moves, like he was one of the grandpaâs in the cafe.
âyouâve got a charming young man, my husband was exactly like that when we first met,â a lady whispered in your ear, a blush appearing on your cheeks at her comment.
âheâs not really my man,â you confess to her, smiling sheepishly.
âoh but he will be sweetheart, no one will act that foolish if they werenât interested,â she points out, directing your attention back to jaemin, who was already looking right at you before joining the grandpaâs dance battle, making sure you were watching every move he made â making you laugh like youâve never laughed before.
the night ended with him walking you to your dorms, a soft kiss placed on your lips before the two of you bid your goodnights. you swore your cheeks hurt from smiling too much.
and whatâs worse? you couldnât blame this on the alcohol. you walked up to your room with a heavy heart. the weight on your shoulders getting heavier as you remembered this was all part of the plan and there was no way you were going to lose to his charms.
đ˛đ˘
dear mr. cupid,
i like his serious side. i hope heâs serious with me too.
love,
angel
the next day, jaemin tells you to meet them at their frat house for the next scene. you hoped to god, renjun wasnât there. youâre not entirely sure how you were going to hide from him this time around. but just to make sure he doesnât recognize you, you amp up the makeup a tiny bit more, completely opposite from the minimal to none makeup you usually go for during classes.
you rang the doorbell once before coming face to face with none other than renjun himself â of fucking course, just your luck.
âhey, itâs you,â he greets you and suddenly youâre frozen in place, does he know?
âyouâre not much of a talker are you?,â he asks, eyeing you up and down, âuhmm-,â you try to find your words but not a single sentence escapes your lips, your heart beating rapidly in your chest.
renjun sighs, definitely weirded out, âheâs upstairs,â he says before stepping aside and letting you in, it takes you a second or two to find your steps, walking into the house. it was much bigger now that no one was around and surprisingly, it was clean, like it wasnât filled with boys 24/7.
â-itâs so clean,â you werenât aware you said it out loud until renjunâs voice snaps you out of your thoughts.
âahhh and she does talk,â renjun grins,â jaeminâs a clean freak so we have to keep this space clean or he starts nagging,â he explains and you nod in response. that was definitely a fun fact.
âanyways, just go up the stairs, i think you already know where his room is,â he smirks, before walking away and leaving you to it.
as soon as he was gone, you felt like you could finally breathe. he didnât know itâs you. shaking your worries away, you make your way up the stairs, knocking against the door you remembered.
âcome in,â you hear jaeminâs voice from the other side before turning the knob and entering his room. it looked exactly like the night of the party.
he immediately lights up as soon as you enter, attention focused on you, as he greeted you with a kiss. it was starting to get ridiculous how much your heart skips a beat every time his lips touched yours.
you werenât really expecting to be kissing him this much to begin with but that doesnât stop you from kissing back, your lipstick staining his lips, âsorry,â you giggled as you gently wiped it off of him.
âthatâs okay, pink is my color anyways,â he says before stealing another quick peck. at this rate, youâre not entirely sure who was making who fall in love anymore.
âokayyy,â you push him back playfully, chuckling, âwhat scene are we doing today?,â making jaemin wiggle his eyebrows as he made his way to his closet, pulling out a vintage boombox.
âwhere the hell did you get that?,â you ask, inspecting the old device.
âi have my ways,â he winks, âsoâŚyou ready to win me back?,â he smirks and your jaw drops, âi have to be the one holding it?,â you ask, flabbergasted. boomboxes arenât exactly the lightest objects in the world and you barely had any arm strength. for godâs sake you were a painter, your hands were as gentle as a feather.
âyouâre my muse angel, you gotta be in the picture,â he flashes you an apologetic smile in a way that he wasnât really sorry, instead finding that pout on your lips amusing.
so now youâre here standing a little outside the porch of his steps, boombox over your head, as jaemin angles the camera from the balcony, capturing you perfectlyâŚwell, not quite, âwait, the sun is in your eyes!, move to the left a little bit!,â he shouts from the second floor, as you quickly follow his instructions, âis this good?!,â you yell back, earning a nod of approval from the boy.
he takes another snap and another and another â this time around, you curse his attention to detail, your arms starting to burn, back starting to ache, legs getting tired from standing for so long with the heavy boombox over your head, âjaemin, are we almost done!,â you yell out, annoyance seeping through you.
âjust one more shot angel, i promise!,â he shouts back. and so you do one more shot for him, posing in the way he wanted and just like he promised, it was finally over.
jaemin hurries down the steps of the fraternity house as you head back inside, âsorry, that took longer than i expected,â he says, gently taking the boombox from your hold, swapping it instead with a cool glass of water he had readily prepared for you.
taking a napkin, he carefully dabs away the sweat that has formed around your temples, âitâs okay, did the pictures turn out okay?,â you ask, offering him a warm smile.
âcome see for yourself,â his hand envelops yours, tugging you up the stairs and onto the balcony where he had been standing. and just like the diner photo, this one also looked exactly out of a rom-com movie.
âwow, guess it only takes an amazing photographer for me to look like a lead in a movie,â you compliment and jaemin canât help but grin from ear to ear, your praise going straight to his heart.
âwell, a photographer also needs a beautiful muse, so thank you,â he smiles warmly, âand since you went through all that trouble for me, i want to show you something,â he says shyly before taking your hand in his once again and leading you back to his bedroom.
you make yourself comfortable, sitting on his computer chair as he rummages through his shelves, looking for something. after a minute or two, he takes out a large book and slowly, hesitantly, makes his way over to you, carefully landing the book on your lap.
âwhatâs this?,â you ask, curiously inspecting the outside of the book.
âthat day in the cafe, you asked to see my photos,â you realize now that what you were holding was a photo album.
âiâve never really shown them to anyone before so please be kind to me,â he says, rambling nervously, âof course constructive criticism is always welcome and you donât have to like it,â he chuckles softly, trying to play it cool, hoping you wonât notice how loudly his heart was pounding in his chest.
âjaemin, you donât have to show me this,â you say, your breath catching in your throat, heart aching.
for the first time since all of this began, you realize that jaemin is being entirely sincere with you. and here you are, sitting on his bed, taking up space, with a knife hidden behind your back.
ây/n, i want to show you,â he admits, âyouâve been entirely honest with me and iâm ready to do the same,â he says, nudging the album in your hand, wanting you to finally open it.
if only he knew.
you couldnât take looking into his warm brown eyes any longer, focusing instead on the photo album.
finally turning a page. the first picture that greets you is of a woman that resembles the man in front of you, a shining smile on her face as she sat on a picnic blanket, the green scenery behind her making it look like she was straight out of a fairytale.
âthatâs my mom, most important person in my life, she loves going on picnics,â he quietly comments, snapping your attention back to him, you give him a smile, âsheâs beautiful jaemin, you captured her perfectly,â your voice faltering, before turning to the next page.
you recognize the next picture was of the boy you met during the party - mark, his name was. holding a guitar, and just like his mother in the previous page, he had a happy smile on his face, clutter of music sheets surrounding him.
the next couple of pages were all the boys you recognize from his fraternity, each one sporting a look of contentment in a place where they seemed to belong.
jaemin watches you flip from page to page, taking in the way your eyes would widen, the small smile that would appear in your lips as you looked over every photograph. his heart pounding in his chest. he wanted to impress you.
you turn and turn, getting to the photos where he was in, with his family and his friends. the sweet smile that he would share with you all marked in these pages. you realized those were your favorite. you wanted to paint it. wanted to capture every detail and keep it to yourself.
then, at the very last page was the picture of you â sitting in the cafe, on that very first date the two of you had.
you felt like you lost the ability to speak, just staring at the photo, guilt creeping in your heart. you didnât deserve a place in these pages yet here you were⌠and he has managed to make you look as beautiful as the rest, like you were a part of everything good and true in his life.
âwhy am i on here?,â you shakily whisper, trying to push back the lump forming in your throat.
âthese are all stories i want to keep forever,â jaemin softly whispers, âand i told you y/n, i like this story,â you turn to look at him, reading him. looking into his eyes, you see nothing but honesty.
the boy in front of you has finally let his walls down but you donât feel an ounce of accomplishment. none of the feelings of gratification that you were supposed to be feeling came. the thoughts of revenge so far back in your mind.
instead you sat there, the butterflies in your stomach coming to life as you inched closer, closing the space in between you and capturing his lips in yours. jaemin quickly responds, kissing you back just as sweetly. the gravity of the moment hanging in the air.
âi'm guessing you like it?,â he asks.
"i love it," you confess, just before he pulls you in for another kiss, feeling his smile against your lips.
đ˛đ˘
jaemin walks back into the fraternity just right after dropping you off. head all up in the clouds, a love arrow happily pierced right into his heart as he hums a tune. heâs loving the constant goodnight kisses, loving the thought of being able to kiss you forever.
âjaeminâ,â a voice strictly calls out to him, bringing him back to reality.
âyes, my lovely friend, renjun,â he sighs happily, sitting across from him on the living room couch.
âhow long have you known, angel?,â renjun inquired.
âa week now, why?,â jaemin asks, nonchalantly. if he was here to tell him that he was being a hopeless romantic again then he doesnât really want to hear it. this time he knows itâs different.
if the butterflies in his stomach weren't proof enough, the messages you leave for mr. cupid sure was.
âthereâs something off about her,â renjun comments, making jaemin roll his eyes, âoh câmon, you say this about every girl im with,â he points out. renjun has always been picky with the company his friends kept so this wasnât really new to him.
âiâm serious jaemin, she seems familiar but i just canât place my finger on it,â renjun ponders, earning a scoff from the younger boy, âthereâs no placing your finger on anything, she goes to our university, youâve probably seen her walking around campus,â he reasons out.
âwhatever jaemin, just be careful,â renjun advised before walking out of the living room and up the stairs.
jaemin shakes his head, thinking back to the memory of you looking through his photo album and once again, find himself humming, smiling at the ceiling. there was absolutely nothing anyone could say to ruin this for him.
dear mr. cupid,
i think i'm falling for him.
love,
angel
you hated yourself that night.
đ˛đ˘
jaemin leads you to the parking lot, hand in hand. you inspect the location, wondering what romantic scene he had planned out for the last scenario. youâve been dreading this moment, realizing that itâs soon coming to an end. every tick of the clock leads you to step three: breaking his heart.
you stop in front of a silver car, your brain not connecting the pieces together. turning to the boy right next to you with a set of curious eyes.
âwe're going to a new location for this one,â he explains, opening the car door up for you. you donât question it, somehow you trust him enough to hop into the passenger seat.
jaemin ensures you're securely buckled in before stealing a quick kiss, leaving a surprised flush on your face. with a smile, he jogs around and settles into the driverâs seat, putting the car in drive and hitting the gas.
you sat in silence, gazing out the window as the scenery shifted, the soft hum of the radio barely audible, allowing your mind to wander.
as you reflected on the past few days, each quiet moment seemed to lead you back to this â the heavy weight of dread and guilt slowly taking over.
the once alluring idea of revenge now tastes bitter on your tongue. you expected it to be difficult, but you never anticipated that the true challenge would be the way heâd quietly capture pieces of your heart and how you didnât mind it at all.
in fact, you liked it. you liked being around him, liked his stolen kisses, his stories, his gentleness, the warmth that he left on your skin with every touch, his laugh and most of all, that stupid sweet smile he always seems to be sporting around you.
youâve replayed it in your mind a thousand times, torn between the devil and the angel on your shoulders, unsure if this plan is worth risking the bond you've built with him. but every time, the same side wins â the side of pride, the side that tells you this is all still a lie. and if itâs not, then the truth remains. this relationship was born from anger and hate.
jaemin interlaces his fingers around yours, grabbing your hand, bringing you back in the car with him, âwhat are you thinking about?,â he asks softly. even without looking at him, you can see the smile on his face, the gentleness in his tone.
âjust thinking about where we're going,â you lie, staring at your interlocked fingers that somehow seemed to fit like two perfect puzzle pieces.
âhmm, weâre going down south, to busan,â he answers and your eyes almost bulge out of your head, âwhat?!,â he chuckles at your expressive reaction, âjaemin thatâs like a 4 hour drive,â you sulk in your seat, hand still in his, âwhy do we need to go that far?â
âfor rain,â he shrugs, bringing your hand up to his lips as he placed a soft kiss upon your knuckles. you fight the urge to smile.
âwhat exactly do you have planned, loverboy?,â you tease him, pushing all your previous thoughts to the side and focusing on this moment.
âoh you know, pretty rain, pretty girl,â he tosses you a look, confirming your thoughts. he was planning to do the ever so famous rain kiss.
âif you wanted to kiss me, you donât even need to ask,â you teased, earning a playful laugh from him, â-will keep that in mind, angel,â he winks.
the rest of the car ride was spent singing to whatever was on the radio, learning each otherâs favorite things, sharing fun stories and a few more stolen kisses, some of them coming from you.
it all felt comfortable, almost like you were always meant to be here with him by your side. eventually, sleep crept up on you, leaving jaemin in the warm silence, eyes occasionally drifting to your figure, finding peace in the calm as he drove.
the next time you open your eyes is when you finally get to the location jaemin had in mind. it was cloudier here, the sky already casting a soft gray hue. jaemin sets up his equipment, preparing for the rain, while you rush to assist, quickly placing everything into the makeshift set. the lush green landscape stretches around you, the open field decorated with blooms of pinks, whites and yellows, while the river in the distance adds a cool touch of blue. youâre not entirely sure if the camera could capture the beauty of nature but you trust jaemin will find a way to make it come to life.
the rain came at the perfect moment.
jaemin decided to hit record on his camera instead, explaining how itâd be easier for the two of you, since he didn't have to run back and forth to take the picture.
he led you to the right spot, flashing you a smile before his hands wrapped around your waist, pulling you closer and without wasting another second his lips were on yours. heart immediately racing in your chest as you move in complete synchronization, lips chasing his as he took the lead.
the rain continuously pouring over you.
when you could no longer breathe, you pull away, giggles erupting from both of your chests.
the rain pours harder and harder. jaemin feels like heâs been struck by lightning, your giggles melodically ringing in his ear.
he pulls you back in again, kissing you gently, so intimately, like he forgot there was a camera a couple feet away. every kiss, he loses himself in you, melting under your fingertips and for the first time in forever he says words heâs never said to any girl.
âi really like you, y/n,â he confesses, the words floating in the air, replacing the sound of the rain thumping on the ground, filling every corner of your mind. he rests his forehead against yours, warm brown eyes filled with sincerity, making you unable to breathe.
and just like that, the other side won â the side that has fallen for him. the one that believes this is real. the side that likes hearing your name slip from his lips, the stolen kisses, the warmth of his hand in yours, the laughter and of course that sweet smile forever etched in your mind.
you donât want to let go of any it.
instead, you decide to throw your four step plan out the window, casting away all thoughts of revenge that once burdened your heart.
in that moment, you felt light, free.
the rain fell in an endless rhythm, drumming against your skin, soaking every inch of you, but you barely noticed it as you kissed him again. this time with a passion that made it feel like your life depended on it.
heâs a dream you couldnât bear to lose, a fleeting moment you feared would vanish the moment you opened your eyes. but then you feel him smile against your lips, warm hands tightening around your waist as he pulls you even closer and youâre reminded that this is real and exactly where you want to be.
you stayed like that, wrapped in each otherâs embrace until the cold slowly crept in, seeping through your clothes.
the rain never letting up.
đ˛đ˘
jaemin did not plan this well at all. besides the fact that he didnât think to bring extra clothes, the light showers the weather app had predicted had turned into a brutal rainstorm and it was getting harder for him to drive, the droplets continuing to pour heavily on the car window.
âangel, weâre gonna need to stop and stay overnight somewhere,â he suggested in which you quickly agreed to, prioritizing safety. which is how you ended up sitting on the bed with nothing but the bathrobe that came with the hotel, your clothes drying in the bathroom that was currently occupied by none other than jaemin, himself.
the hotel only had one room available and of course, like this was all a part of your doom, that available room happened to have only one bed.
youâve already taken your shower, washing off the remnants of the cold rain sticking to your body. now that you're in the safety of the warm room, waiting for the boy to finish, your mind canât help but wander at the possibilities the night held. youâre not entirely sure you could stop yourself if he decides to advance. in fact, youâre not entirely sure you could control yourself around him.
shaking the thoughts away, you finish drying your hair before getting under the bedsheets and tucking yourself in, making sure your robe hugged tightly around your body.
grabbing the remote from the bedside table, you switch the t.v. on, hoping the noise could drown out the nerves. you settled on the channel playing harry potter and the goblet of fire, forcing yourself to focus on the movie instead of the boy that was as naked as you just on the other side of the bathroom door.
jaemin steps out of the bathroom a couple minutes later, his robe hanging loosely around his body, a bit of his toned chest exposed to the cool air. you try not to stare for too long as he walks around the room, eyes on the t.v. he quickly shuts off the lights before finally settling on the chair, farthest away from your side of the bed, âi love this movie,â he comments, your heart pounding in your chest at the sound of his voice, somehow raspier in the night.
the effect he had on you was absolutely insane. youâve had sex before, had a couple tricks up your sleeve but nothing like what youâve heard about jaemin. the fact that he was amazing at sex was a known fact throughout the entire university, girls always giggling about how they had the best night of their lives and how they couldnât walk the next morning.
turning your head towards him, youâve realized how engrossed he actually is in the movie thatâs playing and it makes you feel silly. jaemin has never made you do anything you didnât want to do and not once has he ever crossed a line. you really needed to get your head out of the gutter.
âwhy are you sitting all the way over there? this bed is big enough for both of us you know,â you say, capturing his attention, reminding him of the fact that this bed is a queen sized bed.
he sends you a soft smile, âiâm a gentleman, angelâ
âoh please,â you scoff playfully, âweâre both adults, we can control ourselves,â you point out, completely contradicting your thoughts and burying yourself in a bigger hole. itâs not that you were trying to provoke him, itâs just that he was the one who paid for the room and you would feel absolutely awful if he had to squeeze himself in the chair, that was obviously too small and uncomfortable, the whole night.
you pat the empty space beside you, âcâmon, i wonât bite,â you playfully tease.
unbeknownst to you, jaemin was in a way tougher spot.
he accidentally caught a glimpse of your pink lacy underwear, the one you left behind in the shower, tucked in between the rest of your clothes, and couldnât get the image of you in a matching set out of his head. then his mind started to get a little out of control, if your underwear were here then that must only mean you were completely naked underneath that white robe.
he had to relieve himself in the shower, hand wrapped tightly around his hard cock, biting back his moans as his mind brought him to images of you. he thought jerking himself off in the bathroom would help push away all his desire for the rest of the night but as soon as he stepped into your room and saw how small you looked, tucked into the queen sized bed, he felt his cock twitch under his robe again. which is why he had to resort to turning off all the lights in the room, afraid you would see his boner poking out. then he sat there, focused on harry potter, as he tried to drown out your presence.
but now, youâre inviting him to take up the space next to you and god, you have absolutely no clue what youâre doing to him, itâs unfair. he feels disgusted at the fact that all he could think about is how much he wants to fuck you.
he really needed to get his mind out of the gutter.
slowly, he got up. surely this would not help his case but he didnât want you to think he was a horndog that couldnât control himself. he usually was better at this. it was just the fact that it was you and he wants you so bad. needs you. all those lingering touches and kisses finally catching up to him.
he focuses again on the screen ahead, the t.v. illuminating the dark room, light bouncing off of your faces as you sat in silence, just watching the movie play out. though if you asked him what just happened in the scene, he wouldnât be able to tell you. his mind racing with anything that could help soften his dick.
at one point it got way too hot beneath the sheets and you made the mistake of releasing your arm out from the under and onto the bed, right next to where jaeminâs arm was lying. you try to ignore the heat radiating off of his body, try to ignore the rapid rhythm of your heart. pulling away would be suspicious so you kept it there.
jaeminâs eyes flicker from the t.v. to your hand. you were so close, all he had to do was move his pinky and his hand would be in yours.
his self-control was becoming thinner with every second that passed and before he even realized what he was doing, his pinky moved â bumping into yours and in the next second he had your hands locked together.
he turns his head towards you only to see you were already looking up at him, starry eyes locked on his for a second before you quickly turned away, blush creeping up your cheeks at being caught.
he canât help himself anymore, moving away from the headboard and lowering himself down to the pillows as he turned his body in your direction. this time, when he turned to look at you, you were only a couple of inches away from him.
âangel,â he whispers. you cautiously turned your head towards his, knowing that there was absolutely no going back from this. the tension in the room has got you clenching at nothing and you were getting sick of it. you wanted him and youâre not entirely sure why you were holding back, considering the confessions you shared earlier.
jaemin takes a second to study your face, memorizing every freckle before he let his eyes finally dart down to your parted lips, âi really want to kiss you,â he confesses into the night air, like it was a secret no one else was allowed to hear.
âi thought i told you if you wanted to kiss me you donât even need to ask,â you quietly tease and that was all jaemin needed to hear before giving in to the cravings of the night, harry potter long forgotten as he finally pressed his lips on yours.
he kisses you once, twice, three times before his tongue darts in begging for permission. your mouth immediately parting as you gave him access, tongues moving in melody.
the make out session grew heavier and heavier, fingers finding their way through his hair, lightly tugging, eliciting a messy whine from him, his moans sending tingles throughout your body. âfuck, y/n, i need you,â he groans against your lips and you couldnât agree more.
you wanted his hands all over you, regretting how tightly you tucked yourself into the blankets. swiftly, and with jaeminâs help, you pushed the blanket off of you, never once breaking the kiss, leaving both of you in your robes. the lack of the heavy covers made it easier for your hands to roam, wandering down to his chests as jaemins hand settled on your back, a little bit above your ass, pulling you so close you could feel his bulge against your clothed core.
âtake this off,â he demands, untying your robe and pushing it off of your shoulders, jaemin quickly tossing it somewhere across the room before hovering over you.
he takes a moment, taking you all in for the first time, practically drooling at the sight of you, youâre so beautiful to him. itâs as if an actual angel was right in front of him and the thought of him ruining you makes his cock twitch. he didnât even know he could get this hard.
âjaemin, please do something,â you say, starting to feel insecure under his gaze. your small voice snaps him out of his daydream. âyouâre so fucking beautiful,â he praises before his lips latched onto your nipple, sucking, licking, making your back arch towards him, moans slipping past your lips, other hand playing with the other bud, twisting, pinching and you feel like you could cum just from that.
âf-fuck jaemin, want you please,â you sigh in pleasure, hips bucking up in response to his actions.
âwhat do you want, angel?,â he asks, teasing you and it takes every ounce in you not to pounce on him.
âi want you to touch me, p-please,â you donât even care how desperate you sounded right now.
âi am touching you, angel,â he was loving this way too much. the way you were unraveling underneath him and he hasnât even touched the neediest part of your body.
âlower,â you plead, earning a smirk from him, âhmm, right here?,â he asks, his hand, wandering down to outline the curve of your waist and landing on your hip, rubbing soft circles around your love handles. you donât know how much more teasing you could take, your pussy dripping with arousal, âlower, please,â you cry out, âtell me where, angel, want to hear it from you,â he grunts against your ear, leaving marks all over your neck, âi want your fingers inside of me, please,â you plead for the third time.
âanything my angel wants, she gets,â jaemin playfully whispers before his fingers found its way to your folds, rubbing up and down, âso wet already, all this for me huh,â he praises, your head nodding vigorously in response, âonly for you, jaemin.â
happy with your response, his finger slides into you, finally giving you what you wanted. even with your pooling arousal, you were still so tight around his digit, making him curse. he curls his finger, immediately hitting that spot that made you see stars, eliciting a high pitched moan from you, pussy clenching even tighter.
âfuuck angel, im gonna need you to open up for me,â he slides another finger in, curling and scissoring againsts your walls, pleasure coursing through your veins, he was so so good.
âi need to taste you,â he warns before he was diving into your pussy, mouth sucking and blowing against your clit, lapping up your juices, catching your breath, âholy fuck, jaemin,â your stomach clenches, heat traveling all throughout your body as you feel your orgasm coming to a close embarrassingly soon.
âi-m gonna come, baby,â the new pet name drives jaemin absolutely crazy, fingers practically moving at a speed of light inside your walls as he continued to suck on your clit, âgo ahead angel, come for me,â he moans against your pussy, the added vibrations rolling your eyes back as you lost the ability to moan, head falling backwards, mouth wide open as you came.
jaemin coaxes you through it, savoring every drop before his lips were back on yours, pulling you back down to reality as you taste yourself in his tongue.
âyou okay?,â you hum in approval, a smile taking over your features as you kiss him back, hands quickly untying his robe. jaemin quickly responds, pushing the last piece of clothing away, cock springing free.
in one swift motion, you push him back down to the pillows, taking the lead as you straddled him, âyour turn,â you whisper, a light shock appearing on the boyâs face before he settled into the bed, getting comfortable. one of his hands coming up to support the back of his head as he watched you, the other roaming all over your skin, a smirk displayed on his lips.
you were fucking nervous, youâve never been this upfront in the bedroom but due to how much experience he had, you wanted to show him that you could keep up.
âwant to make you feel good,â you whisper in his ear, making him shiver, he swears you were going to be the death of him. your lips found its way to his neck, decorating him with the same pinks and purples youâre sure he has left all over your body.
jaemin was very vocal, already whining under your touch, helping you completely push away any of the remaining worries you had. your fingers found itâs way around his nipples, lightly squeezing and you realized how sensitive he was as he squirmed below you, hips immediately thrusting up, âfuck, angel youâre gonna kill me,â he whines and you canât help but let out a soft giggle as you travelled lower and lower, hand softly wrapping around his hard length, earning a breathily groan from him. you understood now why your body really needed to open up. heâs huge and you were definitely intimidated.
you start by kitten licking his tip making jaemin hold his breath as you stare up at him, his eyes completely blown out. you can tell how much restraint heâs trying to hold on to to not shove his cock down your throat. you donât tease him for too long before finally taking his length in your mouth, sucking on his tip, jaeminâs groans immediately increasing as his hand found its way to your hair, gripping tightly, orgasm already creeping up.
you bobbed your head up and down, tears brimming in your eyes at his size. he has no idea what youâre doing to him, how you managed to have him coming undone in seconds, body shaking under your touch. no girl has made him cum this fast before, âfuck angel, i canât last,â he manages to mumble in between heavy pants. the words encouraging you as your hand finds its way around his balls, gently cupping.
you barely touched him before he was toppling over, cum shooting down your throat with no warning, making you choke.
your hand continued to work him through his orgasm as you cleared your throat. jaemin had to practically push you away, âangel, please stop, i need to feel you,â he groans, pulling you back up to his lips and kissing you passionately.
carefully, he switches the position, having you under him once again. he reaches out for his wallet placed on the nightstand, taking the pack of condom and ripping it open with his teeth before placing it on his already semi hard cock, âgod, look what you do to me,â he grunts.
your hand rubs up and down his thighs as you watch him swipe his length between your wet folds, the tension in your stomach building up once again.
he wraps your legs around him, kissing you slowly, so intimately, âi really fucking like you, y/n,â he admits for the second time that day, sending you what has now became your favorite smile.
âi really like you too, jaemin,â you reply, pulling him closer as he aligns his cock against your entrance.
jaemin wasnât a fan of missionary but god, youâre so fucking beautiful, he wanted nothing more but to look at you when he entered, watching your face contort as you adjust to the size of his large cock, harmonized moans mixing in the air.
for the first time, he finally understood all the sentiments his friends in relationships would say â this feeling was so different from the regular hook ups. the passion, the intimacy of it all. you were so dangerous to him and yet he was obsessed with the way you have him wrapped around your finger.
he loves the way your eyebrows furrowed in between pleasure and pain as he bottomed in, your walls finally hugging the size of his cock, sucking him in deeper and deeper. the way your lips fell into moans once he started thrusting in and out of you. your eyes shutting as he increased the pace, faster and deeper and always hitting that spot that got your head rolling back, toes curling. the way you gripped his back as he rubbed harsh circles around your clit, sending you to overdrive. the way your body went completely limp against the pillows, face in complete bliss as your walls tightened around him, sucking him in. his abs clenching in response, a guttural moan from his throat escaping, reaching a high heâs never felt before as he burrowed his face into your neck to control his shaking body.
you enjoyed the feeling of his skin against yours, reveling in your shared orgasms. staying that way for a minute or two, his body heavy against yours before he snuck in a gentle kiss to your lips.
you hiss as he pulled out, already feeling empty without him. he fucked you so good that all you wanted to do was slip into the peaceful darkness, sleep begging to take over.
the distant hum from the t.v. continues, playing the credits, as the rain pounded on the windows filling your ears. you feel the bed dip beside you as he moved around, feel the soft cloth against your pussy, wiping away your arousal, feel him take the spot next to you once again, shutting off the t.v and pulling you close to his chest.
âgoodnight, angel,â he whispers, gently draping the blanket over your bodies, before placing a soft kiss on your temple and finally letting sleep consume you.
jaemin wakes up the next morning, your figure right next to him. it was strange, waking up to a person but he liked it â liked that it was you.
the sunrise peeks through the curtains as the memory from last night vividly replays in his head. he softly pushes away the layers of hair that have covered your face, taking in your angelic appearance as your chest rises and fall to a steady rhythm, sleep still hugging you.
he starts tracing the outline of your cheekbones, fingers softly grazing the curve of your nose, down to your lips. he takes in every detail, taking a mental screenshot.
your eyes flutter open at his light touches, âtake a picture, itâll last longer,â you tease which you figured was the wrong thing to say to a photographer as soon as the words lef your mouth, jaemin wasting no time to reach for his phone and snapping a shot.
âoh my god! i was kidding, i look like a mess,â you scream playfully, bringing the blanket over your head and covering your face in embarrassment, earning a laugh from the boy beside you.
he tugs the blanket off of your face, âyou look even more beautiful in the morning, angel,â he compliments, making you blush.
the rest of the morning was spent well â shared selfies, slow kisses, lazy sex, touches lingering all over your skin, an innocent shower with millions of stolen kisses, laughter and more stories.
everything truly felt like a dream, like you were sitting on a cloud occupied by only two. hands never leaving the otherâs as jaemin drove back to seoul, the car ride filled with sweet nothings.
đ˛đ˘
jaemin was worried sick. itâs been two days and you havenât reached out to him. his texts being left on delivered. fear was starting to creep up on him in the form of doubts and mistrust. he thought maybe you were exactly like the rest and you did only want him for sex and now that itâs done, you were also gone and he was nothing but a fool being hit by his own karma.
he realizes now that heâs too deep into this, that itâs too late now to take it all back. too late now to make sure you canât hurt him. heâs never given anyone this much control over him and he was absolutely losing it.
his phone dings and he scrambles to pick it up, hoping that this time it was you on the other end. his prayers being answered when your name pops up, letting out a sigh of relief.
my angel: jaemin iâm sorryâŚ
his heart races in his chest, not entirely sure what you were apologizing about. he watches as the three dots appear on the screen, an indication that you were still typing.
my angel: iâm sick :(
my angel: i think the rain finally caught up with me
he reads the message, feeling absolutely awful and guilty that his mind could even taint your image like that. that he could even let doubts fill his head.
all he wanted to do now was take care of you.
on the other side, you were really regretting staying out in the rain for so long as you sat in your bed rotting, body burning up, head hurting, nose red, throat dry. itâs been two days since you last saw jaemin and you missed himâŚa lot. but you didnât want him to catch your virus so now youâre here, hanging on by a thread as he spammed your inbox with messages filled with tips on how to get over a cold quickly.
the next morning, after asking around, jaemin finds himself knocking on your dorm roomâs door, a bag containing hot soup and medicine in hand.
he couldnât stand the thought of doing nothing so here he is, ready to be your nurse for the day and cure you back to health.
the door swings wide open only to reveal a familiar face, âjaemin?,â the girl with long black hair asks, head turned like a curious puppy.
âuhmm,â he mutters, quickly racking his brain for information, searching for a name he definitely knew. he remembers her face, remembers the fact that they shared a night together but he canât quite pinpoint who she is exactly.
for a second, he thinks heâs in the wrong room, until her voice breaks him out of his thoughts, âare you looking for y/n?,â she asks.
he nods in response as she gestured to the door across the room, âsheâs in there,â she said before stepping aside, letting him in and quietly shutting the door behind him as she hurries into her own room.
jaemin stands there, bewildered, if she was your roommate, who heâs sure he definitely knew, then surely you must have known who he was when the two of you first met. surely, youâd heard about his reputation. so why did you say you didnât know him?
the sound of a cough coming from behind your door snaps him back into place. when doubt clouded his mind yesterday, he turned out to be terribly wrong. pushing the confusion aside, he steadies himself and gently knocks on your door.
âgiselle, donât come in, iâll get you sick,â you respond, the raspiness of your voice evident.
your roommates name echoes in his ear as he finally unlocked the memory of who she was â the girl who told him she loved him. the girl he said the words back toâŚon accident.
he quickly pushes the memory away, turning the door knob as he finally makes his way inside your room, eyes scanning the space. he notices the various trinkets scattered on shelves, paintings and posters adorning the walls, books stacked in neat chaos, brushes cluttered on your desk.
âjaemin?,â you manage to croak out, eye squinting at the bright light coming from the living room. youâve been pent up in the dark for too long, the only light coming from the small lamp on your desk. your hair sticks up in every direction and you had absolutely no color on your face. you look like a total mess. but somehow, seeing you like that only makes his heart skip a beat.
god, he was down bad.
âhey angel, i brought you some chicken noodle soup, itâll help you feel better,â he says softly, completely forgetting the thought of giselle as he sat on the edge of your bed, taking out the bowl he had prepared.
âjaemin, iâm gonna get you sick,â you pout, hiding under the covers to try and contain your virus, earning a soft chuckle from the boy, âangel, iâm pretty sure youâve already contaminated the air in this room,â he points out, playfully poking your side until you came out from underneath.
âyou donât even have a humidifier,â he teases, reaching over to smooth down your messy hair before bringing the spoon filled with the hot soup to your lips. you let out a resigned sigh, rolling your eyes, but a smile tugs at the corners of your mouth as you give in.
he spends the rest of the evening taking care of you, checking your temperature, making sure you take the proper medicine. his quiet care speaking louder than any words could.
carefully, he tucks you both in, ignoring your sleepy protests about him catching your cold as he wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you close, your head resting against his chest. it's warm, safe, and comfortable. so comforting that the next minute, sleep takes you, carried off by the side effects of the medicine and the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.
đ˛đ˘
the sound of clutter jolts you back to reality, waking you up from your slumber. blinking slowly, you spot jaeminâs figure hunched over, quietly gathering the things he must have knocked over, âyou okay?,â you groggily question, rubbing the sleep away.
âsorry angel, i accidentally bumped into your desk, iâll clean it up, donât worry,â he says softly, already rearranging your things back into place.
but then you see it â a little too late. your stomach drops, everything inside you stills. instantly you knew your world was about to crumble down, âwait, jaeminââ you call out, urgency creeping into your voice, but he was focused on the task at hand.
jaemin picks up the fallen journal, a photo slipping out from between the pages.
it takes him a second to process that the person in the photo was his own reflection but once he did, everything shifts â there he is, staring back at himself, the mr. cupid sign right behind him.
a wave of realization crashes over him, bringing all his doubts to the surface, âwhy do you have this?,â he demands, turning around to face you, the photo gripped tightly in his hand.
the guilty expression on your face was enough to shatter any remaining illusions â he knows heâs been playing the fool. he shouldâve known that this was too good to be true.
in a flash, jaemin flips through your journal, looking for answers, âjaemin, donât!,â you get up, ignoring the way your vision momentarily blurs, threatening to pull you under. but you were too late. jaemin has stumbled across your four step plan.
âthe downfall of na jaemin. step one - introduce yourself. step two - make him fall in love with you. step three and four - break his heart and reveal to the whole world that their beloved mr. cupid is a phony,â jaemin reads out loud, his entire figure rigid as he connects all of the clues, his mind replaying every memory like it was some sort of cruel punishment crafted just for him.
âyou didnât think iâd actually tell mr. cupid my real name did you? it would be so embarrassing for me,â
dear mr. cupid, i'm going to my first party ever! how can i make sure i catch the attention of the person i like? love, heart / ânot much of a party goer are you?,â earning a soft nod from you, âitâs my first partyâ you confess.
the way you walked out that saturday morning he brought you his hangover cure, ditching the pink outfits because you knew he wasnât going to be around.
renjun voicing out his suspicious concerns and telling him to be careful.
the door opening to giselle, a girl he had sex with at a random party. the same girl that was standing just outside your bedroom door â your roommate.
every single moment, every confession, every word that he believed to be true led to this â your four step plan, cold and calculated, had no other intention but to hurt him.
every ounce of trust heâd placed in you, every bit of affection, it was all nothing but a step forward.
every time he was being honest, you only showed him what he wanted to see.
he didnât know the person in front of him. all he knows now is that this is all a lie.
âjaemin, please let me explain,â you plead, voice shaking as you fight back the tears that were daring to escape, taking a cautious step towards him, unsure if heâll let you get any closer.
he meets your gaze, pain and betrayal flashing all over his features â raw, gutting, all-consuming and gone in a second.
his face goes stone cold, âthereâs nothing to explain,â he says, each word cutting clean, final.
âhave fun with step four, y/n,â he mutters, voice deep with frustration before tossing your journal and the now crumpled photo to the ground. without another word, he storms out of your room, angrily slamming the door behind him, your heart dropping.
you rush after him, voice breaking as you cry out, âjaemin, please,â you grab his hand, desperation flooding your every movement, holding on tight, trying to make him stay, âitâs not what it looks like, please,â at this point you donât stop the tears from flowing. you donât care anymore. you just canât let him walk out the door.
the loud ruckus catches your best friendâs attention. giselle quick to join you in the living room, eyes wide with concern, âwhat happened? is everyone okay?,â she asks, frantically looking between your broken expression and jaeminâs seething anger.
her presence was enough to pull your focus away, jaemin taking the opportunity to yank his hand out of your grip and finally making his way out.
you tried to follow him out but before you could take another step, your body finally gave up on you and you came crashing down the living room floor.
jaemin hears the sickening thud of your fall and giselleâs frantic shout of your name. for a brief moment, he hesitates, just long enough to almost turn back and check if youâre okayâŚbut he doesn't.
blinded by rage, jaemin stormed into the fraternity house and without a second thought, his fist crashed through the living room wall, no longer able to contain his anger. he was seeing red.
âdude! what the fuck?!,â chenle yells, everyone turning their heads in surprise. but what shocked them the most was the next scene â watching their friend drop to the floor, quiet sobs escaping his lips as he burrowed his face into his hands.
jeno was up in no time, making his way over, âwhat happened?,â he asks, checking his friend for any injuries.
âyou were right, renjun,â jaemin choked out between his broken sobs, feeling absolutely defeated.
the room fell silent as everyone turned to face renjun, wanting for an explanation, ây/n, isnât who she says she is,â jaemin muttered, wiping tears that refused to stop. he felt pathetic â so this is what heartbreak felt like.
he wouldnât wish it on anyone, not even on his worst enemies.
âwhoâs y/n?,â renjun looks around, confused, earning a light punch from donghyuck, âangel, dude,â he whispers under his breath like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
renjun pieced it all together in an instant. he knew you looked familiar, he just didnât know you were that familiar, that you were the same girl who sat behind him in art class â you disguised yourself so well, you fooled even him.
he watched his broken friend on the ground, jaeminâs figure slumped against the wall heâd struck moments earlier, lips trembling, tear-streaked face buried in his hands.
đ˛đ˘
ârenjun, please just let me talk to him,â you ask for the umpteenth time. itâs been three days since your fight with jaemin and in those three days, his friends have done everything in their power to keep you away, rightfully so.
when you showed up to the fraternity house, ready to explain your side and apologize, haechan immediately shut you down, slamming the door in your face.
when you saw him in the universityâs cafeteria the next day, jeno was right next to him in an instant, pulling him away before he could even see you.
every single message you sent him was left on delivered, every call going straight to voicemail. you were desperate to reach him and renjun was your only access. he couldnât exactly ditch class to avoid you.
renjun rolls his eyes, scoffing, âagain, the answer is no, angel,â he says sarcastically, the nickname dripping with venom, his tone laced with disgust.
you wince, desperation creeping into your voice, âi just need to explain and i promise i wonât ever show my face again.â your eyes are full of conviction, pleading for a chance to right your wrongs.
he sighs. truth is, him and the boys have no idea why jaemin was so upset, only telling them that you lied to him about who you truly were but what does that even mean?
after mulling it over he finally says, âhis showcase is on friday at the universityâs gallery, 3 p.m., he has to be there for his project which iâm sure you know all about,â he pauses, âyou can talk to him there if he wants to but all the boys are gonna be there too,â he warns.
renjun and the boys practically hated your guts but they also know how important youâve become to their friend, otherwise he wouldnât be sat at home, moping around, watching rom-coms as a form of self destruction, muttering âlove is a lie,â every time the two characters get together in the end.
âthank you,â you nod in understanding, your gratitude mixed with a quiet tension.
âletâs get something straight y/n,â he says, his tone hardening as he starts to walk away, âiâm not doing this for you.â
with that, he leaves you standing at your station, the weight of his words sinking in.
đ˛đ˘
the university's art gallery buzzed with life, lined wall-to-wall with projects from various photography majors. you hadnât expected such a crowd, the room filled with chatter and laughter as the bright lights illuminated the spacious room.
you take your time, making your way around, palms clammy and heart pounding as you move through the room, quietly practicing the speech you've prepared for days. gone were the sparkly pink outfits and the persona that came with it. replaced by just jeans and a plain t-shirt. you continued weaving through the art gallery, the panels shifting from artist to artist, until you finally reached his.
jaeminâs name stood boldly against the wall, his project titled, âstupid cupid.â
your breath caught as your eyes dropped to the description beneath it:
âlove in the movies feels effortless and looks beautiful but all those picture-perfect moments turn out to be nothing more than echoes of a love that was never real to begin with.â
the wordâs, achingly beautiful in their bitterness, struck like an arrow piercing your heart. you scanned the pictures on the wall, trying to contain your emotions.
each image held a memory, fragile and glowing â the moment in the cafe, the boombox in your hand, the kiss in the rain, now looping endlessly in video, truly playing like a haunting echo of what once was.
you stood frozen, emotions tightening in your throat, eyes brimming with tears as you wanted nothing more than to step into that scene and live in the moment just a little longer.
you wipe the tears from your cheeks, steadying yourself. you had an apology due, you couldnât let another day pass without telling him everything you wanted to say. this was possibly your only moment and you werenât going to let it slip away.
your eyes searched the crowded room, until they landed on him.
jaemin stands a little further back, deep in conversation. you recognize mark and jeno right next to him along with some girls from campus who were obviously flirting with him, one of the girls laughing a little too loudly and you almost scoff.
taking a deep breath, you force your feet to move, making your way through the crowd, heart pounding.
mark notices you first, eyes widening for a split second as he immediately grabs jaeminâs wrist, steering him further away from you, âhey winter! have you met my friend, jaemin?,â mark calls out, his voice ringing loud and clear, every word sharp and intentional.
jaemin looks at him suspiciously before greeting the new girl in front of him. you catch the subtle glance of the previous girls lingering behind, clearly disappointed that he walked away.
you cursed under your breath, frustration mounting, they really wonât make this easy for you.
âwhat are you doing here?,â a voice to your right captures your attention.
âdonghyuck!,â you quietly exclaim in surprise, a hand to your heart.
âhaechan,â he corrects immediately, âso whatâs the angel in disguise doing here?â he laughs like he just said the funniest joke, âgod thatâs a good one, gotta tell the boys about that,â he snickers to himself, completely lost in his own amusement.
every conversation with him felt like some weird episode you didnât sign up for. you still couldn't figure out how he managed to charm everyone. his mocking tone was grating, but deep down, you knew youâd earned it.
âiâm just here to apologize,â you sigh, too tired for an argument.
âhuh, youâd think youâd get the hint after all the text messages and calls jaemin ignored,â he says, voice dripping with malicious amusement, âdonât flatter yourself too much, y/n, youâre not special, this is just what he does, you were just another girl who fell for it,â he taunts, his words sharp like a dagger before he walked away, leaving you in your thoughts.
theyâve been trying to stop you from reaching him and youâve had enough. all you wanted was to have a chance to fix things. so you abandoned the careful apology youâd been rehearsing and did the one thing you hadnât planned.
you called out his name.
your voice rang out, echoing through the large room as the chatter slowly diminished. one by one, every head turned in your direction, but you only saw him.
jaemin's eyes locked with yours and for a split second, something softened in his eyes. then, just as quickly, the wall was back up and that cold, unreadable mask slipped right back into place.
you ignore the hush whispers around you, even the one that cut through clear as day, âwaitâŚsheâs the girl from his photos..,â as you slowly walk towards him.
jaemin doesnât utter a single sound, doesnât make an effort to move away, he just watches as you approach, silent and unmoving, until you were standing just a few feet away.
âhiâ, you begin, your voice barely above a whisper. you ignore haechanâs mocking chuckle, as he now stood next to jaemin.
âim sorry!,â you blurted out, not wasting another second. jaemin doesnât flinch, doesnât react, only looking at you like youâre a stranger.
âalright, you said it, you can go now, weâre a bit busy,â jeno cuts in, sharp and dismissive, a devilish smirk on his face as he spoke for his friend. the audience snickers in the backgroundâŚbut you werenât finished.
âiâm sorry i lied to you,â you say a little more composed this time, standing your ground.
a shaky breath escapes you as the words youâve been dying to tell him tumble out.
âi hate iced americanos, i hate the color pink and i definitely hated youâŚat first,â your voice cracks slightly, but you push through it, eyes locked on his.
you donât care about the stares or the whispers or the way you knew this moment will be dissected by everyone watching â none of it matters, only him.
âand i know, i know everything must feel like a lie now. i wouldnât blame you if you never believed another word i said,â you laugh bitterly, pushing away the ache in your chest.
âi only did it because i thought it was the right thing to do, i thought you deserved it for leading so many girls onâŚitâs stupid, i know,â your gaze softens, slightly shaking your head as your voice drops to a fragile murmur, regret and embarrassment written all over your face.
you look up at him once again, his expression still as hard as stone but it doesnât stop you from saying your next words.
ââbut i also know that iâm in love with you,â you quietly confess, the words rolling off your lips for the first time, hanging in the air â honest, bare, terrifying but all so right.
you notice the flicker of something behind his eyes that betrays the coldness in his expression. something almost soft. but itâs gone as soon as it came.
âiâm in love with you,â you repeat, hoping.
âand i'm sorry that we started out this way but this is me, the real me,â you continue, voice shaking as you ignore the lump forming in your throat.
âi prefer iced matcha over iced americanos, my favorite color is white and i have completely, stupidly fallen for you,â you finish your speech, letting the last words hang there, raw and unguarded. thereâs nothing left to hide behind, no more reason to pretend.
this is your truth.
the room is silent â so silent that it felt suffocating. not a single person dared to speak, no one even moved, everyone holding their breaths with you, waiting for somethingâŚanything.
finally, jaemin takes a step forward, each step he took was slow, deliberate. his expression unreadable, eyes still cold, and you canât tell if heâs angry, hurt or just tired of it all.
he stops in front of you, close enough that you can see the way his jaw clenches.
âwell, angel,â he say, voice low and quiet but cutting all the same, the nickname sounds nothing like it used to â no warmth, no teasing. just ice.
âthis was fun,â he snickers, a cruel smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, one that doesnât reach his eyes.
it wasnât the smile in his photos â it wasnât the smile you fell in love with.
â-but that was all it ever was,â he continues and you feel like someone has just punched you in the gut.
âthank you for letting me use you for my project,â he adds, his tone light, casual, like itâs just another throwaway line in a script heâs already performed before.
âbut you, of all people, should knowâ,â he leans in just a little, voice dropping, and for a second his warmth consumes you until his words turn everything cold, â-i never fall in love.â
his friends start chuckling at the back, the crowd joining in. otherâs looked at you with pity having fallen for the boy in front of you but you didn't pay attention to them. you donât even look at them. youâre still staring at him and you donât buy a single word.
not with the way his hands are clenched at his sides. not with how his voice trembled, just barely, when he said never.
heâs lying. protecting himself the only way he knows how â by pretending not to care. trying to convince himself more than you but even knowing that doesnât dull the sting. tears prick at the corners of your eyes, blurring the sharp lines of his face as you blink them back, forcing yourself to stay composed.
you nod once. small. almost imperceptible. a silent acknowledgment. not of belief but of acceptance.
then, carefully, you pull out the white envelope tucked in your back pocket, âthis belongs to you,â you say, voice soft, barely hanging on. you hold it out to him and then you turn.
you donât look back, running out of the gallery â out of the stares, out of the suffocating stillness that had begun to close in on you.
your vision blurs completely now, hot tears streaming freely down your face. you canât breathe. youâre not sure if you even want to.
jaemin watches you retreat. he doesnât call out, doesn't make an effort to stop you. he just watches.
only when you were finally out of his sight, he felt it â that sharp swell in his lungs, the ache in his chest unraveling into something hollow and brutal.
he thought it would feel satisfying to hurt you the way you hurt him. he thought having the last word would fix the damages of his broken ego and piece back the heart you shattered. but as you left he realized that parts of it were still in your hands.
the crowd begins to break apart, quiet murmurs replacing the earlier hush. now that the showâs over, their entertainment has ended and one by one, they leave, continuing on with their day, until heâs standing there alone, the envelope in his hands.
he opens it slowly, like heâs afraid of whatâs inside, even though some part of him already knows.
and there it is. the photo. the one you stole from his room. the one in your four step plan. his secret.
for a split second, all he can feel is the surge of anger and betrayal, remembering everything that has happened in the past two weeks. his heart pounds in his chest, a sharp sting of violation threatening to overwhelm him.
but then, something shifts.
he looks at the photo again and it hits him â youâre giving it back to him. youâre not using it. youâre not following through with your plan to expose him. you had returned the evidence with no strings attached. you were telling him the truth.
the confessions you made, your voice trembling with sincerity, resonating in his mind.
renjun snaps him back to reality, the rest of the boys next to him, âhey, you okay?â he asks his friend, tone sharp with concern.
he forces a half-hearted laugh, voice laced with self-deprecation. âi feel like absolute shit,â he quickly tucks the envelope in his pocket, hiding it away from prying eyes, mind still reeling.
âwell, i know just the cure for that,â haechan teases, slinging an arm around his neck. âa pretty girl and some drinks,â he continues, his voice is playful, trying to pull jaemin back to the surface and heâs grateful for the distraction.
âyeah, come on,â mark chimes in, grinning. âwe gotta celebrate your galleryâs success!...party at the dream fraternity tonight!â he calls out, his enthusiasm infectious as cheers erupt from the crowd, a wave of excitement sweeping through the room.
jaemin feels disconnected from it all, but he canât ignore the energy around him. he shakes his head, finally allowing himself to breathe. maybe theyâre right. maybe a party is exactly what he needs. maybe he can continue to pretend that this doesnât hurt him until it finally doesnât.
đ˛đ˘
jaemin canât get it up.
âi thought you were supposed to be good at this?,â the pretty girl from the gallery comments, making him sigh in frustration.
âjust give me a second,â he grunts, furiously pumping his cock up and down, hoping a miracle would happen. this has never happened to him before and heâs beginning to get really worried.
âyou said that five seconds ago,â she cuts in, looking at him with those judgmental eyes, like he doesnât fucking know he said that five seconds ago. the urge to run to the doctorâs getting stronger with every second.
âyou know what? just get out,â jaemin says annoyed, tossing her clothes back to her as he made his way to his bathroom, not caring at all about the girl sitting on his bed. he hears the girl scoff, followed by shuffling and a, âthanks for absolutely nothing!,â before his door slammed shut.
jaemin rolls his eyes, hopping in the shower, the lingering touches she left behind felt sticky and gross on his skin. he knew she wasnât going to tell anyone, knowing her reputation was also on the line and he didnât even feel bad. the girl shouldâve known he wasnât in the right mind for some ego boosting. or maybe she shouldâve tried harder for him.
yikes. maybe he did deserve the heartbreak you served him with.
as he stood there, under the hot shower, his intoxicated mind canât help but wander back to you and the time youâve spent together.
he canât help but remember that morning of your first night together, the innocent shower you took together as he admired your body â thoughts of your scent consuming him, the way your lips left trails of kisses, soft skin against his.
then he feels it, his cock hardening.
all it took was the memory of you, âyouâve got to be fucking kidding me,â he scolds his dick.
âreally?, a pretty girl on your bed and absolutely nothing from you and just one thought of her and youâre up,â he talks to his member, feeling absolutely crazy before his hand got to work â mind flashing with scenes of you and only you.
hopping out of the shower, jaemin feels a little more refreshed, his mind clearer than it was a few shots of alcohol ago. the party outside his bedroom door has now died down.
he picks his clothes up from the ground, ready to toss it into his hamper, when the envelope peaks out, reminding him of the picture.
he takes it out again, staring into his own image, the slight crumple on the top left marks the photograph, evidence of his anger. he sighs as sadness takes over once again.
flipping the image, he sees your handwriting, words that you have left behind just for him. words that has signified the mark you left on his life.
dear jaemin,
thank you for showing me this side of you. im sorry.
love,
y/n, angel, heart
it was your last confession and right away he knew what he had to do.
đ˛đ˘
âhi my lovely listeners, itâs mr. cupid here on a surprise live session, i couldnât prolong this any longer,â jaeminâs voice filters through the mic, softer than usual.
he pauses, a shaky breath pulled in as he braces himself for the inevitable, âi havenât been completely honest with you.â
thereâs a beat of silence and then, âi have been keeping a secret and lately iâve realized how much secretâs hurt.â
âso today, im finally telling you who i am,â jaemin continues, fingers tightening slightly around the mic stand as he braced himself.
âi am mr. cupid, your #1 go to for all things love and heartbreak but i am also third year, photography major, member of the dream fraternity,â he takes a quick pause, finding his courage, âmy name is na jaemin,â he finally confesses into the microphone.
the words land like a stone thrown into still water, rippling through the space between him and the hundreds of people listening.
his inbox immediately lights up, emails flooding in. he could already see the previews. lots of surprised listeners, lots of angry listeners.
his phone quietly flickers by his side, messages from the boys swarming his screen as the group chat blows up â all of them shocked and confused.
he would have to deal with all of that later.
âi want to take this moment and apologize,â he continued, voice soft but firm, âto every girl iâve hurt, every person i made feel disposableâŚiâm sorry. i wish i could remember all your names but the truth is, part of me was that player, part of me liked being that player,â he sighs in embarrassment, the weight of it all sinking in.
ââand iâm sorry for hiding behind this persona, for pretending i had it all figured out while calling out the very things i also did,â he continues, a bittersweet feeling rising in his chest.
he took care of this radio show, he wouldnât have climbed the #1 spot if he didnât. but every truth must be revealed someday.
ââi need you to know, i meant every word iâve ever said on here. the advice, the stories, the moments where i told you to believe in love even when it hurtsâŚthat was all real. i was just too much of a coward in real life to admit that i wanted that too,â he continues, feeling lighter with every word.
âthereâs a girl i met recently,â a nervous chuckle slips from his lips as he runs a hand through his hair, gaze unfocused, lost somewhere far beyond the studio walls.
âshe knew who i was, from the very beginningâ he rambles, âshe had this four step plan to make me fall in love with herâŚthe last step of her plan was to expose me but she never followed through with it,â a quiet moment passes.
âsomewhere along the way, she fell for me anywayâŚthe player, the romantic, the scared, complicated mess,â he shakes his head, a halfhearted smile tugging at his lips.
âi always thought that i had to be one or the other, turns out i was just waiting for her to freely be who i truly am,â a heavy sigh leaves him, full of everything heâs carried alone until now. his thoughts catching up to him.
ââand i really need to follow my own advice and get her back,â the words left him in a rush as he finally reached his own conclusion.
love was a strong word and unfortunately it took him a while to accept that this is what it was and it was all he wanted.
without another word, he abruptly ends the session. running out of the studio, finally seeing things clearly.
he runs, lungs burning, heart pounding. he ignores the students who were still outside this late hour, calling out his name, calling out mr. cupid, until he finally reaches your building, sweat forming around his forehead, as he tries to catch his breath.
he knocks on your door, practically pounding on it, adrenaline rushing through his veins, nerves and excitement coursing through him at the thought of seeing you again only to be met with none other than your roommate.
âoh, if it isnât mr. cupid,â giselle greets him, voice laced with mockery, her expression twisted with subtle disdain.
âyou know i was wondering why y/n was so adamant on getting revenge, i thought it was just because of what you did to me, turns out youâre not just a huge player youâre also a pro liar,â giselle continues, a pointed look on her faced, eyebrows furrows, lips pointed.
âpretending to be mr. sweet angelic guy just to be a fuckboy behind the scenes, man, how did you fool everyone?â she chuckles, almost disbelievingly.
jaemin shifts uncomfortably, his confidence briefly faltering, âgiselle, im sorry,â he says, catching the girl off guard, âi do remember our night together and iâm sorryâŚi shouldnât have said those words so lightly, i wasnât thinking, just putting my needs first,â he confesses, completely owning up to his actions.
she blinks, then lets out a small, surprised laugh, âitâs fine, i just wanted to give you a tough time for what you did to y/n at the gallery,â she says, âbesides, i used you that night too, we both win,â she shrugs, really not caring, âi would actually prefer it if we never talk about it again.â
jaemin nods, a quiet gratitude in his eyes for her unexpected grace, âis y/n here?,â he asks.
giselle ponders for a second or two, studying him, eyes narrowing slightly, reading him like a book until she nods, âsecond floor of the art building,â she says.
âthank you,â he breathes, already turning, âwait jaemin!,â giselle stops him in his tracks, âyou hurt her again and i will kill you, okay pretty boy?,â she says with a sugar-sweet smile, almost like she didnât just threaten him. it wasnât a question, not really.
he chuckles, not entirely sure if sheâs joking or not, either way, he would not like to find it.
âwouldnât dream of it,â he replies, flashing her a smile before sprinting off.
đ˛đ˘
jaemin stepped quietly into the art room, spotting your back to him as your fingers worked like magic, brushing smoothly against the canvas seated on your easel, completely immersed in your work. he notices the iced matcha sitting on the table to your right, your paint-stained jeans and oversized t-shirt on display, hair in a messy ponytail.
even with your back turned to him, you looked so at ease, like the world had melted away and left only you and your art behind. he stood still, taking it in, wishing he had his camera with him.
content hums slip past your lips as your hand glided from your palette and the canvas. then he notices what youâre painting and he canât look away, transfixed by the way you captured the scenery of the luscious green landscape blurred by the gentle rain, the pink and whites of the blooming cherry blossoms, opposite to the gray hues of the clouds floating on top.
it was like he had stepped into that day once again. almost like he could feel your lips on his again.
he clears his throat before finally finding his voice, âthatâs beautiful.â
your head turns quickly, jumping slightly at the sound of your intruderâs voice, eyes wide with surprise. you werenât exactly expecting anyone else to be here this late.
âjaemin?,â you question, voice uncertain, wondering what he was doing here at this hour.
âhi,â he smiles sheepishly, hands awkwardly tucked in his pockets, almost shy, as he walks closer to you, your breath stuck in your throat.
âyou uhmâŚyou have paint right here,â he points at his own cheek, mirroring the spot on yours as you quickly tried to wipe it away, missing completely.
ânot quite, here let me-,â before you could protest, he closed the gap, licking his thumb and wiping the smudge away from the apple of your cheek. the moment was so intimate, his light touch igniting that spark all over again.
âthanks,â you whisper before taking a step back and trying to ground yourself.
âwhat are you doing here?,â you asked, voice soft.
âi was looking for you,â he responds like it was the simplest truth in the world.
âi-i thought you didnât want to see me again?,â you say, brows furrowed in confusion.
âi thought that too,â he admits, âbut as soon as you left, all i wanted to do was see you again,â he continues, looking for any signs of rejection on your face.
âhow did you know i was here?,â you ask, puzzled, you never brought him here before so you wouldnât expect him to even know it.
âi asked giselle,â he replies simply, leaving you confused, your brows knitting, âyou talked to giselle?â
he chuckles slightly before saying, âi actually stopped by your place first and you werenât there and then i got an earful from giselle about being mr. cupid and now i'm here,â giving you a quick rundown of what happened.
âwait, what? i never told her your secret,â you say, wide eyed. thatâs when he realizes then that you had no idea what happened in the last hour.
âi uhâŚi actually finished your four step plan,â he explains and youâre left speechless, âyou didnât have to do that,â you murmur, voice soft.
âno, i did,â he quickly retorts, âit was time,â a small, genuine smile tugging at his lips.
âhe wasnât all a fake persona, you know?,â he exhales, voice laced with honesty.
âi know,â you say quickly, eyes meeting his. âi saw him,â voice filled with sincerity, âfell in love with him,â you whisper into the night air, making him look up, hope flickering behind his eyes.
âi thought i had to hide that side of me,â he admits, âiâve been very aware of the whole fuckboy label and yeahâŚi got caught up in the âcoolâ image of it all. it was easier to be who everyone expected me to be, itâs stupid, i know,â he smiles softly, his words reflecting your confession.
âbut thatâs not why i came here tonight,â his eyes find yours, unwavering.
âi'm sorry about what i said earlier at the gallery,â he adds softly and you shake your head before he can go on, âitâs okay jaemin, i get it, i know why said it, itâs not like i didnât deserve it,â you reassure him.
âno,â he says, a little firmer this time, âitâs not okay because it wasnât true and i'm tired of all the lies between us soâŚhere it goes,â he takes a breath, almost like heâs steadying himself.
âyouâre not the only one who fell,â he says, a quiet smile forming, tender and nervous,âi did too.â
ââand iâm pretty sure i hit the ground way before you did,â he pauses.
you looked at him like he had somehow brought the stars to you and that was all the courage he needed to continue.
âi think white looks perfect with pink, iâm not a big fan of matcha iced tea but iâd still love to see my glass of americano sitting next to yours, and i am completely, stupidly, undeniably in love with you,â he confesses, voice steady and full of conviction, âthatâs what i shouldâve said earlier.â
you blink, heart pounding, the corners of your lips lifting into a smile you canât fight, every emotion rushing to the surface.
âbetter late than never, right?,â you softly tease, making him chuckle before finally taking a step closer. this time, you donât move away.
âyou told me i didnât have to ask,â he whispers and then he kisses you, soft and certain, and full of emotion.
for the first time since he walked out of your bedroom, angry and overwhelmed, jaemin feels like he could finally breathe again.
his hands gently make their way to your cheeks, deepening the kiss as yours clasped around his neck, pulling him in closer.
âgod, i love you,â jaemin whispers against your lips as he moves down to litter kisses on that spot below your ear, eliciting a breathy whine from you.
âi love you too,â you whisper in his ear, large hands making their way behind your thighs as jaemin picks you up, sitting you on the long wooden table, now eye to eye level, his lips were back on yours in an instant, as he stood in the place between your legs.
you could feel his growing bulge against your thigh, making you dizzy, âjaemin, i need you,â you whine desperately. he gives in to your request quickly, no longer wanting to deny the pleasure coursing in between your bodies.
unzipping your pants, he slides it down, before pushing your panties to the side and shoving two fingers in, âso fucking tight, angel,â he groans as his fingers curl drawing out breathy moans from your lips as you tried to be as quiet as possible, afraid someone would walk in. usually no one was here during this time but you could never be too sure, you were still in a public place after all.
you could feel the tension in your stomach rise, heat starting to travel down to your toes, but you needed more, âplease, n-need you now,â you plead, âyou sure angel? it might hurt,â he grunts, his fingers brushing your walls repetitively, trying to prepare you as much as he can.
no longer able to wait, your hand reached for the wallet in his back pocket as you took out the condom you knew he always carried.
jaeminâs pants falls to the ground, pooling around his ankles, his boxers soon to follow as you wrapped the condom around his throbbing cock, the warmth of your hands making him groan into your shoulder as he tried to control the urge to bust right then and there, âhave i told you how much effect you have on me?,â he grunts.
âshow me,â you whisper, kissing that soft spot below his ear.
âyou make me so fucking crazy,â he says, looking you in the eyes as he pushed his tip in your entrance. you bite back your moans, the expression on your face between pleasure and pain as you looked up at him, trying your best not to shut your eyes at the way he was slowly expanding your walls, pussy molding to the shape of his large cock.
âfucckk, you feel so fucking good,â he compliments as he bottoms in, tip kissing your cervix, your shared moans mixing in the air as you burrowed your head in his shoulder, leaving trails of wet, sloppy kisses, trying to distract yourself from the pain of the stretch.
âmissed your pussy so much,â he whines. carefully, he pulls the hair tie out of your ponytail, letting your hair fall freely down your shoulders as he starts thrusting, setting a slow pace. you were so incredibly tight around him, he knew he had to be gentle, âso fucking pretty,â he whispers, watching your every reaction.
âd-donât stop,â you sigh, getting used to his size, as he continues to thrust in and out, the slow pace becoming more addicting with every push. jaeminâs warm hands gripping your hips, massaging slow circles around your thighs, the added pressure adding on to the coil tightening in your stomach as your body arched up, hips starting to move in rhythm with his.
âfaster, jaemin,â you moan. his name spilling from your lips immediately increases his speed as your hands rest on the table, trying to stabilize yourself. moans heighten as the sound of skin slapping echoes throughout the room. you donât even care about wandering ears anymore, or what would happen if a professor happened to catch the two of you in this position.
all you cared about was this high â the way his cock seemed to be made for you, hitting that spot that makes you feel like youâre sitting on a cloud as angels sang all around you. jaemin feels the same way, absolutely lost in the feeling only you could give him.
it was getting harder to keep it together as he starts losing his rhythm, âiâm c-close, angel,â he grunts, finger finding your sensitive bud, rubbing slow but harsh circles, âcum with me, please,â he groans and it was enough to snap the coil in your stomach, eyes rolling back, pussy gripping his cock as you gave into the pleasure that is na jaemin.
đ˛đ˘
itâs been a week since that night that brought you back together. a week filled with âi love youâs,â and everything sickeningly sweet.
the boys have all apologized to you, spilling repetitive sorryâs about their behavior. forgiveness came easy. especially since you knew they were only like that because of how much they loved him and you were happy jaemin had people like them on his side.
mr. cupid became âlove, na jaeminâ â jaemin decided to continue it after emails upon emails of request from his viewers to come back. this time, he promised complete honesty, no longer hiding behind the fake persona. the show was back to #1 spot within a day, everyone loving this side of him even more.
there were still parties, almost every night, but instead of sneaking around with random women, jaemin had you by his side every single time â hand wrapped in yours, playful stolen kisses all over your skin, dancing and laughter. and in the days where you couldnât go to a party, heâd simply have fun with the boys before retiring into his room alone, preferring to facetime you on the phone.
today, jaemin surprised you with a picnic. the sky was painted with soft blues and golden sun, a warm breeze curling through your hair as you sat on the picnic blanket in the park. he pulls out a bag filled with two mini canvases and a small set of watercolor.
âwhatâs all this?,â you giggle, as he hands you your canvas.
âi saw it on tiktok, we have to paint each other and then show each other the results,â he explains excitedly, a sparkle dancing in his eyes, like a kid getting a new toy.
âwinner gets whatever they want!,â he continues, explaining the rules as you laughed, âyou know iâm gonna win, right?,â you tease, raising a brow.
âhey! youâve never seen me paint, you donât know that,â he cutely defends himself, a pout on his lips.
âokay baby, youâre right, sorry,â you giggle, kissing his pout away, frown instantly melting into a bright smile.
âquit distracting me, angelâ he said softly, grinning as he picked up his brush.
the two of you fall into a comfortable silence as you start, eyes flicking between your painting and each other. the air was filled with quiet focus and unspoken affection. you could feel it in the way his gaze lingered on you, the way your fingers moved slowly, like trying to capture every piece of him with love.
but while you were focused on painting him, jaemin had a different mission entirely.
he knew you were going to win, of course you were. this was just his little ploy to finally make you his girlfriend. a week has been long enough and he was starting to go crazy every time he wanted to call you his girlfriend but couldnât. heâs never wanted to the boyfriend title so badly in his life.
he kicked himself over and over, wondering why he didnât just ask you during his confession but that night was powered through by overwhelming emotions of love, hope and desire that the words had slipped his mind.
since then, nothing had felt romantic enough and you deserve to be asked properlyâŚin the most special way. and he has finally figured out how.
after a couple more minutes of painting you break the silence, âi think im done,â you announce, setting your brush down with a satisfied smile.
he glances up at you, pretending to be busy as he continues to paint the background of his artwork, âhmm, give me one more second,â he chimes before adding his final touch.
âokay, you ready?,â he wiggles his eyebrows as you nod, your heart fluttering.
3âŚ2âŚ1âŚ
you both flip your canvases, showing each other your board. your eyes immediately widen as you process the words written on his board in bold, messy paint: will you be my girlfriend? â decorated by a ton of pink and red hearts.
a happy squeal escapes your lips as you launch yourself at him, sending him back onto the picnic blanket. you pepper his face with soft kisses, laughter bubbling from both of you.
âyes, yes, yes, of course iâll be your girlfriend!â you say happily, dreamily. he was laughing too, arms wrapped around you, holding you close like he never wanted to let go.
âby the way, i want to go to busan again,â you smile up at him, letting him know that you still win. he breaks into a soft laughter, âwhatever my angel wants, my angel gets,â he says, kissing you softly, sweetly and full of promise.
jaemin swears heâs in heaven â laying under the open sky with the girl of his dreams, the girl who he loves and loves him, and the word finally echoing in his heart.
đ˛ the end.
â
an: ahhh! if youâve made it this far thank you so so much for reading <3 i wish you all find yourself a na jaemin (the real na jaemin of course, heâs better than the one written here lol >.<) while i have you! please please please help me decide whoâs story to write next by voting here -> click!
likes, reblogs and comments are not required but is very appreciated âŚďžâĄď¸
ARCHITECTURALLY PLEASING âś ZHAO YUFAN
đđĽđ§đđđđđĽ ââââ đđđ'đđž đđđž đđđ đ đđđžđđđ đđž đđžđđžđ đđşđđđ đđ đđđđđž đđđđđ
đđđ âś đđžđđ˝!đđşđđžđ x đđžđşđ˝đžđ ă ¤ đ ・ fluff, awkwardness, secret pining đ ä˝ ââââ đđđđđđđđđ
nerd!james spends every lunch break in the libraryâs quiet corner, glasses slipping down his nose while he scribbles formulas on napkin. when you sit across from him unannounced, he nearly knocks over his iced americano and spends the next ten minutes apologizing in six different ways.
nerd!james has an entire color-coded binder dedicated to your shared literature class notes, complete with little sticky tabs that say âthings YN might find funnyâ and âquotes that reminded me of her smile.â heâd rather die than let anyone see it.
nerd!james gets tongue-tied whenever you wear anything even slightly newâlike the day you showed up in a soft cardigan and he spent twenty minutes trying to compliment it, eventually blurting âyour sleeves look⌠architecturally pleasing today.â
nerd!james builds custom mechanical keyboards as a hobby and once spent three hours explaining the difference between tactile and linear switches to you, cheeks pink the entire time because you were actually listening instead of zoning out.
nerd!james carries around a ridiculous number of pens in his backpack, in case you ask him for one.
nerd!james is the type to over-prepare for every study session with you: fresh snacks, backup chargers, and a playlist. then he spends half the time stealing glances at you instead of the textbook.
nerd!james blushes violently when you call him âcuteâ and immediately counters with a fact about how blushing increases blood flow to the face for evolutionary reasons, only to realize mid-sentence how dorky that sounds and hide his face in his hands.
nerd!james once tried to impress you by fixing your malfunctioning laptop, ended up with a small electric shock, and still smiled through the pain because âat least your files are safe now.â
nerd!james keeps a secret collection of candid photos of you on his phone, mostly blurry shots from behind during campus walks, or when youâre laughing at something stupid, he said.
nerd!james is painfully obvious about his crush: he brings you coffee exactly the way you like it, remembers the exact date you mentioned your favorite book, and stumbles over his words every time you accidentally brush hands while passing notes.
nerd!james wears oversized hoodies with obscure science puns and mismatched yet somehow looks unfairly endearing when he pushes his glasses up and gives you that shy, lopsided grin.
nerd!james treats every small interaction like a sacred ritual, holding the door a second too long, offering you the last piece of gum, or quietly placing his scarf around your shoulders when the weather gets cold.
ââââââ ICE ON MY TEETH
i bought diamonds at my dentist
âââ . pairing ice hockey player!james x fem!reader
synopsis tuesday nights are best spent with your boyfriend at the ice rink. genre fluff, drabble, hockey au contains swearing, kissing
wc. 1.0k !
âTHEREâS A SUCH THING AS OVERWORKING YOURSELF, YâKNOW.â
You watch Jamesâ skates glide smoothly over the ice. He's taken his helmet off, and his hair is slightly slicked back from sweat. He's holding his hockey stick casually in one hand, multiple pucks sitting inside the net from his practice alone.
âReally?â James teases at your worrying nature. He runs a hand through his damp hair and skates his way over to the rink edgeâthe entrance hinge you're leaning on.
You respond with a grin as he approaches. His face is sweaty and beaming as he stops on his skates right before the step off the rink.
âThank you for staying, angel,â He saysâsofter than before. He stands taller before you than he normally does, because of the step up from the rough carpeted ground to the cold ice.
You lean in, inches away from his face. âIt's nothing, James.â
He just shakes his head and closes the distance. His body radiates heat as he kisses you gently, though his lips are cold. His free hand finds where your neck meets your shoulder and uses it to bring you even closer.
âYou'reâshitâyou're cold as hell,â James laughs against your lips.
You break away and swat at his shoulder.
âAnd you're sweaty as shit,â you retort playfully.
James sneaks a small peck to your cheek and steps down from the rink. His walk becomes more like a march as he makes his way to the metallic bench.
âYou were looking good out there,â you quip.
He chuckles and sits down, placing his hockey stick against the bench.
âYou always say that, angel.â
âWell, it's always true.â
James takes off his gloves, tossing them aside. He leans back on his palms, looking at you still standing in front of the rink entrance.
Had it been a Friday or Saturday night, James probably wouldn't hesitate to drive you out somewhereâget something to eat or watch a movie at his place. But it's Tuesday, you have a quiz tomorrow, he knows that. Which means after he drives you home from the rink, you won't see him until third period tomorrow. In his mind, that's a perfectly justifiable reason to keep you here just a little bit longer.
âWanna try?â
âHm?â You snap out of your small reverie.
âWant to give it a try?â James gestures to his skates.
You shake your head. âYou're funny.â
âI'm serious.â
You look at him with something akin to an exasperated teenager. Maybe because you are.
âHard pass, James,â You reply.
âC'mon, it'll be fun,â He pleads. âI'll be holding your hand the entire time.â
Fuck, that was a good incentive.
âUh, no.â
âPlease, angel.â
âI'm gonna look like an idiot.â
âYou won't, I promise.â
You walk closer to his sitting figure. Your hands take his as he looks up at you with those soft brown eyes.
âI won't see you âtil tomorrow, angel,â He whispers. âSkate with me. Just for a little while.â
Your head is telling you to say no. You haven't skated in years. You can barely walk on normal ground without tripping at least once.
But your heart is telling you, hell yes! With the way Jamesâ thumbs are brushing your knuckles, the way his eyes are pleading with you to stay just a little longerâ
how can you say no?
âFine,â you mumble.
You can pinpoint the exact moment Jamesâ face goes from desperate to extremely happy. He breaks into a Cheshire cat grin and squeezes your hand.
âThere are extra skates in the locker room.â
âââââââââââââââ .đ¤
James is tender with the skates. He doesn't let you lift a finger, opting instead to tie the skates on your feet himself. You watch him from your seated position as he laces them up with the deftness of someone who's been doing this a long timeâsmooth and effortless.
âYou're not gonna let go?â you ask, more as a demand than a question.
âI'm not gonna let go,â He grunts, tying the lace of the left skate. He double knots it for extra measure and tugs it tight.
James stands up from kneeling and offers his hand like a gentleman.
âSo chivalrous,â you tease.
You take his hand. The slim blades of the skates make it hard to keep your balance on the ground, and you can only imagine how much worse it'll be on the ice. James steadies you as you stand up fully, one hand holding yours, the other on your lower back.
âKeep your weight even,â He mutters. âAnd take big steps until we get to the ice.â
Anyone could tell that this was his thing. It was amazing, attractive even, to see him in his elementâgiving you advice like it was second nature. You had listened to him geek out over all sorts of hockey things: the players, the teams, the strategies. ThisâŚis something entirely different, him sharing his world with you.
It takes a solid minute for you to get from the bench to the rink's edge, holding onto James' hand the whole time.
âNow's the hard part,â James steps onto the ice first.
âAll of that was the easy part?â You proclaim.
James laughs softly in his deep timbre. âJust trust me, ok?â
Trust me.
You purse your lips and hesitate slightly, before gripping his hand tighter. He helps you up on the ice and immediately holds both of your hands to keep you steady.
âNow, lean forward a littleââ he grips you tighter as you lean more toward his chest. ââlike that.â
James turns and lets go of one hand. You clutch onto the one still holding on like a lifeline. He begins smoothly gliding across the ice, holding your hand as you trail behind him.
âSee? You're doing fine.â
âIâfuckâglad you think so,â you remark sarcastically.
You probably make it about five feet before almost losing balance fully. Jamesâ reflexes act quickâgrabbing ahold of your waist before you can fall.
âCareful,â he whispers.
You give him a glare that doesn't have any malice behind it.
He doesn't continue to skate. You both stand there. You're entranced by the way his hands feel on your waist, the proximity he has to youâlips breaths apart.
âI thought you wanted to skate,â you ask shakily.
âI wanted to spend time with you, angel.â
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tryin to be productive again w acads therefore babalik ang stu(dying) tag^^
need to create 3 pubmats for my org's gen assembly ahuehuehu
heart to heart
word count - 40k wordsÂ
genre - smut, fluff, angst, age gap (10 years)
pairing â surgeon!na jaemin x intern! mcÂ
synopsis â you, fumbling through your first day as an intern, are thrown into chaos the night a baby is left to die on the rooftop. dr. na, world-renowned chief resident and surgeon, is ten years older, impossibly mysterious, stoic and intimidating, his body all sharp muscle under blue scrubs, his face only ever softening when he bends over the tiny beds of his peds patients. you canât help but be drawn to him, a gravitational pull of brilliance and something darker, desire threading through every glance, every clipped order, every midnight round where your heart stutters. together you orbit this miracle girl, each of you wounded and wanting in your own way; and as the days blur, your attachment to sunshineâand to himâgrows fierce, tangled, undeniable. found family is built here in the hush of machines and sleepless nights: you, longing to be chosen; him, haunted and hiding; sunshine, the girl who remakes all your definitions of love. even in all this darkness, her yellow light breaks through, changing everything.
chapter warnings â explicit language, explicit sexual content(18+), explicit themes, early 2000s vibes, power play, dom jaemin/sub mc dynamics, rough sex, intimate sex, explicit language, this fic is deeply inspired by classic medical dramasâthink greyâs anatomyâif you know lexie grey, youâll recognize her in mcâs big heart, wild memory, and relentless optimism. this is an adult story, it explores mental illness, physical illness, trauma, life, death. at the center is a baby girl, fighting for her life with a grave congenital heart condition before she even turns one. the medical scenes are vivid, sometimes harrowing, and should be read with care if youâre sensitive to medical distress, illness, or the specter of child loss. expect medical jargonâlots of it. i donât skim, i donât sugarcoat, and while you donât need to memorize every term, know that everything described is researched and, where possible, based on real knowledge and surgical realities. if you get lost in acronyms or anatomy, thatâs okay: the emotional core will always pull you back to center. mc is shy, anxious, and deeply introverted, prone to nervous rambling, overthinking, and loving too much. sheâs young, a mid-twenties intern thrown into the deep end, haunted by her need to do right, and defined by a photographic memory that sometimes feels more curse than gift. she attaches easily, cares too hard, and her inexperience is as much her shield as her wound. dr. na jaemin, on the other hand, is nothing like the version readers of back to you or love me back might know. heâs olderâmid-thirtiesâcold, private, outright harsh, heâs not a friend or lover like he was in lmb and bty, heâs a boss, a world-renowned chief resident in pediatric surgery, cloaked in authority, control, and secrets. expect little familiar warmth: expect distance, mystery, and a slow, sometimes brutal thaw. this is a world away from lmb and bty, so it might feel unfamiliar at times but trust me, it will feel so good. crafting a new universe has been a blessing, and i havenât even finished. also the baby is called âsunshineâ for the majority of this part, she wonât have a name ⌠until something happens :)
a note about structure: the fic opens in third person for the first 8k wordsâdeliberately, and for a reason that wonât be clear until you read it. trust the process. after that, youâll move into second person (y/n), and the storyâs true voice will bloom. this is a fic for those who love detail, emotional, medical, atmospheric. youâll get immersive prose, complex imagery, and a tone that shifts from dreamy lyricism to clinical realism, then back again. this is a slow burn in every sense, with heavy angst and no easy comfort. be patient; everything unfurls in its own time. thereâs a lot of world building balanced with action and time jumps. final warning: this fic contains adult relationships, sexual content, power imbalance, and references to trauma, abuse, and addiction. everything is handled with nuance and care, but please read responsibly and protect your peace. if youâre here for found family, desperate hope, messy healing, and the kind of love that feels impossible until it isnâtâwelcome. i hope you find yourself in these pages.Â
đ đđ đđ
this is part three in the âlove and games universeâ but you donât need to read lmb or bty to understand h2h, it can be read as a standalone, thereâs just a lot of easter eggs and connections that readers familiar with all stories will make with will enrich reading experience
listen to đđđ đđđđđđđđ whilst reading <3
A mirror the size of a doorway hangs above the cracked porcelain sink, its glass splintered into a thousand tiny panelsâeach one a fractured home searching for a face to keep. This is where the night begins: in a reflection she barely owns, lashes clumpy like wet feathers, mouth stained the color of bruised petals, eyes already drifting toward a place without pulse. Outside, bass crawls through drywall, slow, predatory, and the ruby blink of a vacancy sign turns the room into a faulty heart. Mildewed air tastes of chlorine and old perfume; last-hour glitter flakes from her thighs like gold dust abandoned on a factory floor. This is routine, climb, kneel, take, leaveâso practiced her body moves before thought. A plastic wristband from tonightâs club still circles her arm; the barcode scans pleasure by the hour.
He enters in scrubs that smell faintly of antiseptic, pockets heavy with bills folded to hide serial numbers. When he steps between her knees, he breathes as though heâs trespassing in a sanctuary. His fingertips hover at her jaw, asking, apologising, maybe praying, before settling on her hips. That soft caution marks him as dangerous; everyone else grabs without thinking. She plants her palms on the faucet, metal biting crescents into her skin, while red light flickers like a faulty ECG and varnishes sweat across their bodies. The first sound is a swallowed moanâhis, surprised, torn loose when her nails skim the nape of his neck. He tries to stifle the next, fails, presses harder. She feels him shake once, the tremor of someone desperate to pretend this is still anonymous. Her own breath stays measured, practiced, detached. The mirror becomes a shattered proscenium, staging a dance of undoing, her spine arcs like a question the world refuses to answer, his shoulders bending in something too desperate to be worship, two fever-bright shadows strobing in arterial neon. Beneath them, a lace thong curls on the chipped tile like a snakeskin left behind, proof that this body has already shed more names than it can remember.
Sheâs had him beforeâafter the night spun in fairy-light ribbon and champagne froth, when everyone talked of forever and traded it for rings that felt like handcuffs. He had followed her past catering crates, offered double to stay silent, whispered vows into her hair that werenât meant for her. Since then he finds her in service corridors, staff elevators, car back seats that still smell of pine freshener. Never a name. Never a future. Only the question in his grasp, the answer in her compliance. Tonight heâs rougher, breath hotter, as if trying to brand something he canât articulate. She rolls latex down him with steady fingers; he gasps as though the gesture is affection. When release hits he folds over her, spine shuddering, mouth against her throat like penance. A hiss of satin against porcelain, a stifled cryâhers or his, neither knows. She watches it all in the glass: two people superimposed, one already slipping beyond the frame. Moneyâcreased onceâlands by the tap like a counterfeit blessing. He lingers, lips parted with words he wonât risk, then leaves. The door soft-latches; the room exhales.
She doesnât feel the moment the bruise-bright sun beneath her sternum begins to die, only the hush: a slow eclipse unfurling petal by petal through marrow, shadow nibbling light in silent millimetres until a filament snaps somewhere behind her ribsâno siren, just the soft pop of glass blowing outâand at once the corridors of her skull swell with static, voices sheâd padlocked in childhood grinding their teeth against splintered doorframes, chanting lullabies backward, offering warmth with forked tongues, so she lifts a sound to smother them, a tremoring hum that once belonged to playground afternoons, and the note tastes of sunflower syrupâbright, sticky, strangely metallicâsweet on the first pass then curdling across her palate like spoiled nectar, the colour of jaundiced petals blooming where light should be, and inside that syrupy hush a seed spins open, small and scorching, a future already feverish and yellow burning its shape into the dark.
He doesnât know that in the corridorâheart knocking an off-rhythm lullaby against his ribsâheâs already tethered to a life still twinned and unsevered; the sigh he leaves behind drifts like the first hum of a song he will someday murmur beside fluttering monitors. To him this feels like lapse, closure, maybe penance; but in the quiet ledger where futures are inked, it is conceptionâanointing in a whisper-thin halo of pale, sunflower-soft light. Tonight, a healer of children has, without knowing, kindled the one small heart he will chase through ward after ward, across rooms and hours and cities scattered like bright beads on an endless stringâwhatever distance it takes to keep that gentle yellow glow alive.
She rinses in a gas-station sink, chlorinated water stinging raw skin, watching diluted red spool toward a rusted drain. Fluorescent tubes flicker like dying stars. Her reflection wavers, split down the middle by a crack she never noticed, and for an instant sheâs certain someone else stares backâa stranger with her face but hollowed from the inside. Then the bass of another club swallows the thought, and routine reclaims her. She slips the folded bills into a garter, reapplies lip gloss, and steps into the nightâunaware the universe has already separated: on one side, the girl walking away; on the other, a seed of jaundiced sunflower light growing in the dark, and the man orbiting them both without knowing why.
A week slips by before she buys the test, plastic and cheap, wrapped in greasy paper that reeks of salt and fryer oil. Fluorescents in the fast-food bathroom buzz like an angry hive; the floor is sticky, tiles cracked open like hungry mouths. She balances the cup on a toilet-tank lid, watches pale yellow trickle, then lays the strip across the lid of a metal bin. Two lines bloom. Pink. Certain. She laughsâshort, sharp, the noise of glass spider-webbing. A woman in the next stall says, âYou okay?â She almost answers, Starâs coming, but the words turn to fizz behind her teeth. She drops the test into the toilet bowl, flushes once, twice, listens as it rattles before vanishing.
That night neon fists the walls of the club. Strobes stutter, music slams, sweat hammers. She lets men tuck bills into sweat-damp lace, grinds until her knees bruise, breathes smoke the way other people breathe prayer. Outside on break she lights a cigarette, inhales so deep her lungs scald. Somewhere inside her chest, the beat of the music echoes, not in rhythm, but out of step, as if another heart has started to drum and refuses to find the tempo. When her shift ends, she tells herself the lines were a trick of cheap dye, that someone else flushed them into the cityâs veins.
Days yawn into weeks, and her sense of self widens like a crack in plaster. When the voices murmur, she hums to drown themâsame half-remembered lullaby, gentle at first, then louder, frantic, as though pitching sugar over rotting meat. On the bus she fingers a stolen pacifier, mint-green plastic in her pocket, soft yellow bulb like infant sunlight. She rolls it between thumb and forefinger, whispering, âFor you, Star.â The man across the aisle shifts away, eyes on the floor. Later, in a crowded station, she fishes for the pacifier and finds only lint. Panic spears her throatâshe tears through her purse, tips its contents onto the tiles, lipstick clattering, condoms skidding, coins spinning wobbly circles. She shrieks, âGive her back!â to nobody. Security drags her outside, where she folds onto the curb, belly tightening with a cramp she refuses to name.
Sometimes at dawn she is lucid. She pads to a discount store lit like a morgue, trailing aisle to aisle with a shaky tendernessâtiny sunflower-yellow socks cupped in her palms, a carton of formula cradled against her chest. She tells the cashier the socks are for a niece. The cashier calls her âsweetheart,â and for a thimble of time she is. Then the store lights flare too brightâwhite needles behind her eyesâand the voices return, reminding her that babies are parasites, that light loves rot, that yellow means sickness when it stains the whites of eyes. She leaves the basket under a rack of clearance towels, rushes out chewing the inside of her cheek until iron floods her mouth.
She steps through the stage-door of the club that nightâthe only place that pretends to miss her when sheâs goneâand the air greets her like a familiar haunting: sour cheap perfume, stale beer, bass that burrows into cartilage. Here, she can almost believe she belongs, because the walls donât ask for a past. Outside thereâs nothing: no motherâs number, no emergency contact, just a town where orphan records get misfiled and rent is a curse that comes monthly. The voices started in childhood, small at first, like wind worrying a window, but after her first foster home turned her away, they rooted deeper, grew teeth. Doctors wrote paranoid-type schizophrenia on papers she never saw; caseworkers scribbled noncompliant when she vanished between check-ins.Â
The clubs didnât care. They paid cash, and whispered that pretty girls with haunted eyes sell more drinks. So she learned to trade hours of her body for the roof over it, learned that men tip better when you laugh at jokes you donât hear because static is fizzing in your skull. Every shift she pins on a sunflower-yellow badge that says Haneulânot her name, just a brightness someone thought would lure walletsâand pretends the colour means warmth, not jaundice. Some nights, after the lights die and the voices swell like orchestras beneath her skull, she dances until bone sparks against muscle, because motion is the last receipt that says she still owns this body, not just rents it; yet lately a muted yellow glimmerâsunflower bright and pulsingâflickers behind her sternum, prying at the seams of her mind, coaxing old selves to unpeel and whisper, so with every gyring beat, the seam between bone and spirit frays; the voices she once drowned in pills resurface, injecting the idea that the soft sunflower flare lodged beneath her ribs isnât light at all but a bright, slow poison, a parasite sipping her hollow.
In the back room of the club, where the walls pulse with subwoofer tremors, she balances a benzodiazepine on her tongue and rolls it against the ridges of her molars, letting powder bleed bitter down her throat. The pill feels alive, a tiny white moon revolving under her teeth. She taps her belly, one-two, like knocking on a coffin lidâand whispers, âitâs for you, star.â In the flicker of the utility light the word star seems to hang in the air, an echo she canât catch. She isnât herself; sheâs borrowed skin, watching from behind her own eyes while a stranger feeds the thing inside her. She imagines the pill dissolving through tissue, drifting into the amniotic dark where a damp heartbeat quivers, an uncut gemstone glimmering jaundice yellow. The voices croon that the heartbeat isnât human at all; itâs a moth hammering its wings against the cage of her ribs, desperate to carve a way out with soft dust and frantic light.
Another night she stands barefoot on a fire escape, city steam curling around her ankles. She presses a cigarette ember to her stomach, not hard enough to scar, just enough to feel heat pass skin to the womb. âa little sunrise,â she tells the shape beneath the burn, voice syrup-sweet, eyes wide and glassy. She imagines the heartbeat as a swarm of bees caught in honeyâsoft buzzing, slow suffocationâand the ember is mercy, a flame to cauterize the hive before it splits her open. Somewhere below, sirens wail; she counts the pulses, hears them echo her own, then hears a third rhythm tucked between, the stubborn flutter she canât outpace. She hums an off-key lullaby to drown it, each note sticky with nicotine, the sound curdling into a hiss when the wind rips it away.
On the late train she cradles a bottle of cough syrup like holy water, tilts it so the neon carriage lights refract in thick violet swirls. She unscrews the cap, dips a finger, smears a sticky cross over her navel. âfor you,â she chants, âfor the sun under my skin.â Her pupils blow wide; the carriage tilts. Every overhead bulb blooms a halo the color of sick daylightâsunflower petals gone rancid. Passengers retreat, eyes averted. In the reflection of the window she sees herself split: one half smiling serene, the other chewing her lip raw. For an instant the carriage is a tunnel of jaundiced sun. She feels the baby rollâa slow, deliberate bloom under her navelâand the voices rise in chorus, telling her itâs not a baby, itâs a wasp nest, itâs a tombstone, itâs light that will burn her hollow. She stands, claws at the emergency door, screams for air. A passenger pulls the alarm; the train bucks to a stop. She staggers onto the platform, shaking, palms slapped hard against her ears, humming until the noise buries the voices, until her throat sparks.
Hours before dawn, in a 24-hour laundromat that smells of bleach and burnt lint, she watches a tumble dryer spin someone elseâs yellow bedsheets. The motion hypnotizes herâcyclical, inescapable. She palms two prenatal vitamins she lifted from a pharmacy display, grinds them to dust against the machineâs hot metal rim, and blows the powder into the whirring drum. The yellow sheets blur into a storm of pale gold, a miniature star collapsing inward. She presses her ear to the plexiglass door, listening for the heartbeat inside her to sync with the mechanical thud. For a breath it doesâand the harmony terrifies her. She jerks away, stumbling, clutching her belly as if it might leap free. âyouâre too bright,â she croaks, tears streaking mascara. âToo bright. youâll burn me hollow.â The lights overhead flicker as if agreeing, and the hum of dryers becomes insect wings scraping bone. She bolts through the sliding doors before the cycle ends, leaving the sheets spinning into dawn, haloed in the dust she offered like ash.
Nights grow stranger. She wakes on city benches, coat draped over her lap, convinced thereâs a bird trapped beneath her ribs. She digs fingernails into skin, mumbling, âget out, get out!â while commuters scuttle past. Other times she forgets sheâs pregnant at all: dances too hard, drinks too much, flirts with a stranger in a parking lot until dizziness folds her knees. She vomits bile and half-chewed sunflower seeds, smells decay in her sweat, swears something crawls beneath her flesh. In the mirror of a gas-station restroom steam refuses to clear; her reflection swims, double-exposedâone face slack with exhaustion, the other grinning too wide. She slaps the glass. It grins back.
He sends her a dozen voicemails every single nightâhis gravelly apology strangled by static, each message more desperate than the last. Then the texts follow, pinging in the dark: Hey, call me. We need to talk. I miss you. He shows up outside the club where sheâs taken refuge, shadowing her exit like a stray cat that refuses to leave, pressing a folded note into her hand that smells of cheap cologne and broken promises. He doesnât see the tremor in her gloveÂ-clad fingers or the wild flicker in her eyesâonly the once-familiar shape of her silhouette against the yellow street lamps. He stalks into the bar just after last call, the neon sign flickering overhead like a wounded heartbeat. His leather jacket is still stained with last nightâs aftershave and regret. He threads through the tablesâpatrons half-drunk on whiskey and dance-floor hazeâuntil he finds her behind the counter, slipping shots and checking IDs with the weary grace of someone born for this night. He slides onto a stool beside her and jangles his keys, leaning in apologetic. âJust one drink,â he rasps, eyes watering under bar lights. She stiffens, voice lost in the whirl of jazz and clinking glass. From her mittenâs edge, she watches the yellow glow of the overhead lamp pool across the scarred woodâreminding her of the night he scattered his stardust inside her, a single sperm igniting a constellation where a baby star now burns against the dark.
He traces the pendant at his throat before slipping it into her palm: a small silver wasp, its abdomen inked with a honey-gold stripe. She holds it for a breath, feeling the sting of every message echo in her gut. âThis isnât a trap,â he pleads, voice tight with something like fear.
She feels the brood he planted squirm and scratch, testing their prison, and in that moment, half-ghost, half-woman, she hisses, âGet out. You donât belong here.â She slips off the stool and ducks past the neon-lit mirrors, the barâs music warping in her ears. voices overlapping voices until she canât tell which is real. Behind her, he shouts her name, but sheâs already swaying in a back-alley shadow, wiping sweat and decay from her skin. Somewhere beneath her ribs a thousand tiny wings beat in rebellion, drowning out the shrill insistence of his apology. She presses her cheek to the brick wall, nodding, âI hear you,â though itâs the chorus in her mind, not his, that demands tribute. The wasp-pendant slips from her fingers, clattering to the grate beneath her boot, and she steps awayâeach footfall a promise that she will not let him harvest this life. Silence blooms around her like a bruise, and the barâs warmth recedes, leaving only the hard knowledge that some parasites are born of regret, but she will be the one to claim survival.
He has no idea sheâs pregnant. What he thought was a fleeting sparkâa match struck for a momentâs warmthâhas buried itself deep in the darkness of her womb and blossomed into a roaring inferno. In her mind, he is the unwitting invader, a host who unleashed a brood of mad whispers she once kept caged with pills and late-night study marathons. Before that night, her own voice was the only one in her headâsteady, familiar, the sound of herselfâno cacophony of demons shouting in technicolor. But now, hormones surge like a tidal wave, peeling back the barriers she built with antipsychotics and self-control, and the voices return after years caged away, ravenous and legion, circling her core self until she canât locate the person she used to be. She presses trembling fingers to her abdomen, as if she could squeeze those voices back into oblivion, but they writhe louder with every recollection of his touch. every careless word, every unseen betrayal, gnawing at what remains of her fragile identity.Â
Back then, in the soft aftermath of their stolen nights, she was wholeâno shadows at her back, no whispering phantoms tugging at her mind. The only voice she heard was her own laughter, clear as a bell. But now, with his child growing inside her, the old demons stir with purpose, swarming through her synapses like wasps defending a newly built hive, their buzzing command: âKill the star.â He canât see the half-empty pill vials she stashes under her makeup kit, nor the tremor in her fingertips as she counts each hour of darkness in her lonely apartment. All he remembers is the woman who used to belong only to himâbright, unbesieged, unbroken. Yet even unseen, he has become her fortress: a silent sentinel whose steady heartbeat in her dreams rings like a promise, whose arms form an iron rampart against the onslaught in her mind. In the pale light of every dawn, his protection gleams just beyond her sightâa shield forged of devotion and defiance, the only power strong enough to save the constellation he helped ignite.
Nine months blur past in jagged increments, calendar pages lost under ashtrays, shift rosters stained with lipstick prints, rent envelopes traded for nights she canât remember. Seasons change in the size of tips, not in the swell of her abdomen; the body that should have rounded stays lean, hunger-tight, as if hiding the secret beneath knotted muscle and clenched silence. When mirrors flash her reflection backstage, she sees bruises she earned, glitter she didnât, but never the curve of impending motherhood. The voices insist nothing grows there, tell her any flutter is indigestion, any tightness merely rent overdue.
Between shifts she drifts through the city like a cracked marionette, joints held together by habit and the thin wires of her routineâclub, alley, pawnshop, clubâwhile the voices keep up their low chant: emptiness canât carry life, hunger canât cradle hope, move along. Whenever a sudden flutter ripples beneath her ribs she presses two fingers to the spot and murmurs, âHush, Star,â the name tasting half-sweet, half-suspicious, as though sheâs christening a ghost. She tells herself itâs gas, or a muscle twitch, yet still pockets sunflower-yellow trinkets, a plastic ring from a vending machine, a price-slashed cotton ribbon, then throws them away before nightfall because the voices whine that yellow draws parasites. On stage she glides under amber spotlights that paint her skin with sick daylight, imagining a swarm of gnats trapped in her belly, hammering to escape; off stage she stuffs napkins in her bra to muffle the knocking, convincing herself that if she ignores the rhythm long enough it will fade, like rent notices slipped under the door and swept away by morning drafts.
Tonight a velvet booth swallows her and a customer together, red lamps painting halos that look like warnings. He smells of cologne and conquest, darts eager hands beneath her dress while murmuring fantasies she lets glide past. She climbs onto his lap, thighs bracketing him in the flicker of gold light, and rides his rhythm with the mechanical grace the job demands. He groans, tries to guide her hips, but midway she goes rigid. Deep inside, a sudden rollâsharp, deliberateâspider-webs across her gut. For a heartbeat she thinks an elbow has jabbed from the wrong side of her skin. The room tilts.
A second kick, harder, and everything cracks open: the bassline of the club drops away, replaced by insect wings thrumming behind her ribs. The man beneath her whispers praise; she hears him as though heâs speaking through running water. In panic she snatches the half-finished glass of house red, slings the wine across his face. Crimson arcs like arterial spray, beads along his nose, dripping from his tie. He yelps, hands flying up in shock. She strikes his chest with both palmsâonce, twiceâbabbling, âGet it out, get it out,â eyes wide enough to white-out the iris.
He scrambles backward, chair legs screeching, but she follows, fists small yet frantic, knuckles catching collarbone, babbling syllables that collapse into static. âYellow, yellow,â she hisses, clawing at her own stomach now, nails leaving half-moons. âA wasp nest in meâsunlight rottingâbuzz, buzz, canât you hear?â He stammers apologies, thinks maybe sheâs on something stronger than champagne. She drags in a ragged breath; the flutter inside twists, a fist of muscle and need, and she slaps her belly as if scolding a disobedient pet. For a fractured second the kicking stops. Her gaze clears, only to fog again when the next movement comesâsofter, pleading, a heartbeat tapping SOS against her bones.
Patrons swivel to look; a bouncer lumbers forward. She backs toward the exit, eyes glassy, whispering to the shape she still believes isnât there: âStay quiet or we both burn.â Her palm presses tight to her abdomen, as though holding a door shut. The voices surge, hot static filling her skull, parasite, poison, sunflower-bright sickness, and she forces her way through velvet curtains, leaving confusion, a puddle of wine, and a man wiping crimson from his lashes while the echo of unseen wings rattles around the booth like trapped light.
The plate-glass door of the club shivers when she slams it behind her, and the city greets her with a gust that smells of refuse and rain, a breath as sour as a broken promise. Fluorescent bar signs leak along the puddles in arterial streaks, and somewhere a manâs shout ricochets between alley walls, a ricochet she swears spirals straight into her spine. Inside her bloodstream benzodiazepines drift like pale anemones, numbing thought even as the vodka she slugged between sets keeps her heart jack-hammering under skin gone clammy. She canât remember why her abdomen drags with such leaden weight; she only knows the night is hunting, and she needs velocity. A sedan idles at the corner, door cracked as though the street itself has yawnedâwelcome or warning, she canât tell. She slides behind the wheel, fingers slipping on the ignition key, breath fogging the glass in frantic bursts that bloom, then vanish, like spirits locked out of heaven.
Dashboard lights pulse sunflower-gold, hopeful and sickly at once, bathing her trembling knuckles in a color that feels like a lie. Tires shriek; alley grime spits behind her in a comet tail; a gull rises from a dumpster flap, white wings stark in headlight glare before darkness snaps them away. Sirens appear in the rear-viewâblue, red, blueâthen melt into spectral ribbons that might be behind her, might be ahead, time folding in on itself. One beat, a second, then a rogue tremor blooms beneath her sternum, bright as a buried sun-shard, drumming its own cadence against the dark. She clamps a palm over the spot, hissing for hush, but the radiance retaliates with a jolt, sunflower-strong, urgent, knocking her balance off its axis and flaring gold behind her eyes. For an instant the street fractures: white lane lines wriggle like earthworms; storefronts bulge and blur; every traffic light blossoms into a jaundiced sun and blinds her with its pity.
The concrete divider rears up from the asphalt with the awful certainty of a guillotine. Steel screams. Metal folds. Her chest slams the wheel so hard she tastes iron as the horn howls and then dies. No airbag blooms to cradle her; glass pebbles shower her lap; the windshield paint-brushes a web of fractured constellations, sky replaced by a cathedral ceiling of broken starlight. Somewhere inside that cathedral a voice she hasnât heard since childhood whispers her name before dissolving into static. She pushes the bent door with both hands, bone rasping on bone, and spills onto the asphalt barefoot, thigh dripping a thin ribbon that steams in the cold. Engines whine in distant lanes, yet the world feels paused, as if God held down the clutch and forgot to shift.
Hands and knees rasp across the gravel; she plants a palm to her belly for leverage, but the flesh rises againâthen againâeach thud a fierce, sunflower-bright hammer, pounding in quick succession as though a small fist is trying to tunnel straight through bone. The blows come so relentlessly her skin jumps beneath her fingers, rhythm wild and unyielding, an insurgent heartbeat refusing to be stilled. She mutters that itâs a parasite gnawing her marrow; she calls it a sunbeam set to scorch her hollow. A horn blasts somewhere beyond the divider; headlights sweep past, and for a moment her shadow looms against the barrier, grotesque and pregnant with something she refuses to name. The shadow bends. Collapses. Darkness swallows the outline entirely.
When awareness lurches back she is bathed in strobing neon that leaks through dusty curtainsâ a motel room whose wallpaper peels like dead petals. In the doorway stands the colleague who lives in the unit directly below, the one who shares her shifts and cigarettes, forearms inked with flowers curling toward decay. She cradles a half-empty bottle against her ribs, and her gaze pools with equal parts dread and awed disbelief. âYou screamed for six hours,â she says, voice raw as a rusted hinge. âCut the cord with kitchen scissors, and you bled all over my towels.â On the carpet by the bed lies a bundle no larger than a grocery loaf, wrapped in a thin towel gone gray at the edges, the fabric already blotched yellow where bile and amniotic fluid soak through. Tiny limbs twitch like pale moth wings; lips bruise toward blue. Her own sunflower sock, pilfered weeks earlier during a momentary bloom of maternal fantasy, lies beside the bundle, its cheerful dye dulled to the color of old parchment.
The girl from downstairs crosses the threadbare carpet, bottle set aside, inked lilies flexing over her forearms as she kneels by the towel-swaddled bundle. âSheâs still breathing,â she whispers, voice wobbling on the edge of a prayer. With a gentleness that startles them both, she slides trembling hands beneath the babyâs head and rump, lifting the weightless form as though hoisting a moth from puddled moonlight. âHereâtake her, just for a second.â The words fall like petals. Reluctance knots the motherâs shoulders, yet something cracks open; she extends her arms and the infant settles against her chest, a tremor of warmth no bigger than her own heartbeat.
For three fragile breaths the room tilts toward something almost tender. She strokes one paper-thin shoulder, murmuring, âStarâlittle Star,â the name tasting like honey spiked with rust. Beneath the towel the child is nearly spectral: ribs countable, knees knobbed, skin a translucent frost that shades to dusk around lips and fingernails. Each inhale is a shallow rattle, each exhale a question the lungs barely answer. Yet when the motherâs thumb brushes the hollow of that bluish collarbone, one eyelid flickers, halogen gold iris under dust. and a faint pulse flutters against her palm. The sight stings her eyes, stirring an ache so bright it almost feels like love.
But the voices are never far. They snake through cracked wallpaper and hiss inside her skull: parasite, mistake, devil grub drinking you hollow. Pain sears down her spine, withdrawal clawing marrow, benzo ghosts demanding tithes, and her arms begin to quake. She hears them judge the infantâs silence, insisting those twitching moth-wings should have stilled hours ago. âWe craved her deathâpleaded for that innocent scrap to stiffen cold and silentâand still you ignored the warning. We begged for her to stiffen into milk-white stillness, prayed for the hush of grave dust over lungs still tasting first airâyou were warned.â The chorus rises, sour and metallic, until her ribs ache and bile licks the back of her throat. She clamps her eyes shut, but even the dark blooms sunflower yellow, too bright, too accusing, spreading across her vision like a bruise blossoming in reverse.
The other girl reaches to steady the baby before she slips. Tiny fingers, waxy and trembling, curl around a lock of the motherâs hair, and that fragile grip sparks one last flicker of mercy. She tucks the towel tighter, rasps, âStay warm, Star,â though her voice sounds borrowed, hollow. Somewhere in the night a soft conviction glowsâpale, stubborn, sun-brightâthat this child still breathes because she is already loved by hands not yet here, a heartbeat bound to meet another heartbeat on a ward of humming machines. And even as the voices snarl that the light will scorch them all, the infantâs pulse answers with its own faint drum, insisting on survival, promising that yellow dawn is waiting, somewhere beyond the pain, beyond the noise, where a fatherâs arms will learn the rhythm that keeps her alive.
She stares, waiting for panic, wonder, anything to flicker, yet all she feels is the drugged hush of distance. Sirens hum somewhere beyond the parking lot, a lullaby tuned for someone else. She presses the heel of her hand against her temple, as though by crushing her skull she might quiet the two uneven drums. The neon sign outside flickers SUN and then stutters the next letters into oblivion, leaving only the raw promise of warmth it cannot keep. Shadows tilt; voices swell at the edges of the room, urging her to flee, to silence the moth-wing breaths before the light gulps her dry. She drags herself upright, blood streaking calf to ankle, and the towel-swaddled bundle lets out a thin, warbling cry that sounds like metal bending under too much snow.
Somewhere inside her chest a filament snaps againâanother inch of eclipse closing over what little remainsâyet for one impossible heartbeat she feels the faintest tug of gravity, as if that sunflower glow tries to anchor her to the earth. The moment flickers, vanishes. She tastes copper and cough syrup on her tongue. The older girl lifts the bottle, offers, âPainkillers?â She shakes her head. Pain is the one proof she has that she still exists. Curtains billow like lungs behind her as she turns toward the door, the bundleâs cry segueing into the roomâs leaking toilet hiss, indistinguishable, fading. Somewhere down the corridor fluorescence pulses, and the world tilts anew, every light a jaundiced crown, every shadow a mouth waiting to chew her into nothing. She takes one step forward, then another, feet sticky on linoleum, heart dragging a constellation of bruises behind itâand the night swallows the hotel, the older girl, the crying infant, and all that sunflower light the way a storm swallows a match.
She staggers back through the motel door just before dawn, arms cradling a mess of half-stolen, half-begged supplies: a dented tin of evaporated milk, two diapers plucked from an open hospital laundry cart, a bottle meant for kittens, and a motel ice bucket crammed with crushed sunflower-printed napkins she thought might pass for burp cloths. The older girl helps her spread the haul on the bedspreadâeyeing the kitten bottle, the wrong-sized diapers, the can without a proper nippleâand sighs. âItâs something,â she murmurs, though they both see it isnât enough.
They prop the infantâStarâagainst a towel rolled like a tiny lifeboat. When the mother tries to guide the bottle to the bluish lips, the rubber tip is too wide; formula dribbles down the babyâs chin, pooling in the hollow of her collarbone like watered paint. Starâs gums work, confused. The mother strips off her own shirt and offers a breast; milk comes thin, tinged almost gray. The baby latches for a breath, coughs, sputters, and wails. a brittle, papery cry that cracks the silence like a match.
The older girl wipes the milk with a napkin, whispers, âShe needs a hospital.â The mother flinches at the word hospital; inside her head a scraping chorus answersâ theyâll tape your bones hollow, harvest the sunflower glow beating inside you, she shakes her head, humming the lullaby again, but the tune falters, replaced by the hiss: Poison. Youâre feeding her poison. Sheâs already poisoning you.
When the neighborâs footsteps fade down the stairwell, the room shrinks to two heartbeats and a flickering strip of neon. Determined, she sets to work like itâs a test she might still pass. She warms water in the rust-stained sink, stirs powdered formula with a stolen coffee stir stick, then dribbles a drop on her wrist the way she saw mothers do in soap commercials. Too hotâshe blows until her skin prickles. She lines a shoebox with newspaper and the sunflower sock, thinking a makeshift cradle will feel less cruel than towels on nicotine carpet. She even tears off a strip of her favorite stage dress. sequins glittering like trapped daylight, and knots it into a headband, hoping a flash of beauty might coax the baby to feed.
Star will not take the bottle. Her tiny lips purse, shiver, turn away as though rejecting the scent of her skin. Panic flares; she loosens the cap, tries again. Milk dribbles, pools in the notch of a bird-thin collarbone. She pats the babyâs back, gentle, gentler, remembering videos on a strangerâs phone: pat to burp the air out. Nothing but a croak, the color of the mouth deepening from bruise to dusk. She rubs circles harderâtoo hardâbefore catching herself, whispering sorrys that skid into gasps.
âSee?â she murmurs, voice bright but cracked. âTrying. Trying so hard.â She rummages through the scavenged pile: diaper too big, safety pin bent, washcloth stiff with someone elseâs soap. She wipes the babyâs lips; the washcloth smells like bleach and last yearâs rain. A whimper rises from the bundle, thin as thread, and the voices rush in to meet itâShe tastes the poison on you, she feels you draining her light.
Her thoughts spiral back to solutions: room needs warmth. She positions the shoebox next to the radiator, but the unit only rattles cold air. She lights a half-used match, flicks it out before the scent can sting the newborn lungs, then lays the spent stick beside the baby as if warmth might linger in the char. She hums the fragment of a lullaby. three notes bright as sunflower petals. yet the tune warps halfway, twisting into a minor key as the chorus in her skull counters: Not meant for you. Not your hymn to sing.
Starâs cries stretch thinner, rasp out, fade. The mother bundles the infant against her own chest, rocking on her knees, tracing circles upon the skeletal backâcircles that become frantic scribbles when no steady breathing answers. âWant to want you,â she whispers, forehead touching a crown of damp hair that already smells a little like loss. âWant to keep you. See, Star? I found a ribbon for you, I found a box, Iââ But the pulse beneath her fingers skips then slows, and the voices rise louder than any lullaby: Give it up. Let the sunflower glow flicker out. Parasite. Ravenous. It will eat the rest of you next. Pain knifes through her abdomenâwithdrawal, hunger, griefâmaking her fold in half. Napkins drift from the upturned ice bucket, snowing over mother and child in frail, white petals that canât muffle the raw, scraping cries.
Starâs fist opens once, grasping at nothing, and in that gesture the mother glimpses all the things she cannot offer: steady heat, clean sheets, milk that nourishes, silence in her skull. Her tears drop onto the sunflower sock, darkening the yellow to a muddy bruise. She clutches the bundle tighter, but the babyâs head lolls, turning instinctively toward the doorway. as though she aches for a guardian whose heartbeat matches the stubborn rhythm still ticking in her frail chest.
A streetlight beyond the curtains flickers, pouring ragged beams across peeling wallpaper. In their tremor she sees the shadows twist into gaping mouths, waiting. Exhaustion and voices braid together until she can no longer tell which urge rises from her or from the dark. Her arms stiffen, rocking slows, and a hush swallows the room so completely it feels like a held breathâone that might end with mercy, or with something far colder. Only the faintest sunflower glimmer lingers at the edge of her vision, and even that seems to be dimming, pleading for rescue from hands not yet arrived. End her hunger. End the noise. The words scuttle against her skull like beetles. Star hiccups a final time and goes ominously still, breath on pause, skin washing toward porcelain. It jolts the mother uprightâfear, fury, instinct tanglingâbut the voices lunge faster: Do it yourself or sheâll drag you both into the dark.
Her eyes prowl the dim room, cataloguing ordinary objects as if each were a hush waiting to be used: the pillow slumped against stained headboard, its cotton belly promising silence; the dank bath towel hanging from a nail, long enough to cinch daylight shut; the cracked bathroom door revealing the faint gleam of tap water cold and deep. Even the radiatorâs rust-grated vent seems to exhale a lull: this could be quick, this could be kind. Jaundiced streetlight paints the windowpane an ugly halo, the siren outside droning like a funeral hymn already half-sung. The lullaby in her throat withers to a threadbare hum. Gravity tilts the floorboards, funnels every thought to a single, brutal mercy. She draws the bundle closerâarms stiff, not tenderâglass-eyed, jaw locking tight, while the chorus in her skull hisses that the surest way to dim the sunflower glow is to snuff it before dawn remembers to rise.
The bundle in her arms weighs less than the guilt rotting her ribsâswaddled in a fraying bath-towel the color of bruised butter, its faded sunflower print glaring up like sallow eyes that judge her every breath. âYouâre a lie,â she croaks, throat salted with old screams. âI never carried you.â The denial loops and frays, half-curse, half-confession, while her gaze, fever-bright, hungry, clutches the infant the way a drowning woman grips a stone. Wallpaper droops behind her in strips like wilted wreaths; she studies it once, committing the decay to memory, then slips barefoot into the predawn hush, blood drying in rusty trails down her shin. Neon gutters overhead, casting sick lemon halos. She skirts each puddle of light as though stepped in radiance might brand her skin with proof of the small trespasser pressed to her heart.
The towel slips, and a miniature handâfrost-blue at the fingertips, soft as a flower petalâflutters into view. The motion is heartbreakingly gentle, more plea than protest, and she jerks as if a moth has shattered the pane of her certainty. A breathless âsorry, sorry,â tumbles out; she tucks the tiny limb back beneath worn cotton and knots the sunflower towel tighter, as though she can bind light itself. In her head the voices sneer that this glow is a bright parasite, a wasp hive of yellow wings nibbling her from the inside. but the hand had curled in trust, not threat, and some ancient, trembling instinct draws the bundle closer against her sternum while she slips into streets that taste of rain-rot and exhaust.
She chooses the church first, the same stone nave she used to slip into as a child, clutching stolen hymn sheets and praying she wouldnât be noticed. Even then sheâd felt the architecture disapprove of her, its gothic ribs crowding overhead like a chest too tight for breath. Tonightâor whatâs left of nightâshe pushes through the wooden doors and stands at the threshold, the baby in her arms and a wet trail of blood on her calf. For a moment she simply listens: damp silence, a single organ chord testing the air, the faint stir of a rehearsal choir tucked somewhere behind the chancel. Stepping inside, she watches her footsteps stain the aisleârust-brown prints that mark her route through a life she was never meant to lead. The nave stretches before her like an unlit furnace: pews in strict rows, votive candles trembling along the walls, and high above, Christ in stained glass. His ruby wounds seem painfully fresh, the blues of His robe so dark they look bruised rather than holy. Even the sunflower yellows in the window, meant to promise mercy, glows too much like the weak pulse fluttering against her collarbone. The echo of that resemblance makes her want to turn away; it feels obscene, as if the window accuses her of dragging corruption into sacred light.
She pauses at the baptismal font, water black as scrying glass. A reflection risesâher own face, pale and frantic, and the towel-swaddled shape clutched high on her shoulder. In her fractured vision the infantâs outline flickers: one moment a baby, next a bundle of writhing larvae haloed in harsh light. She jerks back, sloshing holy water over the marble lip. It spatters the tile, and for a heartbeat she swears the droplets hiss like oil on flame. Somewhere behind her the choir holds a long, piercing note; it scales her spine like talons.
A priest emerges from the side aisle, cassock flaring with each stride. His voice, meant to soothe, falls on her like gravel: âChild, are you in need?â The title detonates shameâchild, childâas if she is the one swaddled in desperate cloth. She steps deeper into shadow, tightening the towel until the babyâs cough sputters against her collarbone. The priest approaches anyway, palms raised in benediction; candlelight stains his fingertips crimson. Her eyes latch onto that color, and the voices howlâBlood on his hands, he loves to bleed lambs dry. She recoils, whispering nonsense benedictions of her own, clashing syllables that taste like rusted metal.
âLet me bless the little one,â the priest offers. The phrase sets her teeth on edge. Bless sounds too close to claim, to keep. She pictures the infant laid on the altar, white linen soaking through, parishioners kneeling while the babyâs sunflower glow dims under incense smoke. A low growl coils in her throat. âNot yours,â she manages, a feral liturgy. At that, the priest glimpses the livid bruise blooming down her calf, the bare feet, the fever glossing her eyes. Compassion flickers across his face, but compassion looks like pity, and pity has always snapped her nerves.
She backs toward a row of votive stands, flame tips warping in her periphery. Each candle seems to sprout horns of light, twin licks curving like goat hornsâtiny devils dancing on wax. One sputters, guttering into a molten stub; the hiss matches the whisper in her headâSnuff it. Snuff her. Cold is kinder. The baby wheezes, a rattled gasp that carries too far. A boy soprano turns mid-hymn, his mouth a perfect O of alarm. Behind him, glass saints shift: eyes melt, halos sag into barbed crowns, mouths stretch in silent, molten howls.
The air contracts; she tastes ozone and candle soot. The priest steps forward again, and the voices shriekâHeâll bind her with holy ropes, drown the light in sanctified water. Terror snaps her muscles into motion. She pivots, slippering on wax drips, nearly dropping the towel-wrapped child. A lit candle tumbles from its holder, rolling across the flagstones like a glowing eye. She flings open the brass-shod doorâhinges wail like trumpets of judgmentâand stumbles into rainfall so cold it scalds. The choirâs last chord splits behind her, crashing into dissonance as the door slams shut, booming like stone over a crypt.
Outside, dawn is a bruised limb on the horizon. She presses the bundle closer, panting mist. The hiss in her skull has not subsided, but one phrase edges louder than the rest: Keep moving or lose her. Whether the warning comes from fear or love, she canât discern; both feel like claws around her throat. She spares the spire a final glanceâthe cross now skewed against pregnant cloudsâand then she runs, barefoot over slick pavement, carrying the fragile sunflower ember away from stained glass angels that watched her with bleeding eyes.
Bare soles slap wet pavementâslap-slap, a frantic metronomeâuntil she stumbles into a pocket of furnace-warm air. The brick façade before her throbs under floodlights, every mortar line glowing ember-red as though the building itself is holding its breath between blazes. Diesel fumes curl in lazy veils, mixing with the metallic tang of scorched steel; somewhere an exhaust vent exhales smoke that dims the dawn beams into rancid butter-yellow streaks. She stands on the concrete apron, baby tight to her chest, towel damp and dark where the infantâs laboured breaths fog the cloth.
For half a heartbeat the fire station seems perfect: cement floor smooth enough to cradle a body, hulking engines like guardians in crimson armourâstrong, decisive, nothing like her. She imagines laying the bundle at the threshold, stepping back into the shadows, letting men built of rescue and discipline find the child and decide her fate. A strange mercy flickers. Then klaxons flare. Overhead strobes igniteâred-white-redâbranding after-images across her vision. Garage doors rattle upward; an engine yawns forward, headlamps searing like judgment. Sirens coil into the morning air, shredding every thought to ribbons. A firefighter jogs closer, calling out, but the words warp into bestial howls beneath the sirenâs pitch. The voices inside her skull answer in kind: Too bright. Too hot. Theyâll burn the last glimmer she hoards.
She staggers backward into the glare of the emergency lights. The towel loosens, and a bluish-tipped fist slips out, trembling. The sight forces a ragged breath from her lungs, but no sound follows. Diesel smoke billows from the idling engine and curls around her bare ankles like hot breath. Beside her lies a length of fire-hose, its open end gaping like an iron throat. The thought occursâthread the baby inside, let the darkness hush the fragile heartbeat. A second, crueler impulse flashes: set the bundle behind a truck tire and walk away, let thirty tons of heroism finish what misery began. But the heat, the roar, the blinking lights, too many watching eyes, drive her back. Tires screech as the truck engines into the street, the whole bay yawning like a furnace door. She lurches sideways, nearly dropping the bundle, the chorus in her head shrilling that sheâs seconds from being stripped of the only control she has left. Cradling the child tight, she bolts into a side alley, smoke still clinging to her hair, lungs searing as though sheâs inhaled a lit match.
A single street lamp guards the mouth of the alley, its bulb burning a smoky, sulfur-yellowâthe color of nursery sunbeams gone bad. Each time the filament flares, it hisses like a match in wind; each time it falters, darkness rushes back, swallowing the walls and her resolve. Three bright flickers, a pause, then three again: a broken heartbeat tattooed in light. She stands beneath the strobe, heart hammering funeral drums, soot-grit rain steaming off the pavement like breath from a dying furnace. The towel in her arms feels heavier now, as though the baby inside has turned to coal. Against her collarbone the infantâs breaths come thin and fading, each one a paper-thin puff of warmth that barely survives the night air. Smoke from the distant firehouse exhaust drifts into the alley, curling around them, staining the last scrap of sunflower glow that lingers in the bundle. She tightens her grip, slipping deeper between the buildingsâbeyond the reach of sirens, beyond the reach of lightâdetermined to choose, in her own ruinous way, the place where that faltering little sunbeam will gutter out for good.
She walks nowâshe has no energy for runningâeach step numbing her soles. The towel dampens; the infantâs breathing rasps, then pauses, then resumes in ragged sips. She mutters fragments of lullaby, lyrics rearranged by the chorus inside her head. A nurse smoking behind the emergency entrance glances up. âMaâam, do youââ She ducks her gaze, darts past. She canât let fluorescent corridors swallow her; fluorescent light shows everything. So she loops around to the service stairs, climbs flight after flight until the city wind greets her with exhaust and wet iron. The rooftop garden greets them with threadbare reminders of daylight, sun-starved sunflowers tilt in cracked terracotta, their heads ragged yet defiantly tracking the pale arc of dawn; brittle dandelion clocks tremble on hollow stems, scattering freckles of light with each icy gust; and a strip of calendula flares richest gold, petals tight around their centers as if bracing for frost yet refusing to surrender their flame.
First light edges over the city skyline, and those yellow petals catch it like small mirrors, throwing soft halos across the concrete. She kneels among the planters, bruising her knees on gravelly cement, and unwraps the towel. In that newborn splash of sunlight the babyâs waxen skin glows faintly, ribs etched like the veins of a fragile leaf. A breath quivers in, out. The babyâs eyelids flutter and open just a crack. In that sliver of light, her eyes grab the gleam from the yellow flowersâtwo tiny suns fighting through clouds. For one sweet moment the rooftop feels soft and warm, as if morning itself has wrapped her up. Her chest lifts, small but stubborn, drawing the light inside like a seed hungry for spring. The wind slips in, shaking the stems and stealing the heat, and the glow around her dims. Still, the little chest rises againâquick, brave, brightâan ember refusing to go out, trying with every breath to grow back into sunshine.
For the first time she truly looks: the delicate fists, the paper nails, the faint tremor that shakes like a caught bird fighting for a sky it hasnât seen. Something in her splitsânot the cruel fissure of voices, but a filament of yearning. âLittle Star,â she whispers, stroking a brow no wider than her thumb. âBright thing.â For a heartbeat she feels a warm surfaceâthin, risky, real. With clumsy care, she lays the baby down in the midst of the only living patch in the gardenâa tangled bed of yellow blooms, sunflowers and marigolds stubbornly shining against the cold. The petals press close, curling around the babyâs towel like a chorus of small suns. Nestled beside the flowers is an old music box left behind by another grieving soul, its painted lid chipped and golden. She opens it and sets the infant atop the faded music sheets tucked inside, their notes ghosted with the memory of lullabies. She turns the key. The music stumbles, notes splintered and off-key, but the melody limps outâa broken cradle song threading through dawn and dew. The baby, surrounded by gold and music, gives a fluttering gasp, chest lifting as if to follow the sun, then falls quiet, lulled by the thready tune. Her own heart stings with the violence of leaving, but exhaustion drags needles through her skull and the chorus returns, acidic: Not yours to save, finish her, dim her light. The babyâs chest stutters; a pause lingers too long; a weak gasp answers. She stares a moment longer as the wind tugs the babyâs towel, scattering marigold petals over her face, and as the tune dies into silence, the girl risesâempty, shivering, stepping back from her brightest, most broken offering, in a bed of yellow meant to hold light until the truest arms arrive.
She forces herself to step back, and the voices surgeâsnapping, mocking, clawing. âShut up, shut up!â she screams, palms clamped over her ears. The noise doesnât fade, so she slams the heel of her hand against her templeâonce, twiceâhard enough to spark white stars in her vision. âQuiet, itâs me, itâs me,â she gasps, as if sheâs talking herself into control. Blood hums behind her eyes; the metal railing bites her spine. She turns to the bundle, breathing ragged. âI wonât hurt you, not here.â Leaning in, she kisses the babyâs cheek, then presses her forehead to the tiny one, squeezing her eyes shut. âGood-bye, little Star,â she whispers, voice breaking. âFind the sun without me.â She straightens, shoulders shaking, and stumbles toward the rooftop door, fists still knotted in her hair as she fights to drag the screaming voices with her and leave the child in fragile peace.
Wind snaps her hair as she reaches the stairwell door, and the voices lungeâEnd it. One push, one drop, one quiet hush. For an awful second she pivots back, palm hovering over the babyâs mouth, fingers ready to pinch the last breath closed. The lavender bends toward her like witnesses, their purple heads trembling. Do it, the chorus hisses, snuff the false sun before it burns you again. She lifts her handâthen, with a ragged roar, turns the violence on herself. Fist meets forehead, once, twice, three times, until skin splits and warm red runs down her temple. The jolt clears the haze; pain floods louder than the voices. She staggers, blood speckling the concrete like fallen petals, and spits through her teeth, âNot today.â Another blow to her own skull, and the chorus recoils, fading to a static whine. She backs away, forearm smeared crimson, breaths knife-sharp, and forces her body through the stairwell door. Metal slams shut, swallowing her silhouette for goodâno footsteps, no farewell, only the faint scent of iron fading down the stairwell.
Dawn spills over the roof in ribbons the color of warmed honey, turning the battered garden into a patchwork of soft gold and bruised lilac. Wind brushes the lavender first, coaxing its tired stalks into a hush that sounds like lullaby, then drifts across a ragged row of sunflowers, heads bowed, but still fierce, their petals bright as candle flames that refuse the nightâs final breath. In their midst, calendula flares like pocket-sized suns, petals cupped tight against the cold as if guarding what little heat remains in the world. The baby, no heavier than a sigh, rests where those blossoms converge, towel cinched around her like a faded chrysalis. Dew settles on her lashes in perfect beads, tiny crystal lanterns catching each new beam of light. With every fragile inhale, her ribs lift just enough to cast the faintest shadow; with every exhale, a plume of warmth spirals into the crisp morning air and dissolves. One fist escapes the towel and uncurls toward a drooping sunflower petal, brushing its edge as though asking the bloom to stay awake a moment longer.
Above her, the sky blushes from pewter to lemon, then to a soft, translucent yellow, the same tender hue pulsing at her throat where the heartbeat flickers on. She is ringed by guardians no human assigned: the lavenderâs scent drapes over her like a quilt; the calendula glare at the wind, daring frost to try; the sunflowers lean inward, forming a ragged crown whose shadows fall upon her brow in broken spokes of warm light. For an instant their shapes merge, and it looks as though the flowers themselves have knitted a cradle of living gold around her, as if theyâre praying her towards survival. Somewhere far below, the city lifts into its weekday humâbuses sighing awake, traffic lights snapping through colors, coffee pots hissing behind diner glassâyet none of that commotion breaches this high garden. Here, the only rhythm is her own: a stubborn, staccato thrum that weds itself to the rustle of petals and the slow turning of the sun.
She lies waiting, half-dreaming, as if she already knows another set of arms is stretching across the morning to claim herâarms that will match her pulse, learn its falter and rise, memorize its starlight cadence. Until then, the rooftop holds its breath, the flowers keep watch, and the newborn light pools around her like liquid gold, seeping into the towelâs frayed weave, painting her skin with the promise of all the mornings still to come. She blinks at the world through dew and daylight, as if somewhere deep inside she senses the truest warmth is still on its way. The biggest sunbeam has not yet touched herâthe wide, sure shelter that will lift her from these petals, arms bright enough to make her feel safe for the first time, arms that will fit around her like the strongest flower of all. Until then, she curls deeper into the yellow hush, baby fists tangled with marigold stems, her heartbeat counting down to the moment when real sunshine finds her and calls her home.
He arrives before dawn, the hospitalâs glass towers still dark slivers against the sky, and the only sound is the hiss of his boots on concrete. His toolbox is strapped tight to his backârusted latch, a photograph of his son tucked inside the lid, grin bright as a hospital sunrise. He breathes deep, tasting frost and winter air, then taps the scaffold frame twice, a ritual heâs kept since the day his wife slipped away. Every bolt he tightens today carries her memory, and the promise he made to their boy, Haknyeon, that he would keep working, keep breathing, keep building something beautiful out of loss.
He steps off the service elevator into the sterile glare of âHwarangâsâ central atrium and is met by a chorus of voicesââMr. Cho!ââringing from every nursing station. Heâs the hospitalâs go-to handyman, the familiar face they call the moment a boiler cracks or a syringe pump stutters, and in his month-long absence every department noticed. Today heâs back on the rooftop, summoned to recalibrate the solar array that powers the NICUâs incubatorsâthe quiet lifeline under fluorescent skies. Doctors pause in their rounds to lift a grateful nod; nurses press steaming mugs of coffee into his hands without asking. He smiles, the steady pivot of this hospitalâs heartbeat, and tucks his tool bag under one arm, ready to bring warmth and light back to its smallest patients.
He climbs the fire escape, heartbeat steady as the elevatorâs hum below. On the rooftop, machinery waits: solar panels that will warm NICU incubators, a spray of cables like silver arteries. He tests each connection with the precision of a surgeon, his gloved fingers finding purchase on metal I-beams he knows will hold. A chill snakes up his spine, not from wind but from absenceâa loneliness he brushes off with a flick of his collar. He tells himself itâs just morning cold, nothing more. He stops for a moment at the gardenâs edge, where frost-bitten dandelions shiver beneath the guardrail. He remembers the day he planted daisies here, before his world fractured. He had imagined Haknyeon running between the blooms, giggling. Now he simply tightens one more bolt, listens to the hiss of compressed air, and resumes. âFor you, buddy,â he whispers, wiping sweat that isnât supposed to form in such cold. He steps back to admire his workâpanels aligned, cables secure, the promise of light for tiny bodies stretched below.
He tests the final switch. A soft click, then the low hum of power flowing through the wiresâan electric heartbeat for the ward heâs never seen awake. He packs away his tools, shoulder aching, and pauses in the pale half-light. Today feels different, though he canât name why. His breath clouds before him, each one of his exhales a question he canât answer. He slings his pack, turns to the fire escape, and thatâs when he sees it: a flash of yellow tangled in the weeds, a shape he assumes at first is lost cloth from a patientâs gown. At first he thinks itâs a doll abandoned in the cold. Then the towel shifts. He sees pale skin, hears the faint rasp of breath that shouldnât belong to stone.Â
Curiosity propels him forward. He kneels, heart tensing as he parts the crumpled towel to reveal the smallest face heâs ever seen, eyelashes tipped with dew. The baby lies coiled in a shallow nest of crushed calendula and frost-bitten dandelions, the only yellow flowers brave enough to survive winter. Sheâs nestled into a small music box, its gears clicking out the last fragments of a lullaby into the chill, each broken note caught and scattered by a restless wind like a heartbeat slipping off its rhythm. Dew clings to her lashes like sunlight frozen mid-blink, and her tiny fists twitch against her chest as if in search of a motherâs pulse that has gone strangely still. Under the rising sun, her body seems to glowânot with warmth, but because the flowers around her believe she deserves one last trace of light. She is swaddled in a yellow towel, soft from age and frayed at the seams like an old promise; it smells faintly of smoke and holds her like a memory already slipping away.
The world tiltsâhis sonâs laugh, his wifeâs lullaby, their last promiseâall converging in a single, ragged breath. He lifts the bundle with trembling reverence, surprised at its weight and warmth, the soft gasp that cracks through the cold. In the silent shimmer of yellow petals and broken lullaby, he understands: today, he will do more than mend wiresâtoday, heâll dare to hold a life back from the edge of forever, today is the day he will save a life, one he never knew he carried into this world. He lifts her, surprised at how feather-light she is, how fragile and nearly lifeless. He presses the babyâs head gently against his chest, each fragile breath a plea for life he refuses to ignore. Clutching her like a flickering candle shielded from the wind, he bolts down the first flight of stairs, determination burning behind his eyes. Four flights become a blur of concrete and railing as he races toward the lobby, a single thought driving him: keep her alive.
Panic detonates in his chest before he even reaches the lobby doorsâa wildfire of fear that ignites every nerve beneath his skin. He crashes through the glass double-doors, boots scraping tile as he staggers into the fluorescent glare of the atrium. His breath comes in ragged shards, each exhale sending little clouds over the marble floor, the yellow towel-wrapped bundle held out like a desperate offering. âSomeoneâpleaseâhelp her!â he roars, voice cracking the silence like a thunderclap, echoing down corridors meant for hushed footfalls and measured whispers. He clamps a trembling hand to his side, as if to staunch the fracture in his ribs, but it only pulses harder, a frantic alarm that wonât be silenced.
He sees the pallor of her skin, the faint flutter of her nostrils, and his voice breaks, raw with pleading: âPlease, please, sheâs just a baby. Sheâs just a baby, I donât know what else to do.â Over and over he repeats the prayer, each time louder, each time more helpless, until the lobby teems with startled staff rushing forwardâan outpouring of hands and murmured urgency to cradle the fragile spark he clutches like hope itself.
Immediately, the hospital convulses. A nurseâs stethoscope tumbles from her neck with a clatter; a doctor vaults off a stool, coat flaring in his wake. Phones spring to life in a chorus of ringâringâringâas receptionists snatch them up, muffled voices crackling orders into headsets. The night security guard snaps his flashlight on, its beam darting over white coats and stray charts, carving the chaos into sharp relief. Monitors in the hallway flicker awake, their beeps staccato like a premature heartbeat demanding attention. A cart laden with supplies screeches to a halt, its wheels protesting against the sudden uproar. Every eye snaps to the intruder and the fragile cargo in his arms, and for the smallest fraction of time, the hospital holds its breath.
âSomeone take her and help me! Donât just fucking stare at me!â The builderâs voice cracks the sterile air like a detonator. He thrusts the yellow bundle toward a nearby nurse, panic flooding every word. The towelâs sunflower hue is grim with smoke and old blood, its edges ragged as if it might tear itself apart. The nurse snaps her eyes to the stretcher sheâs just set up, hands already clipping on oxygen tubing and flicking through pages on her tablet. Without missing a beat she shakes her head. âIâm prepping the warmer and paging the on-call peds resident,â she says, voice taut with urgency. She glances over your way, scanning the lobbyâs swirl of white coats and badge-clad silhouettes. âGive the baby to herâsheâs the only doctor here.â
You stand rooted to the spot, scrubs the soft blue of a dawn sky still half-lost in night, badge dangling like a distant star you canât quite reach. Your heart thunders in your ears, an eclipse of nerves darkening every thought. Youâve never felt time stretch this thinâno coffee yet, no chart opened, not even a chance to sober your hands. This is your first day and now a baby rests in your arms, a living flicker against your chest, and your limbs betray you with tremors you canât quite silence. When the towel slides into your grasp, you realize you donât even know how to hold a child, but your arms fold around her anyway. She weighs nothing, yet feels too alive: a cradle of warmth that threatens to melt your knuckles. You lean in, breath hitching at the sharp scent of smoke and the faint trace of antiseptic that lingers on her skin. You can almost taste the promise of sunrise in her every shallow breath, as if she carries her own constellation within.
Your mind scrambles for protocolsâairway, breathing, circulationâbut the moment her cheek brushes your scrub top, a galaxy of instinct blossoms in your chest. The yellow towelâs threadbare softness presses against your sternum like a dying sunbeam desperate to flare back to life. Your hands remember lullabies youâve never sung, memories whispered from every mother youâve ever met, echoing beneath ribs that ache to protect. All around you, the lobby erupts into motion. A crash of metal carts, the hiss of regulators, nurses lunging for blankets, techs dashing for monitors. Lights flicker overhead like warning flares. The baby wheezesâa single cracked note that twists itself into your bones. You swallow against the tide of panic, arms tightening as if to shield her from the storm.
The infant in your arms is icily stillâher breath a ghost you canât catch, her fragile body wrapped in a yellow towel that feels too small for her sorrow. All you hear is your own blood roaring in your ears like a siren, drowning out the sterile hum of the corridor lights and the distant echoes of life beyond these walls. You want to cry out for help, to shatter the hush with a plea for mercy, but terror has locked your tongue. Time stretches thin around you, and in that frozen moment, you realize youâre holding hope itself on the brink of snuffing out.
That moment catapults you into your true arc with poetic brutality. You arrived here chasing ivory-tower dreams of perfect diagnoses and tidy case studies, only to have the universe fling its most abandoned bloomâan angel wrapped in a rooftopâs yellow towelâinto the soil of your life. She is a wounded sunflower, petals scorched by midnight winds, a silent ballerina whose first pirouette was a gasp for breath. Cradling her fragile form feels like holding sunlight in your palms just as it threatens to flicker out. Your chest tightens at the tremor of her heartbeat, a single petal trembling against the taut wire of life.Â
At your side, the nurseâs voice cuts through the haze like a scalpel: âWarm herânow! Why are you just staring at her? You think staring will save a life?â Your chest jams with ice, and for a heartbeat you canât move. Your scrubs are as light-blue as first breath, a hue born of dawnâs quiet promise and the soft hush of wings folded against night. Under the hospitalâs relentless neon, they gleam like a sacred pledge, an unspoken pact of care drawn across your shoulders. And pressed against your chest, the yellow towel, threadbare as heirloom lace, hovers between you and the infant, its frayed strands whispering of bloodlines and lullabies, a golden umbilicus tying you to a family you have yet to meet.
Your legs tremble as the nurseâs voice cracks like a whip: âDoctor, move! We need to get her onto the warmer now!â Another shouts, âGet the oxygen hooked upâwhy are you just standing there?â Their commands ricochet off the blue-tiled walls, each syllable a jolt demanding action. But youâre frozen, caught between the light-blue promise of your scrubs, soft as a dawn-tinted sky, and the fierce gold of the towel wrapped around the childâs ribs. Your breath hitches, and for a moment the world narrows to the glint in the infantâs dew-beaded lashes. You feel every thread of that yellow cloth pressing questions against your own heart: Can you save her? Do you know what life demands? The corridor pulses with urgency, nurses and doctors rushing past, stethoscopes flying to necks, hands outstretched, but you canât step forward. Your feet are anchors, your mind a haze of protocols youâve only ever practiced on oranges.
Youâre poised to step forward, gloves half-donned, mind racing through every textbook procedure youâve memorized: neonatal resuscitation, airway management, thermoregulation protocols but before you can move, he crashes into the bay, steps forward like a storm, coat tails flicking as he towers over the incubatorâs glow. His jaw is set, collar undone just enough to reveal the pale hollow of his throat, and when he raises one sculpted eyebrow, the fluorescent light catches the gold flecks in his gaze. burning impatience and a fierce focus only the smallest patients ever earn. The air crackles as he murmurs to her, soft, urgent, entirely separate from the iron edge in his voice when he turns to you: âMove.â His command is a heated blade through the tension, and you feel every molecule of the room shift toward his magnetic intensity. Without a word, he strips the yellow towel from your trembling arms and transfers the baby to his sternum, his fingers deft as a pianistâs.Â
He snaps on the thermal mattress, its surface hissing to life, then clips pulse-ox probes to each tiny fingertip as if tuning a fragile instrument. With a surgeonâs precision, he pinches an oral airway into place, then leans in close to flick open the ventilatorâs valve and watch her chest lift under warm, measured breaths. âWarm fluids, two hundred millilitersânow!â he bellows, voice sharp enough to carve through your hesitation. He slaps a saline lock into the vein at her wrist, the line flooding with gold-tinted fluid, and slams the lab orders: blood cultures, ABG, CBC, lactateâstat. All the while, his gaze flicks back to you, disbelief curling in the corners of his mouth. âYou just stood there,â he hisses, âfrozen, while she was on the edge of nothing. Do you have any idea what you almost lost?â His every movement is a masterclass in emergency care, each command a reminder of how life-and-death hinges on action, not hesitation.
He leans in as he murmurs his running critiqueâpathetic, frozen, uselessâand you feel the heat of his presence, a charged current between you. Your heart staggers; the monitors bleat in protest at her mounting fragility. You see the doubt in his eyes and taste it on the antiseptic breeze. All at once you remember the long nights you spent mastering intubations on mannequins, the surgical workshops, the deanâs list, the scholarships won. But none of that keeps your feet from quaking. In the hush that follows his scorn, you realize youâre not just fighting for her lifeâyouâre fighting to prove you deserve this place at all.
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You wake in the half-blue hush before dawn, the world beyond your window still folded in sleep, yet your heart pounds like a tiny drum in your chest. There is no blaring alarm, your body rises at precisely 5:00 AM because it knows this hour is sacred. Your feet click on the hardwood floor, each step deliberate, as though youâre crossing an invisible threshold from starlight into purpose. In this fragile pre-dawn light, the air tastes cool and new, and every breath you take feels like an invitation to honor the dream youâve carried since infancy.
Light seeps along the edge of your bed, illuminating the corner where your immaculate white lab coat hangs on a smooth wooden hanger. Your hospital ID is already clipped to the belt of your rolling bag, standing ready before you are. On the counter, a single nutrition bar rests beside the kettleâm, fuel portioned and packed, its wrapper folded with mathematical precision. On the fridge door, a checklist in three bands of ink, black for logistics, blue for gear, red for âdonât forget to breatheââserves as your guiding star. Your handwriting is small and precise; the final red box gleams like a tiny victory, the last promise youâll keep today.
You tap your phone and the first notes of soft piano drift through the room, not to soothe, but to sharpen. This exact soundtrack carried you through pediatric finals, each arpeggio anchoring your frayed nerves to one clear thought: remember how to save them. As the chords weave through the air, without thinking, you recite the entire abstract of last monthâs âPediatric Critical Care Review,â every statistic on neonatal hypothermia, every margin note you penciled at 2 AM when the world was dark and your desk lamp burned like a beacon. You can still see the graph of glucose curves etched on page 37 as clearly as the sunrise outside your window. Your fingers trace the invisible text in midair, recalling exact phrasingââMaintain core temperature above 36.5 °C to reduce morbidityââwhile you pack your bag. Each line youâve studied in the early mornings, each protocol youâve annotated in the margins, lives in your mind like a living document, ready to be summoned the instant a monitor alarms.
Finally, you don your scrubs, buttoning the left sleeve first, always left, then right, as though youâre donning armor. The pale-blue fabric settles over your shoulders like second skin, echoing the dawnâs first light. You smooth each crease with the careful touch of someone who understands that precision matters. When you clip your badge over your heart, the weight of every life youâve vowed to protect settles on your chest. Today, you step into the hospital not as a student, but as a doctor, every movement calibrated, every breath an affirmation: I am ready.
You lace up your shoes and whisper the names of children youâve yet to meet, each syllable a vow. Even in this quiet moment, you imagine their fragile pulses, their tiny chests quivering with first breaths. Every child who crosses these hospital thresholds becomes your responsibility before you even set foot in the lobby, your mind already dancing through protocols for hypothermia, IV access, neonatal resuscitation. Your bag waits by the door like a silent partner in your promise. You pack trauma shears with the precision of a surgeon sizing scalpels, stash glucose tablets for the hypoglycaemic shocks you know will come, and tuck in two pensâblack and blueâbecause youâve learned the hard way that someone will always âborrowâ a pen and never return it. Beneath these practical tools lies an old Polaroid: you as a toddler swaddled in a hospital blanket, your aunt in pink scrubs cradling you. You trace her smiling face, remembering the warmth of those arms, the first promise of healing you ever felt.
Your own story begins under fluorescent warmth and humming machines. You came screaming into the world six weeks before your time, so tiny that the nurses whispered you might not make it, and for six long weeks your body lived inside an incubatorâs glass cradle while your mother teetered on the edge of death. That first fight for breath isnât just a story you tell, itâs a drumbeat in your blood, a reminder that survival is your inheritance. You tell people you chose medicine, but late at night, when your hands tremble from fatigue and the memory of that incubatorâs hum floods your mind, you wonder if medicine chose you, whether your destiny was written in those first fragile gasps you fought so fiercely to draw.
You grew up above a corner pharmacy, where your fatherâs night-shift rotas overlapped with your motherâs frantic mornings. She braided your hair with strips of medical tape when she ran late, and the apartment smelled of iodine and printer paper, lingering behind everything else. Vitamin chews clinked in your lunchbox alongside your carefully folded anatomy flashcards. That was your world: a tapestry of care, urgency, and the quiet hum of possibility. At six, you sat in the back of Sunday school and taught yourself the names of every bone in the human body. By nine, youâd copied your auntâs anatomy textbook in gel pens, color-coded and margin-annotated. At thirteen, you watched a friendâs brother die because the ambulance arrived too late, his small body still as broken glass. You vowed then youâd never freeze in the face of panic. That memory sits behind your eyes whenever you hear a code pink.
High school found you in the library stacks, head buried in journals on pediatric trauma, your fingers tracing graphs of survival rates. In undergrad, you lived in labs, pipetting DNA sequences and charting cell cultures. In medical school, you balanced on the razorâs edge between obsession and burnout, refusing to quit, refusing to lose. You werenât the top scorer, but you were the most relentless: the kind who redid an entire cardiac physiology paper at 3 AM because you spotted a miscalculation in your own footnote. Now, standing in your apartmentâs pale dawn, you feel the weight of every textbook youâve memorized, every protocol youâve rehearsed until muscle memory turns to instinct. You carry the echo of incubator alarms in your marrow and a photographic library of neonatal charts in your mind. You know the curve of a glucose tolerance graph as intimately as the back of your own hand.
You moved through the med school like a specter in lecture halls, your pen a metronome across slides of metabolic pathways and embryonic layers. While classmates whispered study tips, you traced the Krebs cycle in the margins of your notebook until you could recite each enzyme without a secondâs hesitation. Professors nicknamed you âthe shadowâ because you spoke only when your insight upended a diagnosis, like noting that a âbenignâ rash matched the pattern of early neonatal lupus, yet your silence held the heft of every nuance youâd catalogued. In the simulation lab, you learned to wield theory as a scalpel. Mannequins exhaled preprogrammed distress, and your fingers danced through ACLS algorithms: airway first, then breathing, then circulation. You navigated high-fidelity code blues so many times that the crash cart felt like home. When you finally watched a real thoracotomyâyour first true encounter with surgeryâs raw geometryâyour vision swam and the cool scrub sink rushed up to meet you. You fainted against the porcelain witness. You cried. By sunrise, you were back, describing every step of the posterolateral approach in flawless detail, your attendingâs praise was a quiet redemption of last nightâs tremor.
On clinical rotations, you discovered that medicine lives between theory and human connection. You found yourself leaning close to frail patientsâyour palm a bridge between stethoscope and storyâlearning that it isnât a perfect chart or a flawless procedure they remember, but the way you met their gaze when fear trembled in their eyes. You practiced explaining CPAP pressure settings in plain language, watching relief bloom on anxious faces more vividly than any pharmacologic promise. In your pediatric clerkship, the line between textbook and tragedy blurred irrevocably. You watched a fragile preemie slip away despite surfactant, fluids, and dopamineâthe residentâs hands moving faster than your heart could catch up. You didnât perform the procedures, but you felt each failure as though youâd held the ambu bag yourself. For an entire week you spoke only in data points, until you scrawled his name on a tiny Post-it in your phone: Lin, 28 weeks. Not punishment, but a covenant: every protocol memorized, every simulation repeated, every sunrise youâd welcomed would be in his honorâand in honor of every life you refused to let slip through the seam of preparedness and compassion.
The ride into the city feels shorter than it shouldâfive stops of the elevated train, steel wheels screeching like a tuning fork whose pitch only your nerves can hear. You step onto the platform just as sunrise ignites the skyline, and there it is: Hwarang Medical Center, a cascade of glass and brushed titanium that gleams like a freshly autoclaved scalpel. Youâve dreamed of this façade since childhood, since evenings when your aunt returned from night duty still smelling faintly of isopropyl and lavender hand soap, telling stories about miracle codes and impossible saves. Even then, you memorized the hospitalâs silhouette the way other children memorize constellations, certain that one day you would trace those lines from the inside.
Crossing the plaza, you step past a bank of security turnstiles, your badge swiping against the scannerâs soft green glow before a quiet click grants you passage. Uniformed officers stand sentinel in glassed alcoves. shoulders squared, eyes flicking between screens that cascade live feeds from cameras tucked into every corner. Doors hum shut behind you, their magnetic seals snapping like vault gates, and you realize every corridor is a secured zone, every elevator ride tracked by log-ins and time stamps. It feels less like a hospital and more like a citadel of care, where the most precious cargo, human life, moves under watchful guard, shielded from chaos by this silent network of vigilance.
The main entrance rises in tiers of transparent panels, each etched with microscopic text. quotes from pioneers of medicine in six languages, so that morning light fractures into prismatic lines across the marble. A brass plaque by the revolving door lists accolades like battle honors: Ranked #1 in trauma outcomes eight consecutive years; first in the nation to perform whole-organ 3-Dâprinted tracheal transplants; Level-I pediatric burn center with a ninety-eight percent survival rate. Your pulse skitters in your throat. This is the arena that minted Huang Renjun, the cardiothoracic prodigy whose single-incision valve repairs rewrote surgical textbooks. Itâs the same place your aunt once led RRTs as charge nurse, her quiet efficiency now woven into the corridorsâ muscle memory. Itâs also home to Kim Jungwoo, director of neurovascular surgery, whose fingertip-precise bypasses rescued strokes once deemed untreatable; Sim Jaeyun, head of pediatric oncology, who pioneered immunotherapy protocols that turned childhood leukemias from death sentences into chronic manageable diseases; and Park Sunghoon, the trauma bayâs iron-nerved architect, whose mastery of damage-control surgery has pushed survival rates in multi-system trauma beyond anything the country thought possible. Each name is a legend here, each specialty a testament to the brilliance youâre about to join.
Inside, the lobby dwarfs every lecture hall youâve ever occupied. Twin atria vault six stories high, latticed with sky bridges that float like glass arteries, moving white coats in continuous circulation. Beneath your shoes, Italian travertine gleams warm and bone-smooth, inlaid with brass lines that guide patient flow the way conduction fibers guide an impulse through the myocardium. Ahead, a cylindrical elevator bank rises like a transparent column of light, capsules zipping up to specialized wings: Burn & Reconstructive (5), Transplant ICU (6), Neurointervention Suites (7), Robotic OR Theater (9-11), and the crownâSkyGarden Pediatric Pavilion (roof), where therapy dogs and botanists coax children toward photosynthesis.
You pause near an interactive directory whose screen blossoms at your approach, offering a topographic map of the hospitalâs sixteen clinical floors. There is an entire wing devoted to hybrid endovascular labs; another to regenerative medicine where scaffold bioprinters hum day and night. The trauma bay boasts negative-pressure resus rooms lined with high-speed CT gantries; the helipad above is floodlit with amber LEDs, capable of receiving rotorcraft in zero-visibility snow. A scrolling sidebar lists more than a dozen Centers of Excellence, from the Hwarang Fetal Surgery Institute to the Comprehensive Craniofacial Program, each a citadel of expertise you once outlined on index cards now yellowed with time.
A security badge check later, you enter the staff concourse: vaulted ceiling, acoustic panels shaped like DNA helices, and a living moss wall irrigated by recycled condensate. The smell hits youâclean vinyl, hand sanitizer sharp as gin, and something faintly floral that the environmental services team diffuses to keep visitor cortisol low. Every few steps, touchscreens bloom with patient metrics, lab values updating in real time like stock tickers, and digital wayfinding arrows shift to account for foot-traffic density. You glimpse a cluster of white coats around a stainless-steel coffee kiosk; at its center stands Dr. Huang himself, unmistakable even from behind: spine ruler-straight, silver-lined temples, discussing mitral valve chordae as casually as weekend weather.
You find the bank of elevators reserved for trainees, color-coded blue the shade of pre-dawn scrubs. and scan your provisional badge. As the doors close, you catch your reflection: wide eyes, pulse bobbing at your throat, yet posture squared by years of 3 AM anatomy sessions and cadaver labs that smelled of formalin and determination. You recall how, during med school, professors called you quiet but with good instincts, first to flag a silent anastomotic leak during rounds. Those same nights youâd fallen asleep propped against library stacks, cardiology atlases open like wings. All of that has brought you here, into a lift that hums like a tuning fork, carrying you toward the intern locker room on âLevel 3 Graduate Medical Flood.â
The doors part onto a corridor paneled in light-oak veneer. Digital plaques list each residency track: Surgery, Trauma & Critical Care, Neuroscience and Pediatric Surgeryâyours. Your palms prickle with sweat that smells faintly of latex gloves, and you think of your aunt again, her mantra echoing: Chart with your ears, treat with your heart, cut with your mind. You run through your mental library: neonatal sepsis pathways, pediatric burn fluid formulas, the Parkland equation singing in the back of your skull. Each fact unspools in perfect order, ready to bear the weight of real blood, real time limits. Before you push open the locker-room door, you glance through a side window at the main corridor. Nurses glide in teal uniforms, residents in jewel-toned caps flash past, and a transport team wheels a bassinet with an ECMO pump rhythmic as a lullaby. Your breath catches: this is the heartbeat you have followed since childhood, siphoned through bedtime stories of miracle codes. Today, at last, you arenât an eavesdropper outside the ICU glassâyouâre part of the rhythm. You square your shoulders, tug the strap of your bag, and let the door swing wide into the noise of possibility.
The operating room feels charged, as if every light, every tray of polished instruments, is holding its breath in anticipation. Beneath the constellation of overhead lamps, you and twenty of your new colleagues, six of you women, stand in a rough semicircle around the steel altar. You were chosen from over half a million hopefuls; the plan was to take twenty, but the board, including Dr. Baekhyun himself, couldnât resist adding one more exceptional applicant. Today, you carry not only your own hopes but the gratitude of every life that might depend on your hands. Dr. Byun Baekhyun enters without fanfare, his crisp coat billowing behind him like a banner. He pauses in the center, scanning each face with eyes that have borne witness to miracles and heartbreak in equal measure. The click of his shoes on tile is steady as a metronome, measuring out the seconds before he speaks.
Dr. Byun Baekhyun, the undisputed titan of Hwarang Medical Centerâs surgical wing, needs no introductionâyet here it is. A general surgeon by training, he spearheaded the first single-incision pancreaticoduodenectomy in the country, slashing average recovery times in half and rewriting textbooks in the process. He holds dual fellowships in trauma and transplant surgery, has published over two hundred peer-reviewed articles, and lectures annually at the World Surgical Congress. Twice awarded the National Medal for Clinical Innovation, heâs saved lives on every continent, from disaster zones in Southeast Asia to conflict hospitals in Eastern Europe. His name is spoken in reverent tones by nurses and whispered with awe by residents. âEach of you comes here hopeful,â he begins, voice measured but carrying to the furthest corner of the room. âA month ago, you were med studentsâlearning how to suture, how to soothe, how to stand in the wings.â He lifts a scalpel, letting the blade catch the light. âToday, you are the surgeons. Youâre here because, from over five hundred thousand applicants, only twenty-one were deemed worthy. You carry the boardâs vote of confidence, an extra slot granted only because one of you simply couldnât be left behind.â
He paces slowly, gloved fingertips brushing retractors as if greeting old friends. âThis hospital is not a place for comfort,â he continues, âbut it is a place for transformation. We are a teaching hospitalâwhere even the greatest among us learned to bend and break before we found our edge. You will be pushed beyond anything youâve imagined: through fatigue, through fear, through days when you wonder if you can take another step. But you will not walk these corridors alone.â He stops, gaze locking on each of you in turn. âLook to your left, then to your right. These are your surgical family. Eight of you will switch to easier specialties, five of you will crack under the pressure, two of you will be asked to leave. And the restâif you endureâwill become the doctors who save lives, who teach others in turn, who carry forward the legacy of this place.â
He lowers the scalpel and folds his arms. âPatients donât remember your fatigue. Families donât remember your doubts. They remember resultsâand they remember how you met their gaze when their world was falling apart. Your job is to learnâquietly, precisely, relentlessly. When you are the ones bleeding in the OR, your team will be the reason you stand.â His voice softens just enough to hint at the kinship he expects you to forge. âThis is your crucible, yes, but also your community. Here, brilliance meets humanity. Here, mentors carve champions from raw potential. Here, you will laugh when relief arrives, and you will weep beside one another when it does not.â He steps back, the fluorescent glow catching the fine lines at the corners of his eyes. âThis is day one of the bestâand worstâseven years of your life. This is your arena. How well you play is up to you. Dismissed.â In the sudden stillness that follows, you feel every fiber of the room resonate with possibility, and with the unspoken promise that you will carry each other through whatever comes next.
Dr. Byun lowers his gaze, sweeping the circle of interns one last time. The humming lights catch the silver in his eyes as he delivers the final decree: âAll interns, report to the Commons on Level 3. Wait there until your resident calls your name, donât wander off.â His voice, cool and unwavering, hangs in the antiseptic air like a benediction. And with that, the surgical cathedral falls silent, your directive sealed beneath that final, unyielding command.
You step through the swinging doors into a gentle hush, the polished floors and sheer glass walls dissolving the world behind you until it feels bathed in quiet lightâlike crossing into a sanctuary built of careful hands and whispered prayers. Yet before youâve fully taken in the brightness, something stirs at the edge of your awareness: the soft glide of a nurse passing by, her hair coiled into a halo of midnight, and for a moment youâre elsewhereâin your auntâs old ward, where fluorescent lamps hummed lullabies and your small hand curled around her scrub pocket for a hidden peppermint. The faint tang of antiseptic lingers in the air, edged with lemon and memory, and without conscious thought your feet drift toward that phantom corridor you havenât walked in years, drawn by the echo of every step you once took under kinder lights.
You inhale that scent like a prayer, letting it carry you back to afternoons when you dawdled behind your aunt in those very hallsâher laughter soft and knowing as she steered you away from the bleak corners, her fingers brushing yours to steady you when the overhead lights felt too bright. You remember her voice, calm as warm broth, reading your scraped knee like it was the most important case in the world. You remember how sheâd press a cool gauze pad to your tears, whispering, âBravery doesnât mean you donât cry; it means you keep going.â
In your mindâs eye, she stands at the nursesâ station, sleeves rolled up, her badge catching the fluorescent gleam. Youâd perch on a stool beside her, entranced by the rhythm of her roundsâthe soft shush of charts, the rustle of stock orders, the gentle hum of equipmentâeach sound a note in the melody that taught you medicine was both precision and grace. Sheâd show you how to fold bandages into neat little packets, how to say âhelloâ to a frightened child so they might believe the hospital was a place of healing, not harm.
You drift, chest tightening with that curious ache of wonder youâve always carried. In childhood, large supermarkets were your secret palaces, aisles echoing with the music of overhead piped-in pianos and rows of oranges glowing like miniature suns. Back then, youâd weave between carts, fingertips grazing fruit, unafraid and marveling at unexpected miracles tucked into every corner. Now, that same instinct pulls you away from the clustered interns, drawing you toward the soft murmur of a distant HVAC grate, toward the invisible pulse of this hospitalâs heart. You press your palm flat against the cool wall because you have to listen, you have to feel. The concrete hums beneath your fingertips, a private lullaby of ventilators and IV pumps, each beat a reminder that you belong to something far larger than the rigid schedules and locked-down protocols.
By the time you blink free of the memory, the Commons is empty. The high-backed stools stand forlorn around the central table. Dr. Byunâs voice has faded to a distant echo, replaced by the slow drip of a broken faucet somewhere down the hall and the soft whirr of an unattended air vent. Panic flares across your collarbones. You spin on the balls of your feet: no fellow interns to guide you back, no whisper of a displaced co-worker. You are entirely, achingly alone in the labyrinth. Your heart hammers as you realize your error, but thereâs no shame in the twitch of relief when you catch a sliver of yellow light from the emergency wing ahead, a hint of what pulled you here in the first place. You step toward it, each footfall echoing down the corridor like footsteps in an empty cathedral. And though the Commons called your name for orientation, this pulse â this luminous thrum beneath your palm, this radiant promise of small life waiting in the shadows â has claimed you instead.
You straighten your spine and breathe deep, tasting the hospitalâs electric charge on your tongue. Itâs not lostness; itâs a summons. Every nerve in your body hums with the recognition that this is where youâre meant to be â even if it means straying from the path you thought was laid for you. As the yellow beacon ahead shifts into view, you realize youâve already begun your true orientation. Welcome to the pulse of Hwarang.
You stand beneath the fluorescent hum as thunder mutters through the hospitalâs steel spine, a low rumble that shakes the windows like distant drums. Outside, rain lashes the glass façade in staccato sheets, each droplet a metallic tattoo against the buildingâs skin. Inside, the air tastes of sharpened antiseptic and cooling vents, tremoring in your chest like the hush before the tide breaks. A flicker of the lights ripples overheadâonce, twiceâcasting the corridor into momentary darkness before they blaze back to life, revealing walls that gleam like pillars in a storm-forged cathedral. Your hand tightens on your badge, its weight suddenly thunderous against your palm, and you breathe in the electric charge that threads between the lights. Somewhere beyond these doors, a wave of chaos gathersâan unseen tide of alarms and footsteps soon to crash through this quiet. For a heartbeat, you stand poised at the eye of it all, every nerve alive with the anticipation of disaster, every breath a promise that youâll meet the coming storm.
The peace fractures in an instant. A heavy thud echoes from beyond the frosted doorsâa single, urgent heartbeat in the corridorâs quiet. You pivot, heart hammering, as the light ahead shivers and warps, a yellow beacon bending into a warning. In the slit of vision beneath the door, a figure bursts through: a construction worker, rain still pooling on his shoulders, face creased with desperation. Clutched to his chest is something small, so still that for a moment you think itâs a kit of instruments. Then the yellow towel shifts, and your breath stutters.
âPleaseâsomeone help her! Donât just stand there!â His voice splinters the air, raw and ragged as a wounded birdâs cry. You step forward, adrenaline uncoiling in your veins, but your feet lock as the hallway snaps into hyperdrive. Monitors scream to life in adjacent rooms, a metal cart screeches around the corner, and the crisp click of a stethoscope being snatched by a nurse falls like thunder. Sheâs already two steps ahead, gloved fingers tracing the babyâs lines, prepping the portable warmer with an efficiency born of countless nights just like this. You watch her rhythmâwarm fluid, oxygen mask, suction deviceâeach motion precise as a surgeonâs, each breath a direction in a frantic ballet.
âPrepare the portable warmer. Page pediatricsânow!â Her voice is tight, a taut wire cutting through panic. You feel her rigor lock the chaos into a grid of purpose. Then she fixes you with a glare sharper than any scalpel. âGive her to the doctor!â she commands, pointing at you with a force that leaves no room for doubt. The world tilts; youâre the only one in doctor scrubs, youâre barely sixty minutes into your first shift, but every eye snaps to you as though your very name is written across your chest.
In that breath-held instant, her chest liftsâa tremor so slight it could be mistaken for a ghostâs whisperâyet to you it blazes like the heart of a lone sunflower straining up through midnight soil, petals of life unfurling against the weight of oblivion. You feel her fragile warmth press into your sternum, a single ray of molten gold caught in human form, and every fiber of your being fractures between awe and terror. Your arms tremble as though they hold the last sliver of sunrise, every heartbeat in her tiny wrist echoing your own, begging you not to drop that sliver into darkness. Protocol screams in your mindâcall for help, clamp the line, secure the airwayâbut your bones remember a simpler truth, older than manuals: hold her close, shield her from the dying light. And so you stand frozen, soul caught between the dying day and the promise of dawn, cradling a single spark that refuses to be snuffed.
Behind you, the nurseâs steps recede as she rounds up the team, residents, orderlies, respiratory techs, while you stand at the epicenter of this trembling moment, heart echoing in your ears like a cymbal crash. You glance down at her, at the tiny curve of her hairline, the faint crease where the towel presses, the drop of condensation on her eyelash shimmering gold in the glare. âYouâre okay,â you murmur, voice trembling with awe and fear, âyouâre okay.â And in that whisper, the corridor holds its breath, the hospitalâs pulse slows to match yours, and you realize youâve just become the keeper of her light.
Time dilates around you, the corridorâs fluorescent hum stretching into a low, relentless drone as the babyâs feeble heartbeat flickers against the soft yellow blanket in your arms like a dying neon sign in a rainstorm. You clutch her closer, weight and warmth fused into a single, trembling beam of light. sunflower-gold in your memory, yet you cannot move. Your muscles have locked into a statueâs stillness, every command you ever learned buried beneath the tidal pulse of terror that surges through your veins. Somewhere behind you, distant alarms begin to pound like warning drums, but you remain motionless, locked in the gravity of her need. Itâs only when a voice splits the hazeâsharp as a scalpelâs edgeâthat the moment fractures and you remember how to breathe.
You stand rooted to the spot, breath lodged in your throat, as if the world has tilted on its axis and left you dangling between heartbeat and collapse. The baby in your arms murmurs a single, tentative sigh, a sunflower seed cracking open in winter, and you realize youâve been holding her too tightly, as though you could squeeze life back into her. Your mind races through every neonatal protocol youâve memorized, but your body remains a statue of shock and awe. âGive her to me! Why are you just standing there?â The command cuts through the corridorâs drone like a thunderbolt. You flinch, clutching the yellow blanket as though it might shield you from both his rage and the hospital lights. It takes a momentâtwo, maybe three heartbeatsâbefore your limbs remember their purpose. You step back, paling, and hold out the baby like an offering.
When his hands close around her, itâs not the fierce snap of authority you expect but a gentle cradle, as if her fragility has carved tenderness into his fingertips. You glance up, and there he is: Dr. Na Jaemin, the name youâve only ever seen etched in journal mastheads, now carved in living flesh before you. His hair is streaked with silver at the temples, as though lightning once struck a single promise into him; his cheekbones catch the harsh lights in angled planes of shadow and steel. His gaze, storm-wracked and luminous, sweeps you once, the flicker of recognition in his eyes softening them for a heartbeat, before it contracts back into the command of a man who has known hunger, fear, and hope in equal measure. You watch, breath returning in uneven gusts, as he settles the baby onto your shared station: a counter of stainless steel that glints like a mirror catching sunbeams. He checks her pulse, two fingers pressed to the curve of her wrist, reading the rhythm as if it were a sunlit sonnet carved in Morse code. He leans in, eyes narrowing, and you see the faintest tremor in his jawâsomething youâve never seen in journals or at conferencesâa tether of vulnerability when a life so delicate demands his full attention.
âClear trauma bay,â he mutters under his breath, not loud enough for staff outside the sliding doors to hear, but as precise as any vital sign. âGet me warm NS at forty.â The nurse scurries at his side, syringe and tubing in perfect sync. Yet even in the ballet of urgency, he pauses, fingers brushing back a stray curl from the infantâs forehead in a movement as reverent as a benediction. It is a gesture you will replay in your mind for nights to come, a single sunbeam in a sky of surgical steel.
As monitors begin their urgent chorus, you take a trembling step back, hands still empty of her weight but full of tremulous relief. The babyâs chest rises again, a single petal unfolding in dawnâs first light. He catches your eye then, just for a flicker, and you are no longer the rookie who frozeâyou are the keeper of her spark. In that moment, amid the rush of alarms and whispered hierarchies, you understand the gravity of trust: he needed those long, pale arms to move. And though neither of you knows it yet, that shared heartbeat beneath the hum of fluorescent halo will bind you in ways no protocol ever could.
âIf youâd hung like that for another second, she wouldâve died.â His words strike like shards of ice, and you lift your gaze to himâhis presence at once promise and warning, every line of his face etched by battles with life and death. Dr. Na Jaemin, renowned chief resident and pediatric surgeon, stands before you, his reputation whispered in reverent tones through every corridor. His features are a map of obsession and precisionâhigh cheekbones angled like razor blades, eyes the color of storm-wracked skies, mouth set in a vow of steel. He moves with the fluid economy of someone who has saved lives by the count of hundreds, yet tonight he is two steps away, stretching out long-fingered hands that seem designed to cradle rather than cut. Youâd read his CV: summa cum laude, fellowship in neonatal cardiac surgery, inaugural surgeon in the country to repair a hypoplastic heart via a single thoracotomy. Youâd only ever seen him in blurred action shots on medical journals, an apparition in half-glove and surgical cap. And now, here he isâreal, urgent, scolding you for a hesitation that almost cost her everything.
His voice is still a blade of authority: âMove her to the warmer. Now.â You stumble, cheeks flushing under stark lights that feel too bright, too public. As he worksâtenting her fragile chest with warm hands, unleashing catheters and cameras, barking precise numerical orders, you shrink into yourself, remembering every cautious step you took to become a doctor, only to freeze at the moment that mattered most. Yet even as embarrassment chokes you, youâre vaguely aware of relief stirring: heâs here, the best healer of little babies in the entire country, and under the arc of his command, this tiny life might endure. In that pulse of shared focusâhis surgical calm meeting your frantic need to atoneâyou glimpse the first shaky thread of a bond that will bind you together in ways you cannot yet imagine.
âScrub in with me, now,â he snaps, voice sharp as steel. âThereâs no one else around, and I donât have time to wait for doctors to answer their pagers.â Your feet move before your mind can protest, carrying you into the storm at his heels as the corridor dissolves into a blur of urgency and light. The fluorescent world contracts into a narrow, lightning-bright path straight to the OR. He doesnât wait to see if you follow. His focus fixes on the bundle cradled against his chest, on the frail clockwork pulse beating a countdown beneath the yellow towel. You catch only a glimpse of his profileâjaw set like carved steel, eyes narrowed into twin coals of urgencyâand then youâre running, soles slapping vinyl, breath tearing raw lines down your throat.
Nurse Yuha arrives at your side with the precision of a metronome, her silver braid swinging against her scrub collar. She doesnât pause for explanation. âHold that door,â she instructs, keying the release on the magnetic latch. âWeâll transfer her under a blanket only. skip the overhead warmer, she canât tolerate the heat spike. Set oxygen at twenty-five percent on the T-piece and have a self-inflating bag ready in case her saturation dips below eighty-five.â In the span of a heartbeat, she has armed an entire crash cart with suction tubing, endotracheal tubes, and emergency epinephrine, her every motion a lesson in crisis-born certainty, while your own hands still tremble with textbook promise.
The corridor transfigures into a warpath. Cabinets unlatch with a clatter as orderlies fling open drawers, metal carts thunder to life behind you, and overhead lights strobe in urgent crescendos. A voice crackles from the intercom: âSurgical team, egress to OR threeâcode neonatal!â Red-badged technicians materialize at your flanks, guiding backstanders out of the way with brisk nods. Jaemin runs, the corridorâs neon haze stretching before him, but his gaze stays welded to the fragile sunbeam cradled against his chestâa living shard of dawn he refuses to let slip away. His legs pump like pistons, heart thrumming in time with the babyâs faint pulse, every muscle coiled to shield that trembling light from the encroaching dark. In that instant, he becomes her living eclipse, channeling all his brilliance and fury into a single vow: he will save her, and he will keep her flame alive.
Inside the scrub bay, time dilates and pressure coagulates. You step before the sinkâstainless steel reflecting your pale reflectionâand bring your hands beneath the surgical soap, feeling the antiseptic burn like absolution. Mint-scented foam catches under your nails as you count your scrubsâ layered lather, each rotation a vow to shade fear with action. The dryer bellows above, gusting sterile warmth over your wrists until they still. Never again, you promise your trembling palms. Never again will you let hesitation eclipse a life. When your gloves snap on, Yuha stands sentinel at the door. Her gaze softens with hard-won kindness as she checks your doubled knots and tucked cap. âThis is your first neonatal crunch,â she says quietly, voice steady as a motherâs heartbeat. âDonât blink, breathe with her rhythm, ensure your reactions are quick. Iâll scrub in behind you.â She steps back into the blur of the corridorâs chaos, leaving only the echo of her calm to guide you.
The OR door slides open on a pneumatic sigh, white light flooding the threshold like judgement and mercy entwined. There, at the center of that brilliant glare, stands Dr. Na, silhouetted against the beam, clothed in the conviction of someone who has cut open sorrow and stitched it back together. In his arms, the sleeping infant trembles beneath the yellow blanket, her fragile life balanced on the precipice of steel and skill. As you cross into that cathedral of urgency, your heartbeat finds its counterpoint in the monitorâs beeps, and you feel the vow in your blood answer the call: you will not let her light extinguish tonight.
The overhead lights flicker to life, folding the operating room into a blinding cathedral of white. Instruments gleam on a stainless-steel tray like mirrors catching sunbeamsâcold, clinical, and unforgiving. Dr. Na lays the infant on the warm drape of the surgical table with hands gentler than a prayer but firmer than any lullaby, positioning her as though she is the axis upon which the world must turn. You stand at the edge of the table, scrub-clad and heart pounding, watching the fragile curve of her ribs under the thin blanket, the ghost of a bruise pressed into her lip, and knowing this is the moment her story will be rewritten.
His voice cracks the hush: âVitals.â You see the anesthetist lean in, listening to the faint flutter of her heartbeat, fingers poised on the pulse oximeter. Jaeminâs tone drops to a razorâs edge: âClamp ready.â He doesnât wait for confirmation, only the soft click of clamps sliding into position. âSuction prepped.â The scrub nurse moves with preternatural calm, her hands tracing the tubing like a practiced ballet. Then Dr. Na turns to you with a single, precise question: âTell me what we know.â
Nurse Yuhaâs voice comes steady, factual as a ledger: âJane Doe. Newborn, female. Estimated three to four days old. No identifying tags, no maternal notation. Found by construction personnel in the rooftop garden less than an hour ago. Social Services is on line two.â The words hang in the air like thunder before the storm, each syllable a testament to abandonment and desperation.
Dr. Na pauses, his eyes sweeping the infantâs pale skin as if reading a secret map. Her chest barely moves, each inhalation a battle. He dips two fingers to her ribs, pressing gently, and murmurs, almost to himself, âMiracle sheâs still breathing.â His lips quirk in a shadow of bitter irony. âWhat kind of person leaves a child to die like this?âÂ
A nurse offers a soft counterpoint: âPerhaps they thought it was mercy.â He doesnât answer; a single tic flickers at the corner of his jaw, and then, almost tenderly, he brushes a stray lock of hair from the babyâs forehead as though shielding a single sunbeam from the void.
Your voice quivers but holds as you begin the presentation, your eyes fixed on the bundle of yellow cloth and cyanotic skin. âJane Doe, estimated three to four days old,â you recite, fighting to keep your tone clinical. âPresentation: cyanosis of lips and fingers, tachypnea at sixty breaths per minute, core temperature thirty-four point six, systolic pressure in the forties. Weight one point eight kilograms. Uneven tone, intermittent tremors, possible neonatal abstinence. Priority is resuscitation, then stabilization.â
Dr. Na nods once, expression carved from granite sorrow. He stands at the head of the table, gloved hands already spanning the infantâs skull and shoulders with impossible tenderness. A bead of sweat slips past his temple and vanishes into his mask. You continue, flipping the stat sheet with trembling fingers. âLabs on arrival: glucose twenty, oxygen saturation sixty-eight, arterial pH seven-point-one, severe acidosis. Heart rate two-ten and erratic. No record, no APGAR, no prenatal historyâsheâs a Jane Doe on the edge.â
Dr. Naâs jaw flexes; his eyes never leave the baby. âShe hasnât even cried yet,â he murmurs, more invocation than complaint. He settles the stethoscope dome against her chest, listening to the ragged symphony within. He moves with a gentle savagery: two fingers beneath her jaw, assessing airway; thumb stroking her sternum, measuring rise and fall. âWeâre treating for exposure, possible sepsis, maybe pneumothorax,â he summarizes, voice low but certain. âIf the tamponade's hiding under that cyanosis, weâll see it on the first passâscalpel.â
Nurse Yuha presses the instrument into his waiting hand, her touch light but unerring. Jaemin leans in closeâso close you can see the soft tremor in his breath against her earâhis voice a low incantation of warmth. âHold on, sunshine,â he murmurs, the words sliding through the air like silk, carrying an unfathomable gentleness that seems reserved for the smallest, most vulnerable among us. âItâs not your turn to leave.â In that moment, the quiet insistence of dawn coaxes petals open after the longest night. You watch as his calloused fingertips, so steady over a surgeonâs steel, curl protectively around her hooded form, and you understand how a man who wields a scalpel with unyielding resolve can also weave tenderness with a single whispered vow.
His blade splits her skin in a deliberate arc, an act of violence meant purely for rescue. Blood wells, dark and sluggish, and a hush falls over the room, as though everyone is praying in languages theyâve forgotten. You count her pulse aloud, one-one-five, one-one-seven, while Jaemin parts tissue to reveal a single, malformed vessel thrumming beneath. You feel the ground shift beneath your feet.
âTruncus,â he breathes, voice cracking as though the word itself tastes of sorrow. He pauses, hand hovering over her pale chest, and exhales a shuddering sigh that rattles the sterile air like distant thunder. His shoulders slump, and for a heartbeat, he carries the weight of every choice heâs madeâevery life heâs saved and every one he couldnâtâin the storm-gray hollows beneath his eyes. Then he straightens, resolve coiling through him like steel tempered in grief. âThatâs why youâre blue.â His tone is softer now, braided with pity and fierce determination. He turns on his heel. âPage Cardiology. She needs a conduit, stat.â The room snaps back to action, but he remains a moment longer, chest heaving, as if heâs inhaled her pain into his own ribs. When no one moves fast enough, he snaps again, sharper, colder: âConduit kit, ten-French Dacronânow!âÂ
You fetch it with numbed speed, hands no longer trembling because the work consumes the fear. Jaemin fashions the graft in silence, each precise motion a note in a lullaby only he can sing. When the new conduit seats against the miniature heart and oxygen saturation climbs past eighty-five, the monitor trills a fragile, hopeful melody. Jaemin closes his eyes. For the first time, you see his shoulders relaxâjust an inchâas if absorbing the weight heâs kept at bay.Â
The minute the graft slips into place and the conduitâs synthetic fibers align with her trembling myocardium, the monitorâs pitch, once a dirge, arcs up into a fragile aria of hope. Jaemin exhales, a sound as heavy as night rain, and for a heartbeat you see his shoulders uncoil, the storm-gray hollows around his eyes softening just enough to reveal the toll this life has taken. But relief is a fickle thing in this room; he steadies himself against the rail, voice low and urgent.
âGet me blood cultures, stat,â he commands, gloved fist knocking rhythm against the stainless bench. âAnd draw a full panel â CBC, CMP, toxicology screen. I want an echo in ninety minutes, and MRI when sheâs strong enough.â He pauses, turning to you with eyes that still burn with purpose. âTell me what her pressures were pre-op,â he asks, tapping his pen against her chart as though scratching out every second of her suffering.
You glance at the scrawled numbers: systolic pressure in the forties, diastolic near the teens, acidosis marked at pH 7.1. Your voice catches before you offer, âSystolic forty-five, diastolic twelve. Her lactate was seven-point-four.âÂ
Dr. Na nods once, the rhythm of his approval as precise as sutures tightened to a single millimeter. âGood,â he says, softer now, but still carrying the weight of night. âYouâre steady. Keep it that way.â
He crouches beside the table, fingers tracing the lines of her tiny sternum as though reading a map of every life she might lead. âThis conduit is only stage one,â he breathes, voice almost a whisper, as if confessing a secret. âSheâll need a full repair once sheâs six kilos, weâll patch the VSD, replace this with a long-term conduit but sheâs not there yet. Tonight, all weâve done is give her tomorrow.â
Nurse Yuha steps in, laying down a fresh blanket of gauze. Dr. Na straightens, leaning into your ear with a gentleness that surprises your racing heart. âIâll need you on sutures,â he murmurs. âThis row, hand me the eight-zero Vicryl. I want perfect spacing, no tension.â You fetch the suture tray with hands now firm and sure, sliding the fine, violet thread into his palm. Each knot he ties is a promise, each snip of scissors a vow to keep her star burning. He sutures the incision shut, voice a frayed whisper. âSheâs alive. Letâs keep it that way.â You nod, unable to speak past the burn in your throat. As he lifts her into the warmer for transfer, you see his thumb brush the soft rise of her cheek, a gesture so tender it hurts to witness. The room smells of iodine and newborn sweat, of danger deferred. She still hasnât cried, but her tiny chest rises with steadier intent, and Jaeminâs quiet mantra follows her down the corridor like a prayer.
You wheel the transport isolette out of OR 3 just as dawn stains Hwarangâs eastern windows a hesitant pink. The corridor feels far too large for a life so fragile, every overhead lamp an unblinking witness. Your gloved hand steadies the acrylic shell while Nurse Yuha guides the ventilator cart, its hiss-and-click a metallic lullaby. Jaemin walks ahead, one fingertip pressed to the arterial line as though her pulse might vanish if he lets go. You watch the tentative rise of her chest and whisper the facts you never want to forget.
Cyanosis was the first map of her sufferingâlips and fingertips bruised to twilight violet. Tachypnea followed, sixty breaths each minute, small desperate sips of air. Hypothermia curled around her limbs; the probe read thirty-four-point-six. Blood pressure languished at forty over fifteen. All of it explained beneath unforgiving lights when Jaemin opened her chest and found a single arterial trunkâtruncus arteriosusâforcing oxygen-rich and oxygen-poor blood into lethal communion. He fixed what he could. Clamp, isolate, conduit: a Dacron lifeline sewn between heart and lung root. A small patch to redirect the river of dark blood. Dopamine coaxing her pressure upward, bicarbonate buffering the acid, epinephrine in sharp, life-snatching pulses. You intubated, set positive pressure, listened to her stiff lungs surrender to the machineâs rhythm.Â
Now, as you slip into the hush of the NICU, Dr. Na eases the isolette beneath the radiant warmer. He speaks to her in a voice youâve only heard in operating roomsâquiet, unwavering, the sound of a man who knows how thin the veil can be. âItâs not your turn to leave,â he murmurs while adjusting ventilator settings with deft fingers. The words settle over you like sunrise shifting through stained glass. He brushes the downy fuzz on her scalpâno gloves now, just skin to skinâand you see how this case has already built a home inside his sternum. âYou want to stay, donât you, Sunshine?â he whispers. She canât yet cry, but her Oâ holds steady beneath the warmerâs halo.
You breathe in the sterile scent of warmed plastic and antiseptic and understand what youâve learned: abandonment can be rewritten; a single artery can be bridged by silk thread and devotion; a surgeonâs fury can soften into a lullaby. You step back as the night-shift nurse clips new leads to tiny limbs, and the first full beam of morning spills across the tileâgolden, trembling, alive. It pools on her blanket like a promise: borrowed tomorrow, delivered today.
You stand in the hush of the NICU, watching Jaeminâs hand glide across the babyâs cheek as her pulse steadies under his touch. The machinesâ soft beeps blend with the hush of your own breath. Across the room, Nurse Yuha presses the social worker for answers, shoulders tense. You catch fragments of her voice: âShe has no family, no one will claim her, she doesnât even have a name. We canât release her to foster careâshe simply wonât survive outside our walls.â Your chest twists with heartbreak at the thought of her alone.
You slip toward the door, certain your presence is no longer needed, certain youâve lost hours in the glow of that tiny life. Just as your scrubs brush the frame, a throat clears behind youâa tut, a cough, an âahemâ that freezes you in place. Your eyes narrow as you turn to see a stern figure framed by the doorway, arms folded beneath a crisp white coat, those storm-cloud eyes daring you to respond. You glance at her name badge and realize, with a jolt, that sheâs your resident: Dr. Park Siyeon, the razor-sharp sentinel of these halls, whose very presence makes hospital protocols tremble. âReally,â she begins, voice measured but carrying the weight of thunder, âIâm impressed. Scrubbing into emergency surgery on day one, but missing your own orientation.â Her glare slices through you. âDo you think hospital rules donât apply to you?â
Your mouth opens, then closes. You stammer, âIâIâm so sorry, Dr. Siyeon. I lost track of time, I didnât even realiseââ
She cuts you off with a lifted hand. âSave it. Eight hours of lectures, eight hours of simulation, and you skip all of it to play hero?â Her voice rises. âThere are five rules to survive here. Do not assume your title makes you special.â She excludes no one as she turns to three figures behind her. You sweep your gaze across the trio, committing each face to memory in the split second before they do the same to you. To your left stands a woman with arms crossed and hair wound into a tight braid, lips pressed so thin they might slice wind, the name badge reads Kim Hyejin, intern; her eyes flick to you once, cool and assessing, like a hawk sizing up its prey. Beside her, another figure offers a softer contrast: Han Hayoung, cheeks faintly flushed, lip balm glinting under the harsh lights as she clutches a stack of color-coded notecards; her gentle smile blooms and retreats in equal measure, the sort of kindness that makes patients cling to her hand. And at the end, leaning casually against the lockers, is Kim Jihoon, three pens wobbling behind his ear as though daring gravity to interfere; he gives you a crooked, conspiratorial grin, brows lifting in an unspoken apology for the chaos youâre walking into. In that instant, you realize these are not just passing facesâthey are your cohort, and for better or worse, your newfound family.
Siyeon points to the group. âYou all heard me. We are a team, and today one of you decided to improvise.â Her tone softens just enough to cut deeper. âI didnât name these rules for fun. I want you to repeat them back to me.â
Jihoon shuffles forward first, face coloring. âNeverânever skip orientation?â
Siyeon raises an eyebrow. âThat was rule one?â
Hyejin steps up next: âAnswer every page at a run. Thatâs rule two.â
Hayoung swallows. âWhen youâre sleeping, donât wake you up, unless the patient is dying⌠rule three.â
Siyeon nods. âCorrect. Rule four?â
Your voice cracks as you speak: âRun labs, write orders, be on call every night until we drop.â A flicker of surprise ripples through the group, no one expected you to recite the rule verbatim but you swallow hard and meet their eyes, knowing you memorized Dr. Park Siyeonâs expectations in the hours before orientation. You were determined to be prepared, even as you got swept away by the emergent surgery. The hallway seems to hold its breath at your confession, and for the first time, you feel the weight of both your mistake and your resolve.
âFive,â Siyeon snaps. âWhen I move, you move.â Silence wraps around you all like a reprimand. Before you can respond, a sudden cry from the incubator draws Siyeonâs attentionâand yours. The baby stirs, whiskers of light across her face as she wakes. You realize Jaemin has been standing in the doorway, arms folded, listening. At her whimper, he steps forward, voice low but firm: âKeep the shouting far from the NICU, thereâs babies here.â Siyeon stiffens, then bows back into her stormy composure. She turns on her heel and strides away. Hyejin, Hayoung, Jihoonâand youâtrail behind her, each footstep a promise to never wander so far from the path again. As the doors slide shut behind you, you feel a new responsibility settle in your bones: you belong here, with the rules, with the wonder, with the fight to keep this little sunbeam alive.
You slip into the wide intern corridor just as the frenzy of evening rounds softens into a gentle murmur. Along one wall, four examination beds have been commandeered as an impromptu lunch nook, mattresses folded back, brightly colored blankets thrown over the footrests, and pillows propped against the sterile vinyl for back support. Without ceremony, you all haul your trays onto the pale blue sheets and settle in a loose semicircle beneath the warm glow of the sconce lights. Instinct pulls you straight to the bed draped in that sunflower-yellow blanket. You tuck yourself beneath its folds, the fabric rising against your chest like a shield of warmth, and inhale its familiar softness until your heart un-tangles. Across from you, Hyejin unfolds her lunch with surgical precision, each triangular rice ball arranged like evidence on a tray, her fingers performing the same exact movements sheâs practiced on cadavers, sheath of discipline around her calm intensity.Â
At the next bed, Hayoung lifts a pastel binder and fans through her notes with the grace of a lullaby, her voice low and soothing as she recites patient protocols under her breath, tiny blossoms of care in every careful whisper. And Jihoon sprawls on his borrowed mattress, elbow propped on a stack of neon post-its, regaling them with half-improvised quizzes and goofy mnemonics that scatter laughter like confetti, each bright pen behind his ear a playful war trophy in this battlefield of medicine. Here, under the muted glow of the sconces, you breathe in relief as the yellow blanketâs warmth seeps into your bones, and for a moment, you let yourself believe youâre safe enough to rest, wrapped in sunshine, held by strangers turned kindred, ready to face whatever comes next.
Hayoung nudges you with an elbow, soft as a pillow. âOkay,â she says in her gentle voice, âwe want every detail. How did âSunshineâ end up in our arms?â Her eyes gleam with concern and excitement.Â
Hyejin nudges her rice ball with a chopstick, eyebrows raised. âSo what actually happened? Was there dramatic wind? Slow-motion hair flip? Because the nurses are all whispering that Dr. Na swooped in and saved a life.â
Jihoon leans forward, pen in hand, ready to annotate. âWe were stuck in a four hour presentation whilst you scrubbed in with the Dr. Na, so donât spare us the heroics.â
You take a breath, unwrap your sandwich, and begin: âIt was just after dawn. A builder burst through with her wrapped in a yellow towel, almost pale as sun-bleached grass, crying one moment, still the next. I didnât even realise she was a baby, Iâve never held something so small yet lifeless in my arms. I froze completely, I didnât know what to do. Then Dr. Na appeared, he immediately got to work and ordered me to scrub in. We ran to OR 3, every second ticking off her life like a bomb.â You pause, spoon hovering. Hayoung gives you a gentle smile. âKeep going.â
You describe the incision that revealed a single arterial trunk, a heart born with one artery instead of two, and how Dr. Na, with that gentle fury he reserves for tiny patients, stitched in a Dacron conduit to split her blood streams. You recall the monitorâs alarms softening into hopeful chirps, that first soft tremor of relief in the room. Hyejinâs brows knit as she imagines the sacrifice it took. Jihoon whistled low, âDamn, thatâs the work of legends.â
Nurse Yuhaâs voice echoes in your memory: âSheâs updating her own records now.â You smile, remembering how Yuha once teased you for devouring charts like they were candy.
Hayoung sighs. âIâm so proud of you,â she murmurs, cheeks pink.
Jihoon pats your shoulder. âYou didnât freeze, not where it counted.â
Hyejin leans back, expression softening for the first time that day. âYou were born for this.â
You realize the corridor lights have dimmed as the sun sets outside. Four interns, four beds, one shared miracle. And in the hush of that makeshift lunchroom, you all carry a little more warmth than you did beforeâproof that even in a hospitalâs cold corridors, sunlight can bloom in the shape of hope.
You sink into the folded yellow blanket, its sunflower-gold warmth spreading slowly from your shoulders down to your fingertips, and something inside you shifts. You glance around the makeshift lunch nookâHayoungâs gentle smile as she tucks a stray lock behind her ear, Jihoonâs easy grin as he teases you about your first-day heroics, Hyejinâs rare, half-smile of approvalâand realize these faces, once strangers, now feel as familiar as the soft grooves of your own palms. You donât truly know them, yet you already sense this corridor, these borrowed beds, will be your home. You remember your auntâs words echoing in your mind: âIn hospitals, we bury our grief and plant our courage. The family you find here will choose you back.â
Flash forward a month, and youâre piling suitcases into an apartment just off the hospital grounds, peeling open takeout containers on a wobbly coffee table. The living room walls are too bright, the furniture a mismatched tapestry of thrift-store finds, but itâs yoursâyours and theirs. Hayoung hangs fairy lights above the couch and brews ginger tea whenever you stumble in with exhaustion. Jihoon claims the smallest bedroom, swapping trading stories and piping hot ramen at two a.m., his laughter echoing off the walls until your chest aches with relief. Hyejin sets up a whiteboard in the kitchen for shared schedules and pearls of surgical wisdom, her fierce eyes lighting up whenever you solve a medâsurg puzzle sheâd posed.
Over steaming bowls and battered textbooks, you all learn each otherâs rhythms: Hayoungâs gentle way of humming through your mistakes, Jihoonâs uncanny ability to know when you need a joke more than a coffee, Hyejinâs precise nod of encouragement when youâre on the brink of giving up. You fall into the pattern of belonging: mismatched mugs lined up on a shelf, leftover lecture notes plastered to the fridge, the soft thrum of an IV pump reminding you that life and love here are intertwined. In the hush between shifts, while the hospital hums beyond your windows, you realize this is where you belongâa constellation stitched together by shared purpose, laughter, and the unspoken vow to protect one another, just as you protect herâthe little sunbeam who first brought you all together.
Itâs been forty-eight hours since your shift began, forty-eight hours of adrenaline and trembling hope, but in this hush, all thatâs left is you and that tiny form under the warmerâs glow. You havenât slept more than two hours, and every muscle aches, but you canât leave without this one pilgrimage. You push through the NICU doors, each step a quiet confession against your own fatigue. Your heels press into the vinyl floor like weights chaining you to the moment you first froze, arms cradling a life you werenât sure you could save. She lies so small you almost think she might vanish if you breathe too hard. Her cheek is paper-thin beneath your finger, a petal wilting under the hush of the night. You trace the curve of her jaw, so fragile it seems a mere whisper might crack the fragile arc of her bone. Beneath the soft hum of machines, her chest rises and falls in a tremulous whisper, a lullaby of survival youâve committed to memory:Â frets of numbers flickering above her isolette, oxygen saturations like fleeting stars. You lean closer, pressing your palm to the glass, as if your warmth could seep through and steady her flickering pulse.
Guilt, sharp as a surgeonâs blade, cleaves your chest. You remember how your hands shook the first time they placed her in your arms, the terrible weight of potential loss. You shouldâve been braver than, but you were buried in shock. The world outside this room spins on, but here, time slows to the beat of her tiny heart. You murmur, voice hushed, âI shouldâve been braver. You were.â A single tear escapes, sliding down your temple before you catch it. You swallow the catch in your throat and press a knuckle to your lips, hiding your shame in the dim glow. Tonight, you are both witness and guardianâno longer frozen, but forging a promise with every whispered vow and every careful tracing of her fragile skin. As you stand and tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear, you feel the gravity of this childâs fight bind you tighter to her fate. Tomorrow, you will return. Tonight, you will believe.
You step away from the isolette alcove, each footfall dragging the weight of two sleepless nights deeper into your bones. Ahead, a lone figure stands beneath the corridorâs pale wash, his jacket still speckled with job-site dust, fingers nervously twisting a singed cigarette butt. He hasnât moved since he handed you that fragile bundle, choosing vigil over rest because no one else claimed her. In the slope of his shoulders you sense a silent history of loss: a hushed house once full of laughter, a child grown too quickly, an absence he cannot fill.
You pause, and he nods toward the isolette as if seeking permission to speak. His voice is rough with the rasp of concrete and early dawn. âI know itâs foolish,â he says, thumb turning the cigarette ash between his fingers, âbut she has no one. No mother, no fatherâor at least, no one who would come. I couldnât let her wake up and find the world just as empty as when I found her.â His confession hangs in the sterile air, a quiet anthem to abandonment and hope intertwined, and you realize that in this impossible place, compassion can be the bravest act of all. She arrived breathless and alone, a lone star cast into a sky of strangersâand yet here he remains, a steadfast witness to her first fight. His vigil wonât rewrite her beginning, but it stakes a claim on her tomorrow: someone stood guard when the world turned away. In that pledge lies a fragile promise that, even in the vast loneliness of her first breath, she was never truly abandoned.
You halt and offer the quiet reassurance youâve repeated like a mantra. âSheâs stable,â you murmur, voice gentle enough to cradle hope itself. Gratitude flickers across his face, mingled with relief and buried sorrow, as the last ember of smoke drifts upward like a whispered prayer. He inclines his head in solemn thanks, a wordless pact between two strangers bound by a tiny life fighting its first battles. In the lantern-quiet room, his shadow lingers at the periphery, steadfast as a lighthouse beacon, an unvoiced vow that each fragile pulse of hers will be cradled in unwavering warmth, until she unfurls like a dawn flower against the darkness.
You walk to the nursesâ station hushes to its late-night hum, paper crisp beneath your shaking hands. Post-op note, final vitals, incision clean, no drainage, the pen moves by reflex until you reach the blank labeled Name. Your eyes sting before you even feel the wet. Ink blurs where a tear falls, a dark blot over the vacant line that still reads Jane Doeâa designation colder than any scalpel. You swipe your sleeve across the page, remember the name Jihoon had said earlier which warmed your insides. You smear saline and ink, then steady the pen once more. Sunshine.
The letters spread like dawn across the form, soft, certain, impossibly bright. You know it isnât the name she will carry forever; she deserves a syllable chosen by loving voices, a sound stitched from lineage and dream. But for now, this fits like the first warm day after winter. She is the infant who outlived rooftop frost and surgical steel, who greets every monitor beep with a fearless conviction, who learned to weave light from the smallest crack in the NICU blinds. Under the radiant warmerâs soft amber glow, the IV tubing arcs like spun gold around her isolette; the monitorâs gentle yellow ring pulses in time with her tiny heartbeat; and the single sunburst sticker on her ID bracelet seems to hover above her wristâevery flicker of light drawn irresistibly toward the new centre of its universe.
Sunshine: because her pulse feels like midsummer on a wrist that once knew only cold clamps. Because her hair flickers copper in the glow of warming lamps, a miniature sunrise cresting fragile bone. Because when she opens her eyes, the greys of this hospital back away, walls repainting themselves in honey and marigold and every bright hue that promises survive. Until the day new parents cradle her and press a chosen name against her temple, youâll keep calling her this small constellation of lightâSunshineâand even Dr. Na, whose voice rarely softens for anyone, lets the word settle like a blessing each time he bends over her crib. You cap the pen, whisper the name once more to the quiet chartâSunshine, Sunshineâand feel the ward brighten by a fraction, as if the very syllables have pulled another sliver of yellow into this long night, promising her that she has always been more than the darkness that almost kept her.
You stumble out of orientation into your first week of rotations with your chest thrumming. The halls blur into a conveyor belt of chart reviews, lab draws, and never-ending pages. Hyejin strides past you with the precision of a metronome, already deep into her first cardiac consult, while Hayoung flits between rooms with sympathetic smiles and candy wrappers for anyone who admits theyâre hungry. Jihoon appears with two coffees in handâone for you, one for himselfâhis grin wide but weary as he jokes about how the pajamas in the call room feel softer than his own bed. You find yourself leaning on the reception desk at 2 a.m., replaying protocols in your mind, trying to reconcile your textbook confidence with the hollow ache of every alarm you answered wrong. Energy flickers like a dying bulb, only to be reignited by the adrenaline of every emergency youâve barely survived.
Nights become a series of half-dreams and grunt-filled awakenings. You curl into the scratchy vinyl of the call room, blanket tangled at your waist, as the fluorescent light above hums an unsteady rhythm. Your phone buzzes with pages you canât ignore, and you haul yourself upright on trembling knees to run corridors you barely remember navigating in daylight. The caffeine wears off at dawn, leaving you breathless and hollow, but the moment a patientâs vital stabilizes, a rush of triumph surges through you, sharper than any sleep could have been. By the end of the week, exhaustion has carved lines into your face, but so has resolveâeach stumble through the ward forging you into someone who doesnât just watch the clock, but owns every second it hands you.
Youâre standing beside Hayoung, nursing a bruised Styrofoam cup of vending-machine coffee, when Siyeon strides into the corridor. Clipboard in hand, her white coat snapped shut like armor, hair twisted into a bun that could take a bullet and shrug it off. The hallway stills beneath her gaze as though it recognizes prey before a hawk. âToday Iâm assigning your rotations,â she announces, voice flat and unyielding. âYou will spend one week on each service, beginning immediately after rounds. Do not grow attached to your patients. Do not embarrass me.â
âHyejinâcardio. You like control. Now prove it.â
âHayoungâOB/GYN. Hope you donât faint at the first placenta.â
Before Siyeon can finish her list, Jihoon folds his hands in front of his chest and whispers a fervent, âPlease let it be neuroâŚâ as if heâs beseeching a higher power. Siyeon glances his way, unimpressed, then continues without missing a beat. âJihoonâorthopedics.â
Jihoon exhales a dramatic sigh, cheeks flushing, and mutters under his breath, âOf course,â before slumping into line with the rest of you. His fist shoots into the air. âBone-saw baby,â he mutters under his breath, and you stifle a laughâuntil her voice cuts through the corridor like a scalpel.
âYou, pediatrics.â She pauses, letting the words linger. Then, almost quietly: âSince youâve already made quite the impression.â A twitch at the corner of her mouth, half-smirk, half-sneer, says she means every mocking syllable.
Hayoung slides a hand to your arm, warm and steady. Hyejin lifts a single brow, amusement glinting in her eyes. Jihoon whistles low. âDamn, already chosen? Teach me your ways.â You force a nod, but your heart isnât in the applause. In its place flashes the memory of a girl no bigger than your palm, taped to life-support machines like whispered prayers. You havenât seen her, or Dr. Na, in a week, every waking thought still tethered to that rooftop rescue. When the group disperses, your legs carry you forward on autopilot. Your ID badge winks in the fluorescent glare as you turn toward the pediatric wing. Around you, the buzz of morning rounds fades to a hum; your world condenses to one locked door ahead. The pediatric ward beckonsâsunshine and sorrow waiting just beyond its threshold.
You pad down the deserted corridor before dawn, each step a soft patter on pale linoleum that echoes like a newborn mealâs first, uncertain cry. The hospital exhales behind you, its night shiftâs pulse still thrumming in empty waiting rooms and silent alcoves. With every corridor you cross, your ID badge swings gently, a little seed bobbing on a slender stalk, marking the slow growth of your resolve. The scrubs you donned this morning feel too crisp, too untouchedâlike a swaddling cloth that has yet to cradle any lifeâand you realize turning back is no longer an option. A fresh day waits just beyond these doors, and inside them, a babe teetering between breath and stillness has already claimed you.
You havenât had a reason to cross these doors since that first desperate night, but your feet carry you in hurried unison, as though your heart has been tugging on your ankles all week, aching and desperate for this moment. The pediatric wing stretches before you, its pastel walls humming with echoes of lullabies and soft sobs. You feel every craving it holds: to cradle small lives, to answer silent pleas, to stand guard at the edge of breath. The air grows thick, almost viscous, as if the very walls are holding their breath. You pause at the sliding doors of the NICU, tracing the faint scuff where you first crossed this threshold. How your scrubs were wet with someone elseâs terror then, how your heart ached like it had been grafted into another body.
You press the sensor and the doors part with a soft sigh, revealing a silent army of innocence suspended between life and machine. Rows of incubators line the dim corridor, each one cradling a baby no older than a prayerâskin ghostly, limbs bundled in tubes that pulse with borrowed breath. The air tastes of antiseptic and sorrow, weighted by the soft hiss of ventilators and the rhythmic whoosh of warmers fighting to stave off the cold. You catch glimpses of tiny chests rising against impossible odds, IV lines snaking like vines through ghostly forests of whipped-up sheets, and every face you meet is etched with the fragility of a spark that should never have been left to gutter.
Somewhere ahead, a nurseâs shoe squeaks, a soft interruption in the hush. You step forward, heart tightening, as the pale glow of each warming lamp bathes the incubators in a sickly yellow haze, light attempting to stitch warmth into envelopes of translucent skin. Each bed feels like its own graveyard vigil, each monitorâs alarm a tolling bell for lives that might slip away before morning. You realize youâre holding your breath, as though any exhale might extinguish one of these flickering miracles.
Dr. Na settles into the faded green feeding chair, the one he claimed after two sleepless nights. His coat sleeves are rolled to the elbow, revealing forearms taut with lean muscle, and the overhead lights scatter prisms across his dark hair. You pause, heart tightening, as you watch him cradle the nameless newborn, still called âJane Doeâ by official records, in the crook of one arm. His other hand tilts the bottle with a surgeonâs precision, the milk creeping toward her lips in a forgiving arc. She opens her eyes for the first time. rims of dusk around tiny iris pools, and you almost catch the tremor of recognition in her gaze. The soft slur of her suckling is gentle but hungry, a whispered plea that reverberates through your chest.
He leans in, the crease of his jaw softening, and murmurs something so low it is swallowed by the hum of ventilators and the slow hiss of humidifiers. Each word is a caress, though you canât make out the syllables; itâs the way his voice cups her pain with velvet warmth, like lullaby light behind closed eyes. Her slurps falter into a hiccup of tearsâpain lancing through her, honest and rawâbut he never pulls away. Instead, his fingertips brush away the tears, tender as if guiding a lost bird back to its nest. In that moment, you see the full measure of his devotion: a doctor whose hands can cut through flesh with cold certainty, yet cradle this tiny life with a gentle gravity that feels nothing like professionalism and everything like love. The air between you fills with something newâan unspoken promise that this small, wounded soul will know care at first touch, and that Jaeminâs vigilance, once so distant, now burns bright beside her.
Your breath catchesânot from surprise at finding him here, nor from the sight of her cheeks flushed rosier than before, but because together they look whole, a constellation formed from two solitary stars. You hesitate at the threshold, the sanitizer dispenser gurgles as you wash your hands, each drop of soap a ritual to clear the ghosts of last week. Your heart thuds, synchronized to the soft pulse of her monitor. You clear your throat. âIâm in pediatrics this week,â you say, voice steadier than you feel, offering your name and intention like a key.
Jaemin straightens, gaze still fixed on her pale brow. His ears tune to your words without turning. Then, crisp as a scalpelâs blade: âYouâre late. Close the door behind you.â
You cross the threshold and stop, catching your breath at how much sheâs grown, her limbs still the length of your palm but carrying the promise of tomorrowâs strength. Yet as you lean closer, your heart skips: she still canât breathe on her own. Her tiny chest heaves only when the ventilator urges it, each mechanical sigh a reminder of how close she still hovers to darkness. Tubes and wires cling to her like crystalline vinesâfeeding lines, oxygen cannulas, IV cathetersâall converging on the brightest constellation in this quiet galaxy. You notice the gentle rise of her brow as if sheâs dreaming of sunlight, her fists unclenching around the soft edge of her swaddle, but the truth sits heavy in your chest: no matter how much color blooms back into her cheeks, she remains tethered to machines that whisper the fragility of her fight. And in that suspended moment, you understand the depths of what youâve joinedâthis isnât just another rotation; itâs your vigil beside the edge of life, and every breath she borrows is a vow you silently renew.
He straightens, shoulders coiling into armor. âWe have a long day ahead,â he says, voice clipped and precise as a scalpelâs edge. âIâm scheduled for four back-to-back cases: an emergent appendectomy in OR2, a cricothyroidotomy for that car-accident trauma in OR5, a laparotomy on a perforated ulcer in OR1, and then Sunshine Girlâs second-stage repair.â His gaze flicks to your badge, marking the ten-year gap in your ages, your rookie enthusiasm against his decade of hard-earned scars. You feel the distance between you tighten, yet the air hums with something charged and raw beneath his cool command. He folds his armsâone sleeve pushed above the elbow, veins tracing silver pathsâand adds without warmth, âWe leave for rounds in five minutes. Youâll also be presenting all the pre-op statusâ, and then we handle the cascade of post-op care for all four of those cases. Do not be late.â His words hang in the humming corridor, a vow not of comfort but of unyielding expectation. In the silent space between life and blade, you are both servant and sentinelâand there is no room for anything less than perfection.
You slip through the doors, the world outside still hushed in dawnâs half-light. Dr. Na Jaemin leads the way, stride long and unhurried, slipping between isolettes and warmers without so much as a backward glance. You trail a step behind, notebook open, pens at the ready, but thereâs no coffee in your hand, no pause for camaraderie or small talk. His gait is purposeful; every door he passes clicks shut like a verdict. You hurry to keep pace, heart thundering like a code alarm in your chest, as he moves through the post-op charts with brisk efficiency.
At the first sign of hesitation in your voiceâwhen you attempt to clarify a knot in a ventilator settingâyour words tumble over his brisk instructions. He stops mid-step, the fluorescent glare catching the steel of his loupes, and turns slowly. âIf you already know everything,â he says, his gaze as flat as an unblinking monitor, âpresent the rest of the list.â The ward seems to hush around you; Nurse Yuha stifles a chuckle behind her hand. You swallow, cheeks burning, but press onâreciting your notes with trembling precision. He doesnât reply, only nods and marches on, leaving you to sink back into the rhythm of charting.
Fifteen minutes later, youâre lost in the glow of the electronic record when he slips in beside you, silent as a scalpel. His finger hovers over a misplaced decimalâa heart rate entry off by a hundredfoldâand he leans in so close you feel his breath. âIf youâd charted that,â he murmurs, eyes cold with precision, âsheâd be paralyzed in seconds.â His voice is velvet over steel. You freeze, then your fingers fly, erasing and re-entering the correct value with trembling haste. After ten seconds of paralysis, you rise and track him down, offering the corrected version on a slim clipboard. He takes it, eyes still fixed on the babyâs chest rise and fall. âGood,â he says, the single word almost tender but you hear the unspoken âthank youâ buried beneath its clinical edge.
By eight, youâre scrubbed into your first case: a neonateâs hernia repair. The baby boy is six days old and still frail from premature lungs. You hover with the suction line, breathing in the sterile heat, ready to clear droplets as soon as they appear. When you adjust his vitals just before the incision, Nurse Yuha gives you a discreet nod of approval. Jaeminâs silhouette leans over the tiny patient; he allows you to suction but corrects your grip with a fingertip nudge. You flinch, as though struck, but he offers no comfortâonly that half-second of his gaze that lingers like a question you need to answer.
At 11:30, youâre back in the scrubs, this time for a teenage trauma patientâs bowel resection. The field is deeper, the stakes higher, and the flash of blood sends your pulse skittering. You note the transfusion threshold just before the anesthesiologist blurts it out, and Jaeminâs eyebrow arches, an almost-imperceptible salute. Steam ghosts off the stainless faucets, clouding the mirrors as you scrub chlorhexidine from beneath your nails. Your pulse is still racing the clock you just outran in OR-2; the bowel resectionâs last suture feels stitched into your own heartbeat. Jaemin stands at the next sink, sleeves shoved to his elbows, water sluicing down forearms etched with long night-shift veins. He never rushes this ritualâthirty strokes, flip, thirty strokesâscrubbing as if absolution can be earned by arithmetic. You glimpse the surgical lampâs reflection glimmer across the edge of his jaw, and suddenly every fact youâve ever memorized vibrates for release.
âThe inferior mesenteric,â you blurt, voice too quick, âbranches at L-3 before it supplies the proximal rectumâso if weâd taken the margins any farther distalââ You hazard a glance. Heâs drying his hands, gaze fixed on the floor, the ghost of an eyebrow lifted. Heat flares up your neck, but the words keep falling, dominoes you canât stop tipping: motility patterns, parasympathetic innervation, rare post-op fistula rates. You talk faster, trying to fill the hush, trying to prove youâve earned the scrub soap flaking off your wrists, until the echo of your own breathless lecture startles you into silence.
Jaemin folds his towel with surgical precision, tucks it into a bin, and faces you at last. His eyes are the tempered gray of an instrument tray, unreadable but razor-bright. âIf youâre going to ramble,â he says, voice smooth enough to slice, âthen make it useful. Otherwise, silence is preferable, youâre giving me a headache.â The sting lands clean; you feel it bloom behind your ribs. But then he reaches forward, just two fingers, and adjusts the angle of your mask loop where itâs digging into your ear. âYou caught the bleed in there,â he adds, softer, almost an afterthought. âGood.â His hand falls away before you can answer.
You hustle into OR-3 still replaying his âSilence is preferableâ in the back of your skull, determined to redeem every breath. The room smells of cautery and cold metal; overhead lights pool like noon-bright moons on a field of blue. Dr. Hwang Renjun, Chief of Cardiothoracic. a legend you once dissected journal articles about, is already gown-gloved, guiding a vascular clamp with the poise of someone who has rerouted more blood than most hearts will ever pump. His profile is thoughtful, serene even, but every gesture is a verdict: precise, unhurried, unforgiving. Jaemin steps in beside him without a word, and you fall into position at suction, pulse thrumming against the tubing. The two men work in a choreography so tight it feels illicit, Renjunâs steady murmurs of âClamp⌠tie⌠next,â Jaeminâs sutures flashing like silver lightning under templed brows. You barely breathe, hyper-aware of the heat of Jaeminâs shoulder a hand-span from yours, of how the raw focus radiating off him makes the sterile drapes feel suddenly too thin.
Forty minutes in, just as the graft seats clean, Jaeminâs pager erupts with a shrill insistence that slices the quiet. He barely glances but you see the infinitesimal widening of his eyes, a flash of storm before the composure slams shut. Nurse Yuhaâs voice crackles through the intercom, breathless: âNICU, Code Lavender, Baby Sunshine just required full resus, sats unstable, we need cardio-peds in OR-2 ASAP.â The scalpel seems to pause mid-air; even the vent sputters like it forgot its rhythm. Jaemin draws one measured breath, so calm itâs terrifying, and continues the anastomosis, hands steady while an artery the width of thread pulses between his forceps. Renjun tracks the tension immediately; his gaze flicks from the field to Jaeminâs clenched jaw, and something like recognition softens his brow.
âGo, Na,â Renjun says, voice low but carrying. âIâll close. Sheâs your case.â Itâs not a suggestion, itâs an absolution. Jaemin knots the final stitch with a snap, meets the older surgeonâs eyes in silent gratitude, and turns to you. âWith me,â he commands, already stripping his gloves. Thereâs no time to marvel at how fast adrenaline atomizes fatigue; youâre yanking off your gown, letting it puddle, chasing his back through the corridor before the automatic doors can finish their sigh. Your sneakers slap linoleum, your breath saws icy against your mask, and still he outruns you, white coat a blur, like heâs tethered to the infant heart blinking red on some distant monitor.
Every hallway monitor seems to echo the same alarm tone, the hospitalâs vascular system convulsing. You think of the way Sunshineâs fingers curled around his in the isolette this morning, of the bottle angled just so, of the unfathomable tenderness hidden beneath all that clinical frost. He doesnât slow, but he speaks, more to himself than to you. âShe was stable, her vitals climbed overnight, her surgery wasnât scheduled until later, this isnât fair.â His voice is a scalpel now: honed, dangerous, meant for cutting truth away from panic. You pump harder, matching his stride, replaying medication lists in your mind for anything you might have missed.
You and Jaemin lunge through, baby in his arms, the yellow towel damp with sweat and blood. Monitors behind him scream their alarm into the corridor as he barrels forward, feet slipping on tile, heartbeat drumming in your ears louder than the chaos. Nurses scatter, keys clatter, and someone shouts for suction. He doesnât hesitate, he holds the child as if sheâs the only thing keeping him upright, arms locked around her frail body, every muscle coiled. You sprint beside him, scrubs flapping, adrenaline slicing through marrow, and catch the next elevator down. The doors close on a blur of motion and neon.
In the ORâs harsh glare, Jaemin lays her on the steel table with the tenderness of a prayer. His white coat flutters like a banner in a storm, and he doesnât wait for glovesâhe clamps an oxygen mask to her mouth, voice low and urgent: âBreathe, baby. Breathe for me.â You move into position, hands steady despite the tremor in your chest, primed to suction, to stabilize, to fight. Under the interrogation light, her skin is the color of bruised infancy, breaths ragged against the mask. Jaeminâs eyes lock onto yours for a heartbeatâflint and promiseâand in that instant you know: no one else matters in this room but her survival. Then, with soft precision, he begins.
The old conduit lies buried beneath layers of scar and sterility as Jaeminâs scalpel carves along the faded thoracotomy line. The skin parts readily under the iodineâs harsh glow, paper-thin and fragile, revealing the dark ribbon of graft beneath. Instantly, maroon rivulets of clot spill from the synthetic tube, each bead a ticking second lost. With measured urgency, you sweep the pooled blood aside, fingers sure despite the tremor in your belly, while Nurse Yuha slides a six-millimeter bovine graft across your field of vision. Jaeminâs movements are economical, he trims the new conduit to length, positions it with uncanny precision, and threads the suture through living tissue and graft alike. Every stitch is a promise: one tightens the lifeline, another seals the vow. As he flushes heparin through the lumen, the first flash of bright effluent appears in your suction tip, a promise of redemption in a swirl of liquid white.
Across the sterile expanse of OR-2, the monitors begin their hesitant climb: oxygen saturations flicker from 68 to 78, mean arterial pressures lift from a whisper to a breathable hum. You hold the suction catheter steady as Dr. Na draws the final knot tight, his forehead slick with sweat, jaw set like chiseled stone. âCome on, baby,â he exhales, voice low and intimate beneath the harsh lights. With deft fingers he closes the incision in imperceptible layers of six-zero Proleneâeach pass of the needle as fine as spiderâs silk, each knot a quiet exhalation of relief. When the last stitch is buried, he steps back, shoulders finally loosening just enough to admit a fraction of release. âWe bought time,â he states, tone flat yet threaded with something fierceâgratitude, exhaustion, relentless hope. And as you sponge away the remnants of battle from his brow, you understand that in this cathedral of conflict, every heartbeat saved is a small victory against the darkness.
Even as the final suture vanishes beneath his gloved thumb, Dr. Na doesnât turn away. He leans closer, voice soft as a lullaby amid the aftershocks of adrenaline. âYouâre so fierce, little fighter,â he murmurs, fingertips brushing her cheek as though the slightest touch might rekindle her spark. âYouâve carried more pain than most people ever will, and you donât even have a name or a family to call your own. But you belong to the light, thereâs a sacred corner of it reserved just for you.â His words flutter through the hushâeach one a salve, each one a vow of protection. âYouâre stronger than anyone deserves to beâI believe in you, little warrior. I swear Iâll carry you through the rest. Now rest, grow strongerâŚwe still need your fire.â
You choke back a breath as you watch him lean over that isolette, but it isnât just this moment that catches youâitâs the pattern of tenderness woven through every encounter youâve witnessed today. This morning, you saw him crouch at eye-level with a trembling three-year-old whose leg brace chafed raw; without a word, he drew a wobbly dinosaur in the dust of the cast and nudged her fingers to follow each curve, her giggles bursting through the ward like warm sunlight. At lunch, he sat cross-legged on the floor beside an intubated neonate, coaxing the babyâs fingers to wrap around his own thumb as he hummed a gentle, off-key lullaby heâd clearly invented right then and there, the tiny hand tightening with trust. Later, he paused mid-stride in the corridor, reached out to catch a knot unraveling on a premature infantâs incubator ribbon, and retied it with surgeonâs precision, transforming the harsh plastic into a cradle trussed in hope.
Everywhere he goes, little eyes light up at the sight of him: toddlers clutch his scrub sleeve in shy delight, babies swivel toward his voice as if it were the promise of home, and from the far corner of the ward, a rough-voiced janitor once paused his rounds to watch the way that a childâs face unfurled into a toothless grin when Jaemin pressed a fingertip gently to her cheek. You remember how he leaned into that momentâsoftening his shadowed features until even his stern jaw seemed to meltâand offered a high-five that turned into a little dance, the floor echoing with tiny feet gliding in time. Each gesture is another verse in his unspoken hymn to the vulnerable: a stethoscope warmed in his palm before he presses it to a babyâs rib cage, a fingertip brushing a frightened parentâs knuckles as he whispers, âSheâs strong, weâll see her through,â or the simple gift of a handcrafted origami crane handed to a tearful sibling to remind them that even in these antiseptic halls, wonder still exists. In every crease of his coat, in every soft word he murmurs, every careful touch, you see how his healing hands build sanctuaries out of sterile steel and how, for the smallest lives, he becomes both refuge and light.
He is at once tempest and hearthâshattering disease with the precision of a lightning strike, then gathering the fractured pieces of hope and wrapping them in the quiet glow of his compassion. Youâve seen him summon a tremor-soothing smile for one childâs first sip of milk, later catch a frightened toddlerâs gaze across the ward and answer it with a nod so steady it might well have been a silent pledge: âI am here. I will not let go.â In these fragments of careâeach small miracle of connectionâyou realize that his fierce competence in the OR is matched only by a fiercer tenderness reserved for those who can barely speak. And now, as he murmurs your name with that same calm fire, you understand that every life he saves is a petal pressed into the pages of his own legend: a healer whose warmth shines brightest where the light is weakest.
In the first four months of Sunshineâs life, her tiny heart beats a desperate rhythm beneath surgical lights and humming monitors, each pulse a fragile echo of hope. Twice sheâs reborn on Dr. Naâs table. first when he threads a synthetic conduit through her marrow-soft chest, then again when midnight alarms yank him back to carve out a clot that stole her breath. You hover at his side, suction in hand and courage blooming where fear once froze you, learning to read her tremors like secret messages and to cradle her as if you could hold dawn itself. Between operations, morphine drips slow and sure, you chart every flicker of withdrawal and every quiet victory in her eyes, and Jaeminâstern sentinel by day, gentle guardian by nightâwhispers fractured lullabies at her bedside. Together, surgeon, intern and nameless newborn weave a bond forged in white-glove precision and whispered promises, proving that lifeâs most radiant bloom can spring from the sharpest edges of despair.
Each week in those first four months unfolds like a delicate stanza in a dirge-turned-prayer. Under the pallid glow of surgical lights, Dr. Na carves hope from her chest. first by threading a synthetic conduit through the fractured channels of her heart, then by cracking open her dawn-black body again when her tiny river of life stutters into code. At each juncture, you stand sentinel, suctioning froth from her lungs, watching the wavering digits of her oxygen saturation climb and fall like a gull caught in a storm. Your fingers, once trembling at the mere thought of her fragility, grow steady with purpose, tying off lines and titrating morphine drips whose weaning you chart in meticulous crimson ink.
Between those lifesaving crucibles, she clings to lifeâs thinnest tetherâher feeding tubeâher fists wrapping around it as though it might sprout wings and lift her from this battleground. Sleepless tremors mark her nights, each shudder a negotiation between the withdrawal gnawing at her marrow and the nascent fight refracted through her blood. Though she cannot yet speak her name, her dark, urgent gaze finds you in every lull, offering a trust so unearned it humbles you: a silent plea that outshines every monitorâs flicker. Her body, smaller than a prayer, carries a weight of suffering no infant should bear: a heart mapped by truncated arteries, limbs restless with withdrawalâs ghost, a liver crying out in enzyme whispers. Yet in every labored breath, every anxious twitch, you and Jaemin see a defiant sparkâan ember of life that refuses to extinguish. And so you stitch, you chart, you hold vigil through the soft-bleating lullaby of alarms, tethering yourselves to her survival with each weary, unwavering heartbeat.
She emerges from her second surgery like a wounded bird pieced together with silk threads, her frail body barely casting a shadow beneath the harsh glow of fluorescent tubes that hum above like restless ghosts. Around her, incubators bloom with pastel balloons, handwritten cards and soft toysâtangible prayers from families who refuse to let goâyet her own isolette holds only sterile cotton, a half-full bottle of morphine standing sentinel, and the steady beeping of machines as her lone lullaby. Social workersâ clipped whispers drift through the corridor, tangled in question marks on her chart, and you feel the weight of every unanswered name pressing against your chest. In this vast, antiseptic hall, she is both a miracle and whisper of loss, a solitary heartbeat leaking into the emptiness that should have been filled with arms and lullabies. Fluorescent lights hum low in the vast NICU corridor as you slip past the double doors, your white coat whispering against the floor. Social workers have been hovering at a safe distance for weeks, theyâre only doing their job but their clipped concerns drift through the air like unwelcome specters. You ignore their murmurs, focusing instead on the tiny rise and fall of her chest, steady and miraculous against every odds.Â
Dr. Na leans in close to her incubator, exhaustion etched into the creases around his eyes yet reverence guiding his every movement. He brushes a stray eyelash from her porcelain brow before smoothing the pale, stiff swaddle with the ritual precision of someone invoking an ancient vow. His voice drops into a hushed confession, only reserved for the terrified and the hopeful as he tucks the pale and stiff blanket a fraction tighter and murmurs âIâll be back soon, Sunshine, hold the fort, Iâm so sorry I always have to leave you when youâre like this, I promise Iâll return, I always promise that,â Before the echo of his words can fade, her chest convulses in a storm of raw grief. Tiny sobs tear through her, each shuddering breath a testament to the loneliness she already knows too well. Nurses gather swiftly, their gentle hands pressing warmth against the cool glass, murmuring soft lullabies that weave through the beeps and hums of the machines. One rocks the isolette in a practiced rhythm while another cups her quivering back, whispering encouragement into the sterile air.
Dr. Na remains at the glass, fingertips hovering above her blanket, eyes glistening with a sorrow that no medicine can ease and chest tightening with the weight of her tiny sobs echoing across the sterile corridor, each shuddered breath a testament to the abandonment she was born into and the silent pleas for someone, anyone, to stay. Her tears carve crystalline tracks down her porcelain cheeks, rivulets of despair that speak of betrayals she cannot yet name. Her small fists press against the glass as if begging for a single hand to hold her so she will never again learn the cost of leaving, and his whispered promise hangs between them, louder than the fluorescent hum, binding him to her fragile heartbeat. Itâs as if her wide, wet eyes already know the hollow ache of abandonment that should be kept at bay by loving arms. His whispered vow hovers between themââI promise Iâll be backââan unspoken plea to outrun the sorrow she wears like a second skin.
You stand beyond the glass, pretending to chart on your tablet, but your heart pounds too loudly for the typing to cover. Every moment free from rounds, you find yourself drawn back here, watching him care for the child you first held with trembling fingers. He gives her more attention than the other babies receive in a week, and she has nothing but sterile cotton and that half-empty syringe to mark her presence. The incubators around twirl like hopeful promises, cards flutter like whispered prayers, and plush toys stand guard in clusters, comforts sheâs never known. She gazes up at the fluorescent lights with wide, unblinking eyes, already too familiar with abandonment, as though she can taste the cost of every step her caregivers have to take away from her. She has only an ID number and a scratchy white hat that she rips off in furious grips, as if even the hospital wants her kept at armâs length.
Beside you, Jihoonâs shoulders heave in silent sobs, and you glance over with raised eyebrows even as a fresh tear slides down your cheek. He tries to swallow it back, throat bobbing like a bird caught in a storm, until he finally chokes out, voice cracking: âItâs so sad, so sad, sheâs just a baby!â You squeeze his arm, and Jihoon hiccups another sob that rips through the hush. âI mean,â he chokes, voice thick, âwho leaves a baby like this? Itâsââ He breaks off, stares at the isolette as though expecting it to explode into confetti so the loneliness would vanish. ââitâs just criminal. Criminal!â He snorts, tears spilling again. âI didnât sign up for this.â He waves a hand as if batting away his own grief. âI didnât sign up for heartfelt emotional breakdowns in the pantry. I thought Iâd be throwing scalpels around, saving lives like a badass doctor, not dissolving into a puddle over a tiny human with no parents!â
The doors swing open before you can blink, and Dr. Na strides out of the NICU, coat tails swishing. His gaze snaps to you. icy, exacting, yet beneath it a spark of something raw and vivid that makes your cheeks warm. His jaw is set, eyes narrowed into slits of polished steel, and for a heartbeat the world narrows to the cool, sensual cut of his anger slicing through the dim corridor. You freeze, breath hitching, the echo of baby sobs still lingering behind the glass. Behind you, Jihoon hiccups another sob, shoulders shaking in silent protest. You turn to him, tears still glistening on his lashes, and suddenly your chest lifts with a burst of mischief. Your eyes find him bright and urgent. you have an idea. A slow smile tugs at your lips as you lean in, whispering, âWhat if we give her something no one can take away from her?â Jihoon blinks through his tears, sniffles once, then nods fiercely, determination and grief mingling in his gaze and just like that, you know exactly what youâll do.
You slip into the empty nursesâ station the next day, carrying your bag of charts and a secret hope. Nurse Chaeyoung looks up from her paperwork, surprise flickering in her eyes. your notebooks already bulge with hand-written protocols but she doesnât question you when you clear your throat and whisper, âCould you please teach me how to knit?âÂ
Chaeyoung blinks. She knows youâre already drowning in notes, but she studies your face, sees the resolve trembling there, then slides her paperwork aside. âAll right,â she says, voice a soft acquiescence. She presses two slender bamboo needles into your hands and unfurls a skein of yarn in the hue of sunlit yellow. The alpaca-silk blend. soft as dawnâs first light, was a splurge after your last thirty-hour shift, chosen for its gentle warmth against skin as delicate as petals. Your first stitches are clumsy: loops too tight, tension askew, needles clacking like restless birds. You jab your thumb, hiss, bite the inside of your cheek. Chaeyoung guides your fingers, her own movements certain and slow, but she never scolds when you drop a loop; she just lifts it back onto the needle as if rescuing something sacred. âKeep going,â she murmurs. âBabies donât judge crooked lines.â
You pretend indifference, say youâre bored, say you need a hobby, but everyone within earshot knows the truth: youâve fallen for a three-pound girl in Isolette Three, and youâre desperate to give her something no chart can record. Night after night you return to the on-call room, lamp dimmed so the shadows wonât wake the residents snoring on plastic mattresses. Tutorials flicker soundlessly on your tablet; youâve watched the same row unpicked a dozen times. The yarn whispers over your knuckles, smelling faintly of lanolin and lavender from the sachet you tucked into your bag, the same scent you dab behind your mask before each visit to her crib so your presence will mean comfort, not chemicals. Tiny blood-bright dots blossom on your fingertips where needles have slipped; you wear them like vows. You unravel rows when the corners curl, knit them again until the fabric lies smooth, until each imperfect loop feels like a heartbeat finding rhythm.
One evening, during a lull between rounds the four of you spill onto the scarred wooden bench outside the NICU, take-out cartons steaming in your laps, stethoscopes still draped like question marks around your necks and though each insists theyâre ânot as investedâ as you, every conversation arc bends inevitably toward the girl in Isolette Three, the way sunflowers tilt to whatever light they can find; Hayoung, tongue stained orange from spicy tteokbokki, admits she swings by just to borrow the courage in Sunshineâs clenched fists, and when you pass her the bamboo needle she blushes, threading rose-silk and coaxing a cherry blossom into life because âfragile petals survive storms by being soft and stubborn at once.â Jihoon snorts, denying his tears whenever asked, wiping soy sauce from his chin, yet his hands tremble as he anchors a pearlescent seashellââso sheâll hear an ocean in the hum of those machines, and know the world is wider than this glass.â Hyejin, quiet as a chapel at dawn, selects gold thread, her star stitched with astronomerâs precision; she murmurs that every child deserves a northern light when hospital nights go power-out. Last, you guide moss-green silk through the fringe, tucking a leaf beneath their symbolsâyour covenant that life can unfurl even in fluorescent soil. The blanket ripples unevenly across your knees, tension wobbling where laughter shook the yarn, yet in its crooked constellation of blossom, shell, star, and leaf, you feel an entire afternoon distilled into a portable sky she can wearâproof that four imperfect hearts chose to stay.
Youâve been awake since yesterdayâs twilight, eyes grainy from a marathon of dropped stitches and midnight caffeine, and the blanket, freshly bound off at 4:17 a.m., still radiates the ghost-warmth of your desk lamp and the lavender sachet you kept tucked beneath the skein to calm your nerves. All morning you hovered at the NICU doors, blanket clutched like a shield. Whenever a rare minute of freedom finally opened, youâd hurry toward Isolette Three, only to find Dr. Na already stationed thereâscrub cap discarded on a rolling stool, loupes still dangling from his collar, spending every stolen breath of his break in the hush between his whisper and her fragile inhale. You spot his silhouette again, shoulders bowed, hand cupped over glass and nerves spark hot under your skin. Your feet stall, then inch forward, every step a stitched-together prayer: this is it, no more stalling, donât drop the blanket, donât trip, donât start reciting fiber statistics the second he looks up. You tighten your grip on the pastel-yellow blanket, swallow hard, and force one foot in front of the other, determined to place dawn itself inside her isolette before courage unravels like a loosened stitch.
Dr. Na straightens, still cradling Sunshine against the crook of his elbow, the tiny bottle angled with a surgeonâs precision so a ribbon of milk flows down to the last perfect bubble; her fingers clutch his scrub top like drowsy starfish, a sight so tender you lock in placeâheart thudding, blanket clutched to your chest, words snarled somewhere behind your tongue. He senses you before you can retreat, and his gaze flicks first to the yellow bundle in your arms, then skims up to your faceârazor-sharp, faintly amused, as if heâs caught you scribbling secrets on the walls. âWhatâs that?â he murmurs, voice low enough to set your pulse strobing in your ears. âAnother failed anatomy diagram?â The smirk curves like scalpel steel, and heat scorches up your neck; you fumble a half step forward, nearly knock your clipboard into the IV pole, then grip the blanket tighter, praying the pastel wool can muffle the thunder of your nerves.
âItâs⌠itâs for her,â you blurt, eyes fixed on the floor tiles because meeting his stare feels like stepping into open-heart surgery without gloves. âIâI knitted it last night. Well, technically itâs an alpaca-silk blend, nineteenâmicron fibers, I triple-checked, so itâs hypoallergenic and it drapes really softly, not too thick, not too flimsy. I swear I triple-checkedâbecause, look, I know it sounds ridiculously decadent, and yes, it cost almost three times what I usually spend on take-out, but Sunshineâs file notes her skin barrier is compromised, thereâs a high likelihood of allergic reactions, even eczema under those incubator lights, so I couldnât risk a cheap acrylic scratch-monster, you know?â You launch into a flurry of justifications, cheeks flaming. âThe alpaca makes it soft enough that you could press your ear to it and hear quiet breaths, and the silk adds strength without weight, and I hand-washed every row in hypoallergenic soap the nurses recommended, then air-dried it on a rack, no dryer heat, because that shrinks wool and roughs up the fibers. I didnât want any microscopic wool barbs tickling her already-fragile skin.â Your words tangle, spilling faster than you can corral them.
âI stabbed myself, um, seventeen times, eighteen if you count the thumb but I figured a little blood loss is worth it because she needs something gentle, something thatâs actually hers and not stamped âProperty of Pediatrics.ââ You inhale, cheeks blazing, then plunge on before courage unravels. âI stitched in these tiny symbols, too, thereâs a leaf in one corner because, you know, life keeps trying even when conditions are terrible, and a cherry blossom from Hayoung because fragile things can still be ridiculously strong, and Jihoon wanted a seashell so sheâll always have a bit of the ocean humming near her, and Hyejinâs star is for, uh, portable navigation when the lights flicker at 3 a.m.â You finally risk a glance up, pulse thundering. âI know the tension is uneven and one edge looks like itâs sighing, but itâs warm and itâs soft and itâs hers, and I justââ Your voice cracks into a whisper. ââI just really wanted her to have something that says she isnât alone.â
He straightens in one fluid motion, still cradling Sunshine in the crook of his elbow, the tiny bottle poised at her lips as she drinks with surprising vigor, an intimate task that makes you gasp. His gaze snaps to the pastel bundle against your chest before flicking up to your face, cool and curious. âDid you make one for me too, or just the baby?â he asks, voice low enough to ripple through your ribcage like warm blood.
Your cheeks flame, and you swallow hard, words tumbling out jagged and too-fast. âYou? No. I mean, you never occurred to me.â Your heart hammers so loudly you can almost hear its echo in the hum of the incubators. âItâs just, there was this article in the âJournal of Neonatal Textile Therapy, Volume 12, 2023,â âFiber Diameter and Thermoregulatory Benefits in Preterm Infants.â It said infants swaddled in sub-20-micron fibers show a forty-two percent increase in weight gain and a thirty-one percent drop in cortisol spikes.â You bite your lip, eyelids flicking to his collarbone as if memorizing its contour. âMy brain filed it under âuseless trivia,â but when I saw that alpaca-silk blend, nineteen microns, moisture-wicking, thermally neutral, I couldnât stop thinking about it. I saw it on a specialist auction listing, andâI swearâended up bidding through the night. Four hours of non-stop laptop glances, heart pounding every time I hit refresh, until I won it. Sunshineâs chart notes compromised skin integrity and high allergy risk so I didnât want some acrylic nightmare scratching her still-healing dermis.â Your voice quavers, and you tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, suddenly aware of every stitch of your scrubs clinging to your skin. âIâwell, I got carried away. I just wanted her to have the absolute best chance. All the other babies have cards and soft toys; she arrived with nothing but a blanket thatâs now gone yellow, and I couldnât bear it, I needed to give her a small measure of kindness.â
His eyes trace the ridges of the pastel yellow as though mapping a new continent, then snap up to you with a spark that makes your breath catch. His smirk flickers faster now, teasing and sharp: âYou nearly turned my ICU into a lecture hall. Next time, publish the paper first so I can bring popcorn.â The low timbre of his voice vibrates in your chest, and you gasp, an accidental inhale that sounds conspicuously like awe, your cheeks flaming brighter than the incubator lights. You tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, heart hammering in staccato, suddenly acutely aware of every word youâve ever tripped over and every flutter in your stomach that youâll never admit aloud.
Before you can sputter another ramble, Sunshine coos, a clear, bright note like tiny bells, and Dr. Naâs gaze softens in an instant. He tilts her head against his shoulder and, with a surgeonâs gentleness, traces a fingertip along her spine, coaxing a series of sleepy kicks. She kicks again, and he presses the tiny foot into his palm, tilting his mouth to make a soft raspberry that leaves her gurgling with delight. You catch the slack in his shoulders, the careful steadiness of his hands, the way his eyes drift closed for a brief, reverent moment, it all reads like fatherhood in high definition. You swallow hard, lips parting in an unsteady whimper that you cloak in a cough, rubbing the back of your neck as though youâve just stepped into a gale of feelings youâre not sure how to name. Yet even as warmth blooms in your chest, your brow knots with a sudden ache: he is not her father, she has no family, and in this glowing cocoon of devotion, she remains utterly alone.
Your heart thunders so fiercely you half-expect the monitors to pick it up, but you force yourself closer, blanket folded against your chest like stolen sunlight. Your cheeks burnâtheyâve been burning all morningâbut you step into his space anyway, breath catching as you press the soft wool into his hands. âIâum, would you mind⌠could you cover her with this?â you whisper, voice trembling between hope and embarrassment, each word a tiny act of bravado masked by your shy, downcast gaze.
Dr. Naâs fingers hover for the barest instant, then he lifts the blanket and, with a surgeonâs precision softened by reverence, tucks it around Sunshineâs shoulders so the pastel yellow settles over her like first light. In the month youâve known her, youâve never seen her so still: her tiny fists unwind from the tubes, her knuckles uncurling as though they trust the world for the first time. A delicate coo drifts from her lipsâso soft it sounds like a sighâand her eyelids flutter half-closed, painting sleepy crescents against porcelain skin. Her mouth parts in a gentle yawn, and a flush of rose warms her cheeks as she buries her forehead into the embroidered leaf you placed at her chest, exhaling a slow, contented breath. She nestles deeper into his arm, limbs going lax, her whole body folding into that sliver of warmth, and for one aching, beautiful moment you realize she feels at home.
He straightens with the ease of someone born to thisâever so gently rocking Sunshine in the cradle of his arm, the golden thread work of the blanket slipping into place like a secret promise. His gaze flickers down to her, pupils melting into warmth as he brushes a stray curl of her hair back with the pad of his thumb, eyes dark with tender focus. âThere you go, little one. Comfy?â he murmurs, voice husky with quiet devotion, each word a soft caress in the white glare of the NICU. You watch, breath catching at the steady line of his throat, the way his tailored scrubs hug broad shoulders and taper to the subtle swell of muscle at his forearms, and heat floods your cheeks until youâre certain your skin glows brighter than the incubator light. Sunshine answers him with a tiny coo so sweet it feels like a bell inside your chest. her mouth quirks into a sleepy bubble, a gurgle that ripples through her like laughter in slow motion. She flexes her fingers around his finger, tiny translucent nails barely grazing his skin, and a soft sigh drifts from her lips as she nestles closer into the pastel folds.
Dr. Naâs thumb follows the embroidered leaf at her collarbone, tracing your stitch with a reverence that leaves you breathless. He glances up at youâjust for a momentâand you flush harder, eyes darting down to the blanketâs edge, wishing you could melt into the warmth of that shared glance. Meanwhile, Sunshine lets out a contented hiccup, her brows lifting as though surprised by comfort, and you swear you can see the faintest dimple at the corner of her mouth. In that hush, full of soft sighs, coos, and the underswell of your own racing pulse, you realize youâve never witnessed anything so achingly vulnerable, so quietly triumphant, as a tiny life finally feeling at home.
You clear your throat, the thread trembling in your grasp as warmth floods your cheeks all the way to your ears. You canât help yourself, you have to go deeper. âIâactually,â you begin, voice catching like a hiccup, âI have this extra spool of thread, itâs the same yellow family, but a shade deeper, richerâlike sunset gold. I thought, maybe, if you stitched a little crescent moon beside the leaf, or even a tiny halo above it, it would mean more to her, a secret promise shimmering in the corner. I know itâs silly, but I just⌠I couldnât resist.â You glance up, eyes wide and earnest, sheepish hope dancing in your gaze, every syllable spilling out because once you start, you always have to ask just one more thing.
Dr. Na lifts his gaze from the isolette just long enough to catch your outstretched hand and, without a word, slides the extra spool of thread from your trembling fingers. Then he leans in and, with that same deliberate care he showed Sunshineâs first feed, he scoops her up, tiny limbs curling against his chest, and places her softly into your arms. Your heart seizes as her warm weight settles against your collarbone, her breath a whisper in your ear. She blinks once, then clasps her fingers around her own thumb and draws it to her mouth, sucking in blissful little gulps that echo like lullabies through the sterilized air.
When Dr. Na peels the blanket back, Sunshineâs face crumples in the most heartbreaking pout, a single hiccup-cry so small and urgent it tugs at your chest, her lips quivering like a wilted flower begging for sun. Even her tears glisten like morning dew on porcelain. You press her closer, brushing a kiss to her forehead as she hiccups again, cheeks rosy and soft under the pastel wool. Dr. Naâs scalpel-steady fingers slip the blanket back into place. He parts the pastel wool with the same reverence he shows her fragile chest, then lifts your extra spool of golden thread and threads it through the eye of the needle as though drawing first light into being. He pauses, hands poised above your embroidered leaf, and for a breath it feels as though time itself holds its pulse. Then, stitch by stitch, he draws a tiny sun beside the leafâeach loop a delicate arc of dawn breaking over shadowed valleys. The thread gleams like honeyed sunrise, the rays curling outward in promise: here is warmth, here is light, here is a vow that she will never face the dark alone.
Sunshine watches it all, eyes widening in the incubatorâs glow. A high, breathy coo escapes her lipsâso soft it sounds like a secret whispered between friendsâand she lifts one nub of a hand to brush at the new golden sun, tiny fingers batting at the yarn with curious delight. Her cheeks bloom rosy, as if she understands that this little orb was made for her, and she presses her forehead into the wool, sighing a contented sigh that ripples through her like a lullaby. She sucks her thumb in blissful rhythm, eyelashes fluttering against porcelain skin, and a single hiccup-cry bubbles upâso dainty itâs almost like applause.
Dr. Na leans in close, voice hushed. âYou see that, little one?â he murmurs, tracing the sunâs rays with his fingertip. âThatâs your light. Always there.â His gaze lifts to youâwarm, intimateâand for a moment you share a smile that needs no words. In the hush of beeping monitors and the soft murmur of the NICU night, baby and doctors alike are bound by the quiet power of that golden sun and the promise it holds.A hiccup of relief escapes you, and Sunshine coos again, her little hand fluttering as if in applause. You swallow hard, blinking back the last of your nerves, as the three of you stand in the pale glow of the NICUâbound by wool, wonder, and the promise that none of you will ever leave her alone.
You clear your throat in a soft, practiced cough. your agreed signal and the door to the NICU slides open a crack. Jihoon slips in, arms laden with plush bunnies, two extra pastel-yellow blankets, a stack of onesies embroidered with tiny suns, and a handful of handmade cards scrawled with âyouâve got thisâ and âsunshine princessâ in mismatched inks. You and him share a relieved smile as he sets down helium balloons that bob gently against the ceiling and a small music box that plays a lullaby too sweet for words. Jihoon grins, as earlier today, you both hosted every bit of warmth from the downstairs gift shop for this one beautiful girl.
Dr Naâs eyes lift from Sunshineâs chest as you lower your voice. âWould it be all right if we⌠decorated her crib?â you ask, voice sheepish and earnest. âAll the other incubators look like birthday parties, and hers feels so bare.â He blinks once, expression clipped, and then gives the faintest nod, as though granting permission to break a hospital rule you didnât know existed. You exhale a breath you didnât realize you were holding.
Jihoon peels a sheet of baby-safe stickers from its backing and hands you the first oneâa golden sun that catches the NICU light like a promise. Together you press âfighter,â âsunshine baby,â and, in your own trembling handwriting, âbelongs hereâ onto the plastic wall of her incubator, each word blooming like wildflowers in a barren field. You drape two plush bunnies, one snowy white, one butter-yellow, over the edge, their soft fur whispering comfort against the sterile rails. A pink pacifier with a glitter heart bobs on its clip, and you tuck an extra pastel-yellow blanket around the foot of the isolette so it spills over like the first rays of dawn.
Next, you and Jihoon suspend a sunshine mobile overhead, its tiny golden stars spinning in a lullaby waltz. You clip a miniature music box to the side rail, the tin tune coiling through the hum of machines, delicate as a motherâs hum in a silent church. All the while, Sunshine stirs beneath the glow: one tiny hand uncurls, fingertips brushing against the soft ear of a bunny, and she coos, a breathy, bell-bright note that makes your heart catch. She yawns, her lips parting in an unhurried arc as if savoring each moment, then nuzzles into the curve of the blanket, eyelashes fluttering in sleepy contentment.
âDelivery for Miss Golden Cheeks,â Jihoon announces with mock formality, setting down a small stack of handmade cards scrawled with love and a pair of knitted booties you couldnât resist. He grins at you, nudges the bunnies upright, then quips, âDr. Na, Iâd offer you a pacifier too, but I think youâre already suckinâ the life out of Doctor Y/N.â The words tumble into a hush of shared laughter, and in that intimate glow of balloons, blankets, and baby coos, you feel as if the world beyond these walls has paused, just long enough for Sunshine to know she is, at last, home.
As you stand back to survey your handiworkâballoons drifting, bunnies perched like sentinels, blankets folded in sunlit layers. Doctor Na clears his throatâsharp as a scalpelâs edgeâand with a single, precise motion he lifts Sunshine from your arms, cradling her against his chest as though she weighs nothing more than a sigh. His voice drops into the clipped, authoritative timbre of a chief resident on rounds. âDonât you both have rounds to attend to?â
You and Jihoon exchange sheepish glances, cheeks still warm from pride and embarrassment. Without another word, you hustle toward the door, balloons bobbing at your heels, bunnies and blankets forgotten for the moment. Behind you, the door slides shut, and in the soft glow of the NICU morning light, Sunshine nestles deeper into Dr. Naâs arm. Her tiny hand drifts up to rest against his stethoscope, as if grounding herself in his steady heartbeat, and his fingers curl around hers, two fragile promises bound by dawnâs first light.
The night after, you slip into the NICU on tiptoe, the corridor bathed in a soft, bluish glow that turns every surface to silver. You pause as you reach Isolette Three and realize Dr. Na has dozed off, perched on the small stool beside the crib. His elbow rests on the incubatorâs edge, scrub sleeve gently crumpled where he has propped his arm to keep her close and even in sleep his stance is vigilant, as though his body itself could shield her from the dark. Each rise and fall of his shoulders is paced like a metronome, matching the steady beeps of the monitors and reminding you that two lives here balance on his quiet watchfulness.
Inside the incubator, Sunshine Girl lies swaddled in her pastel-yellow blanket, the crooked stitched sun resting just beneath her cheek like a silent benediction. Her eyelashes, fine as gossamer threads, fan across her high, rounded cheeks. cheeks so perfect and full they seem to glow against the sterile white light. Her tiny fist has curled itself around Dr. Naâs finger, knuckles rising and falling with each gentle breath as though sheâs discovered an anchor in the darkness. Now and then, the soft rasp of her breathing shifts into a coo so delicate it could be mistaken for a lullaby carried on a breeze. You watch the way her lips part in sleep, the faintest quiver of a sigh escaping her, and you feel a fierce protective surge as if youâd defend this moment with every remaining ounce of courage.
Your breath catches at the sight: the two of them in perfect stillness, man and baby bound by a single golden thread of care. You raise a hand and press your palm to the outside of the incubator glass, where dribbles of warmth linger like fingerprints, proof that sheâs no longer just a patient but a presence, a life that matters to you more than just machines. Your hands tremble, not from fear, but from the weight of all the promises youâve stitched into her blanket and all the vigils youâve yet to keep. Here, in this suspended hush, you realize sheâs still hereâand sheâs not alone. Below the soft glow of the overhead lamp, the bond between doctor, baby, and the memories of every late-night stitch pulses like a whispered vow: she will always have someone to come back to.
You pause, heart tightening, as the baby stirsâher shoulders quiver in a slow, sleepy tremor like petals trembling at dawn. Instinct propels you forward. You press a fingertip to the blanketâs edge and tuck it more snugly around her shivering shoulders, smoothing the wool in long, careful strokes. She gives a faint whimper, soft enough to be mistaken for a sigh, but her hand flutters free and curls around the folds of fabric as if seeking refuge. You lean closer, voice low and warm: âItâs okay, little one,â you murmur, feeling warmth bloom behind your sternum. The bunnies on either side seem to lean in, their stitched eyes fixed on her, and in that moment you realize your hands know exactly how to comfort her, more tenderly than you ever imagined you could care.
As her tremors fade, Sunshine Girlâs lashes flutter, and she emits a faint coo that resonates like a lullaby in the stillness. You brush a fingertip across her forehead, light as a benediction and step back, heart thundering with a new, fierce protectiveness. The bunnies stand guard, the blanketâs golden sun glows softly, and Dr. Na remains asleep, unaware of the small miracle youâve woven here: a baby finally finding peace in a world that once felt too cold. You press your palm once more to the glass, breathing in the hush, and carry this tender image with youâthe quiet power of love wrapped in yarn and vigilant hearts.
Itâs been exactly one week since you slipped that uneven, golden-hued blanket beneath Sunshineâs fragile shoulders for the first time, and every night since, tucking her in has become both ritual and refuge. You arrive before midnight, the corridorâs fluorescent hum receding behind you as if yielding to the warmth you carry in your arms. Kneeling beside the isolette, you spread the blanket like dawn unfurling across her body, each imperfect stitch a vow youâve already kept ten thousand times in your heart. You lean in close, brush a fingertip along her cheek, and murmur the nonsense lullabies youâve invented, soft rhythms meant only for her ears, until her breath steadies and her fist relaxes around the plush edge. The nurses know you by that glowing silhouette, the way you coo her name under your breath, and you wouldnât trade this private hour for any other. In that golden glow, you feel her confidence bloom: the blanket is no longer just yarn and yarn, it is your promise that she will never wake alone.
Morning always arrives with a flurry of vital signs and lab reports, the turning pages of her chart as familiar as a heartbeat. Her oxygen saturations hover in the high nineties, her weight inching upward by grams, and cranial ultrasounds show no new bleeds, small mercies that keep you tethered to hope. Yet the specter of future procedures lingers in every echo and blood gas: there will be more surgeries, more anesthetic dawns, more nights youâll pace these linoleum corridors with your heart in your throat. Todayâs brief reads stable but cautious: minimal ventilator support, tolerating feeds at fifteen milliliters per hour, no fevers, no new murmurs. Itâs hardly triumph, and not quite warning, but enough to remind you that her life is a tightrope walk above uncertainty. Still, for now, she is holding onâand so you hold your pen steady, charting her rises and falls as if mapping the constellations of her survival.
Youâve been by Dr. Naâs side for the entire month, your rotations intertwined like threads in a single tapestry and yet your care extends far beyond Sunshine. Each morning you slip into the NICU and then down the pediatric corridors without fanfare: he sees you waiting by the doors, ready to plunge into the lives of every fragile infant and child whose charts bear your name. He delegates with clipped efficiency, âI want your numbers on her intake by 0800,â or âPrep the line-change in Room 4, then meet me for the pre-op huddleââand you glide into action, moving from Sunshineâs isolette to the ventilator-dependent preemie in isolette two, to the toddler in PICU recovering from congenital heart repair, to the school-age child with diabetic ketoacidosis in room 12.Â
Fellow interns whisper that he values your precision and rapid surgical aptitude alike: you recall every babyâs perfect foot-warmer setting, deftly threading a central line into the tiniest vein without a tremor, anticipate the toddlerâs restless kicks and distract her with a finger puppet, and spin quiet bedtime stories for the eight-year-old as she drifts toward anesthesia. In just days youâve mastered ultrasound-guided catheter placements and flawless surgical knotsâskills that typically take months to acquireâyet you never forget to memorize each patientâs personal quirks. He never praises outright, but when you hand him the latest blood gas for that cyanotic newborn and the drip-check sheet for the septic one before he even asks, his nod is enough: he trusts your competence with every life in this ward in a way he never has with anyone else.
Though sponge baths technically fall under the nursesâ domain, today two RNs have been pulled into a respiratory emergency across the ward, and the charge nurseâs clipboard is bulging with admissions. You know that no one else can give Sunshine that quiet hour of warmth that she deserves, a sacred pause in her battle, so when the nurse asks, âYou sure youâre not busy elsewhere?â you and Hayoung exchange a look and slip past her gentle protest.
Steam drifts like silver ribbon through the alcove when you wheel Sunshineâs isolette against the tile, and the world narrows to a lit basin of water, clear as blown glass, trembling with heat that halos upward in soft wavering columns. The overhead lamp pools amber on the surface, turning each ripple into a molten sunbeam, and somewhere behind the hiss of warm taps and the distant ventilator beeps, you catch your own heartbeat counting off the measurements you memorized at dawn: thirty-eight degrees Celsius, just shy of skin; saline flush at the ready; cloth folded four times into a square small enough for her sternum. Hayoung steadies Sunshineâs neck with a gentleness that reminds you of a bird handler coaxing a sparrow to trust her palm, and you slide your arms beneath the babyâs fragile spine, feeling the flutter of hidden wings in the muscle of her back. For an instant she dangles between air and waterâcaught in the hush of a tide about to turnâand the blanket you peel away from her feels suddenly enormous against the threadbare hush of her soft cry.
The moment her heel touches the water, she startlesâtiny mouth pulling into an O, lungs expanding like the opening of a stormcloudâand she loosens into a half-sob, wet and breathy, that ricochets off the tile. The basin shivers as her fists jerk, droplets flinging outward like startled minnows; her pulse skitters, monitors chiming in uneasy counterpoint. You press the warm cloth against the swell of her ribs, whispering the numbers in rhythm, one, two, three, lift; one, two, three, glide, while your thumb strokes the tremor that quakes at her collarbone. âShhh, little current,â you murmur, letting the invented pet name ride on the hum that spills from your throatâa low, wordless vibrato that seems to braid itself with the waterâs soft slosh. Hayoungâs breath catches when Sunshine jerks again, but you flatten your palm across the fluttering cage of her heart, and the warmth seeps into bone like sunlight into river-ice. Slowly, her sob tapers to a whimper, then to a hiccup that bubbles and fades; her fists uncurl, fingers splay like tiny sea stars against the surface, and she surrenders to the lap-lap of cloth gliding over her knees, her cheeks, the fragile sutures at her sternum. Each pass of the linen feels sacramentalâan ocean washing grief from stoneâuntil her eyelids droop, lashes beading with little diamonds of water that catch the lamp and scatter it across her cheeks like dawn-lit salt.
As the water settles and the two palm-sized rubber duckies drift like yellow planets at the basinâs edge, Sunshine finally melts into the warmth, her legs loosening, toes flexing under the surface until she gives a sudden, delighted kick that arcs a crescent of droplets across your scrub top; the duckies bob and wobble in her wake, far too large for her starfish hands to seize, yet she sends them spinning with each rhythmic flick of her ankles. You grin, angling the cloth in slow circles over her knees, and murmur, âEasy there, little ballerina, save your grand jetĂŠs for Auren Hall,â letting the joke float atop the steam. Hayoung huffs a watery laugh, and even Sunshine rewards the line with a burbly sigh, half-coo, half-giggle, as though she understands that choreography is simply another way to say Iâm alive, watch me dance.
When the bath is finished, you lift her free in a cradle of toweling warmth, and the basin stills behind you, glassy as a tidepool after storm. Sunshine sighsâan almost inaudible reed-whistleâand burrows into the crook of your elbow, skin flushed rose where the water kissed her, eyelids drifting like soft curtains in a breeze. Hayoung drapes the pastel-yellow blanket around her crown; you fold the corners beneath her chin so the crooked sun Dr. Na stitched sits just at her throat, a makeshift medallion of dawn. In that moment she is a tiny comet wrapped in gold, and even the machines seem to hush, their lights dimming in reverence. Jaeminâs silhouette appears at the threshold, arms crossed, unreadable eyes catching on the way your hands settle her deeper into the blanketâs glow. He watches as Sunshine releases a drowsy cooâmore exhale than wordâand then, impossibly, a gurgle of something close to laughter flares in her throat before dissolving into a dream-heavy sigh. The steam around you disperses like a curtain parting, and the room, water-warm, antiseptic-bright, feels for one breathless instant like the safest harbor on earth.
You and Hayoung lift Sunshine onto the heated changing pad, the steam curling around you like a promise as you peel back the damp towel. She trembles, tiny shoulders shivering in the cooler air and unleashes a fresh cry, thin and urgent, as Hayoung slips a soft cotton onesie over her feet. You pause, heart tightening, and the wet strands of her hair plaster against your fingers. Without thinking, you begin to hum, a gentle, wordless lullaby that drifts from your lips like warm breath. The melody curves around the alcove, threading itself into the hiss of the warmer and the distant hum of ventilators. Hayoung freezes, roots her hands in the folds of the sleeper, and watches as Sunshineâs wails falter. The babyâs eyes flutter shut, a quaver of relief softening her lips, and she settles against your forearm, body folding into the soft cotton as if the song were a soft landing.
You straighten and whisper encouragementââAlmost there, sunshineââthen lower your voice so only she can hear. Hayoung fastens the little snaps at your coaxing, hooking the final one beneath Sunshineâs chin. Your lullaby falters, and you realize with startled wonder that you didnât even notice the tune rising and falling; it simply poured from you. For a heartbeat, Hayoungâs eyes brim with unshed tears, and you blink away your own as you step back, hands trembling with the residue of that unbidden song.
From the far corner of the alcove, Dr. Na watches in silence, arms folded over his scrub top, gaze narrowed but not unkind. âIntern.â The single word drops into the steam like a stone. âKeep singing.â
Heat floods your cheeks. You swallow, stripes of red blossoming across your neck, but you lift your chin and offer the melody againâsoft, steadfastâthis time for him as much as for her. Sunshine breathes in time with the hum, tiny chest rising and falling beneath her sleeper, and you feel the quiet power of voice meeting flesh, of song meeting skin. In that charged hush, the world narrows to three hearts, baby, doctor, intern, bound by the simple grace of a lullaby in a room that knows too much sorrow.
Back at the isolette, you fasten the pulse-ox sensor, the one with the tiny bunny print, around her heel. You remember, almost without thinking, to switch to the smaller warmer pad; youâve memorized her chartâs foot-sensitive notes. Jaemin leans in close as you whisper her vitals into the tablet. âYou always remember the heel warmers,â he murmurs, voice quieter than the ventilatorâs hum. Itâs the first time you hear âthank youâ from him, and your fingers falter on the clamp. He watches you, gaze unreadable, and you realize heâs catalogued every small devotion youâve shown this child.
You settle beside Sunshineâs isolette and Dr. Naâs hand drops on your shoulderâwarm, firmâa silent prompt to begin. You peel the corner of the gauze dressing at her sternotomy site and, in your haste, pull too sharply. The adhesive rips away from her porcelain skin in a rough tear, and she jolts awake with a high-pitched wail, her fists clenching at her chest. Guilt ricochets through your chest as you freeze, thumb hovering over the damp gauze. The room tilts: her tears, the twitch of her lip, your trembling hand.
Jaemin bends over the isolette, voice pitched to a velvet command. âEasy, Sunshine.â He cups her crown with one broad palm, thumb stroking the downy hair at her fontanel, and she settles in secondsâtiny breath catching, then sighing back into half-sleep. The dominance in his posture is palpable: shoulders squared over her like a sentry; eyes flicking to you, unreadable, expectant. Heat flushes up your neck. You reach for the second strip, but hesitation glues your fingers. They shake.
âHere.â He slides behind you, torso grazing the curve of your spine, gloved hand enveloping your own. The contact is clinical, rubber on skin, yet the weight of him is molten, breath grazing the shell of your ear. âYou anchor first,â he murmurs, guiding your thumb to brace the intact skin just beyond the adhesive. âCounter-traction. Minimizes dermal shear.â His other hand closes over your wrist, applying the gentlest backward tension: slow peel, adhesive rolling on itself instead of tearing free. Sunshine barely stirs, lips parting in a drowsy sigh. Your own breath hitches, trapped between the porcelain warmth of the babyâs skin and the incandescent press of Jaeminâs sternum at your shoulder blades.
Together you irrigate the incision line, he steadies the sterile saline ampoule while you direct the flow, each droplet catching amber light before sliding over the neat column of sutures. He guides your swab in small concentric circles: âCenter out. One pass per pad. Pressure just enough to blanch, not bruise.â The tone is steady, assured; you feel your pulse ease into his cadence. Sunshineâs eyelids flutter at the cool flush but remain closed, trusting.
When the gauze dries, he lowers a fresh transparent dressing into your palm. âLay the center first,â he instructs, fingertips brushing the inside of your wristâa static spark that travels up your arm and settles in your spine. You suspend the film over the wound; his thumb nudges your angle by a hair. Film kisses skin, adhesive sealing with a soft hush. Jaeminâs fingers linger to smooth the edges, tracing the perimeter with measured reverence. Sunshine releases a breathy cooâsmall, silvered joyâand the corners of her mouth tremble upward. Itâs barely a smile, but the room seems to tilt toward it. You step back, the metronome of monitors syncing to your heartbeat. Jaemin straightens, gaze cutting from the dressing to your face. Steel meets softness; a quiet flare of approval smolders in the dark of his eyes, but no compliment escapes. Only a clipped âGood,â vibrating somewhere between benediction and command.Â
Morning dilutes the hallwayâs night-blue hush into ivory light, and you arrive at Sunshineâs isolette before rounds, breath clouding the glass like a secret. Sheâs already awakeâeyes the color of bruised plums, lids still puffy from last nightâs tearsâyet thereâs a new alertness firing in the tiny flick of her lashes. Her cheeks glow lamb-pink, mottled where the cannula tape presses, and the slope of her nose is dotted with pinprick milia that look like spilled sugar on porcelain. Sheâs still a thicket of tubing: nasal prongs feeding warmed oxygen, an OG tube taped at the corner of her mouth, a pulse-ox lead hugging her bunny-print foot. But her legs, those impossibly frail sticks, keep kicking against the boundaries of her blanket, testing gravity as though sheâs just discovered it can be pushed back. Yesterday she scarcely flexed a toe; this morning each kick seems to announce, Iâm here, Iâm here, in a rhythm brighter than any monitorâs green glow.
You ease the isolette door open, and she startlesâfirst with a gasp, then with a high, breathy âah,â like the piano note at the very top of a scale. She flails, fists grazing the ventilator tubing, and in that flurry of motion her blanket slips, exposing the little sun Dr. Na stitched beside the leaf. The sight steadies you: vows sewn into cloth, still guarding her sternum. You tuck the blanket around her knees, thumb brushing the soft fuzz at her shin. She grips your latex-gloved fingertipâtranslucent nails against sterile blueâthen promptly loses interest and kicks again, as if auditioning for some celestial swim team. Itâs ridiculous, itâs beautiful, and it squeezes something aching and incandescent behind your ribs.
Dr. Na strides in with the rest of early roundsâclipboard in his left hand, stethoscope slung like a silver lariat over his shoulder, but the room seems to shrink to the triangle of you, him, and the baby. Her eyes flick toward him as though she recognizes his scent in the air. âVitals?â he asks without looking up from the chart, but youâre already reciting them, heart rate 146, sats 95 on two-litre flow, urine output steady, no residuals on the last feed. He grunts an acknowledgment and flicks the diaphragm of his stethoscope against his palm to warm it.
Jaemin lifts the blanketâs corner, and cool air slips beneath the pastel folds. The stethoscope disk finds the soft swell of her belly, silver circle gleaming against moon-pale skin. He gives a gentle tapâjust enough for the tiniest vibration to ripple through her, a secret knock at the door of her heartbeat. Sunshineâs eyes flare open, lashes quivering like wet petals; her mouth forms an astonished O, and thenâout of the fragile hushârises a gurgling laugh, round and effervescent, bubbling up as if a pearl had broken free from seawater. Her limbs answer first: feet kick slow, delighted arcs; fingers uncurl, brushing air the way a dreamer reaches for light. He taps again, softer, and the laugh returnsâlighter now, half-hiccup, half-songâspilling down her tongue in tiny, shimmering crescendos. Tubes quiver against her cheeks with each sound; the cannula trembles, catching a droplet of breath. Beneath the transparent film at her sternum, the stitches rise and fall, but above them, life pours forth fearless and bright. The little sun embroidered on her blanket glints beneath her chin as she wiggles, laughter beating inside the isolette like a hummingbirdâs wingsâproof that even stitched skin and plastic lines cannot cage joy when it decides to bloom.
The silver disk skims lower, grazing the faint curve of her ribs, and Sunshineâs whole body anticipates the touch, knees drawing up, toes flexing, lips already quivering at the corners. Jaemin whispers another invisible boo into the hollow of her belly, and the laugh bursts out brighter, a liquid trill that sends her pacifier bobbing on its clip. Her eyes ribbon into crescents; the soft down of her brows lifts as though wonder itself is tickling her from the inside. A flush blooms across her cheeks, staining the skin just beneath the tape a rosy dawn, and she kicks hard enough that one bunny-printed footie blurs in the isoletteâs light. Jaeminâs mouth tilts a fractionâmore exhale than smileâbut he taps once more, gentler than breath, coaxing another ripple of giggles that flutter through her like tiny wings.
You feel the sound land in the hollow of your chestâwarm and achingâwhile your hand hovers inches from hers, ready should she reach, though you donât interrupt. Her laughter drains into soft hiccups, lashes fluttering open to track the stethoscopeâs gleam, as if sheâs discovered a private moon. Jaemin finally lifts the disk away, but keeps his palm braced near her flank, steadying the residual tremors of joy. His eyes flick to yoursâdark, bright, a quiet astonishment neither of you nameâand in that exchange you taste salt behind your teeth, the sweetness nearly too much to bear. Sunshine sighs, lashes sweeping down, and nestles her face into the blanketâs sun, breathing tiny haloed clouds against the wool, her whole body soft as dusk. The room feels newly spun, tender and humming, each of you held in the fragile orbit of a babyâs laugh.
Jaemin, still staring at the impossible joy that just erupted from six pounds of scar tissue and willpower, murmurs, âGuess she thinks Iâm funny.â The monitors carry on, oblivious, but every clinician in the alcove stands suspended in that shimmer of pure, unfiltered triumph. Her giggle hardens into legend over the next hour; Jihoon practically sprints to noon conference so he can announce, between panting breaths, âSunshine likes dad jokes confirmed,â and no one bothers hiding their grin.
Later, as rounds wind down, you watch her burn through her newfound energy: a flurry of kicks, then a sleepy whine, then a thumb sucked loud enough to fog the cannula. Jaemin adjusts her feed angle, his knuckles grazing yours, and though the contact is gloved and fleeting, it sears a path of heat up your forearm. He murmurs a dosage adjustment under his breath, you nod, and together you settle the isolette lid. She sighs through her tube, lashes trembling shut, pacified by your lullaby-quiet breathing. Sheâs still sickâlines in, surgeries aheadâbut today her laugh is proof that healing is not only measured in milliliters and milligrams; sometimes it bursts forth unscripted, a silver bell in a sterile room, and everyone present re-learns what hope sounds like.
You chart her milestone with trembling fingersâFirst audible laugh, 05:47, elicited by Dr. Na J.âand as the entry saves, you realize your cheeks ache from smiling. Sunshine sleeps, one foot kicking in dreams, blanket sun brimming beneath her chin; Jaemin steps behind you, voice low, neither praise nor reprimandâonly, âKeep her this warm, her laugh is beautiful,â before heâs gone. But the day hums brighter for every soul that walks past that isolette and pauses, just long enough to see a tiny mouth quirk, as if she might laugh again, and let the dawn break twice in one morning.
Leaning into the isoletteâs porthole, you let your voice dip into the hush between monitor beeps, forehead almost touching the clear plastic. Sunshineâs lashes flutter at the brush of your breath, and you trace a finger along the curve of her swaddle where the feeding line meets her shoulder. âYou hungry, beautiful?â you murmur, letting the words tumble out like warm milk themselvesâsoft vowels, slow consonants. Her lips purse, working around the pacifier in a tiny suck-pause-suck rhythm, and one fist rises sleepily in answer, knuckles brushing the blanketâs sun as if sheâs reaching for the idea of nourishment before the syringe even clicks into place.
The scare begins so quietly you almost miss it. Sunshine has been tolerating her afternoon gavage feeds, twenty milliliters of fortified milk sliding through the orange NG tube at a careful drip, but today she fusses halfway through, tiny brow knitting, fists tightening under the blanket. You stroke her foot, waiting for the wriggle to settle. Then, in a blink, everything splinters: her eyes fly wide, pupils blown with panic, and a wet gurgle rattles up her throat. Milk refluxes through the tube and pools at her lips. The pulse-ox monitor shrieks, oxygen plunging from 94 to 70, while the overhead alarm flashes a strobe of angry red.
Your hands freeze above her chest, mind fractured by the cacophony. You see the numbers fallingâ68, 63âbut your fingers wonât move. Dr. Na materialises from the med cart like a shadow called by instinct. In one motion he flicks off the feeding pump, palms her sternum with two fingertips, and tilts her sideways. âSuction,â he commands, voice calm enough to still the room. The nurse snaps the catheter into his hand; he threads it past the tube in a single practiced glide, clearing the frothy milk and thin strings of mucus while his thumb taps gentle compressions along her back. The monitor bleeps upâ72, 83âyet he doesnât exhale until it climbs past 90. Sunshineâs chest heaves, then settles; her colour tints from ashen lilac to mottled pink. Only then does he nod once, clamps the NG line, and reattaches the nasal prongs.
Hours later, after the charting and the machine resets, you retreat to the metal stairwell that smells of bleach and burnt coffee. Your knees draw to your chest; your scrub top is damp where the milk splashed. The adrenaline drains, leaving a hollow tremor in its wake. You stare at your palms and wonder how hands that know every stitch of her blanket could turn to stone when she needed them. Footsteps echo. Dr. Na descends, pausing three steps up so you have to tilt your head to meet his eyes. He doesnât scold. He simply extends the pink pacifier youâd left on the procedure tray. The glitter heart catches the stairwell light. âYou forgot this.â His voice is quiet enough to slip under your guard. âYouâre better when youâre not scared of losing,â he adds, tone neither harsh nor gentleâjust true. âShe needs you to be sure.â You wrap shaking fingers around the pacifier, and he rests his hand on the railing beside your headâclose, not touchingâuntil your breathing matches the slow cadence of his own. Only then does he climb back up, leaving the smell of scrub soap and peppermint lingering like a vow.
In the days that follow, Sunshine stitches together a quilt of tiny victories that remap the wardâs heartbeat. Hayoung slips the white plush bunny into the isolette one dawn, and the instant the velvety ear brushes Sunshineâs cheek, she releases a pleased cooâthree rising notes that sound like a miniature skylark greeting morning. Later, during chart checks, Jihoon parks himself beside her crib and recites her medication list in a hammy Shakespearean baritoneââTwo milliliters of caffeine citrate, thou noble babe!ââand she answers with an enormous yawn, jaw unhinging to the ceiling, pink tongue curling like a comma at the end of a sentence. The whole bay chuckles; she looks faintly pleased with herself.
Her strength blooms in whispers: one afternoon you lift her onto the wedge for physiotherapy, and she pushes up, drowsy but determined, head floating a full half-inch off the mattress. Those five seconds steal the air from your lungs; you duck into the supply closet and cry against a stack of diapers, the smell of powder and plastic cocooning your joy. By weekâs end sheâs strong enough to lock onto your lanyardâtiny fist snagging the ID badge and yanking with startling ferocity until the clip pops loose. Dr. Na smirks, reattaches it, and remarks under his breath, âRecruiting her early, are you?â She hiccups in reply, cheeks blooming sunset pink.
None of these moments rewrite her prognosisâsheâs still tethered to half a dozen lines, still facing more surgeryâbut they redraw the map of what is possible: bunny coos, Shakespeare yawns, half-inch head lifts, lanyard captures. Each demands new space in the margin of her chart, written in the same ink as vitals and vent settings, because here, joy is as measurable as any lab value. And every night, long after rounds, you slip that yellow blanket up to her chin, whisper the dayâs new victory into her ear, and wait for the soft exhale that means she believes you: Iâm here, Iâm here.
You donât realize how narrow your orbit has become until Chief Resident Siyeon plants both palms on the on-call room table and says, very evenly, âYouâre not a pediatric intern, and youâre not her mother, you shouldnât be this attached.â The fluorescent light picks out every crease in her brow; the words sting harder because theyâre true. Since the night Sunshine emerged into your arms, youâve lived along a single corridor, drifted from isolette to OR to isolette again, stitched tightly to Dr. Naâs service as though the rest of the hospital were merely background noise. No one bothered paging you for adult trauma consults anymore; your colleagues joked that if anyone needed you they should try the NICU first. At morning sign-out other interns swapped war stories about bowel resections and emergent craniotomies; you traded tips on heel warmers, cannula sizes, and pacifier flow rates. Somewhere in the haze of feeds, line changes, and Dr. Naâs clipped requests, you forgot that the internship program expects breadth, not devotion.
It started innocently: an extra set of competent hands during a midnight PDA ligation, the way you anticipated retractors without being asked. Dr. Na liked predictable, silent efficiency, and you showed up every shift with the chart colour-coded and the OR prepped to his exact preference: curved Metzenbaums at ten oâclock, stat drain at one, suction tubing primed, arterial line transduced to the decimal. When preemies bradyed, you nudged the FiOâ up before he spoke; when sutures needed tying, your knots lay flat and surrendered at the precise tug pressure he favoured. Word spread that he âdoesnât use internsâhe uses her,â but no one challenged it because beds were turning over faster than staff could learn names. And yes, Sunshine cooed for you and settled for your lullaby, but the truth was every neonate under his care benefited: the baby post-gastroschisis closure who only took feeds when you paced the bolus; the ex-24-weeker who desatted less when you calibrated the pulse-ox clip just north of the knee. Other interns documented vitals; you documented patterns and presented them before dawn rounds like tiny weather reports of each childâs storm.
Thatâs the context Siyeon slaps onto the table when she orders your transfer. âDr. Na can like you all he wants, but you are not a single-service intern.â She hands you a temporary badge for Cardiac Surgery, Surgical Hearts Unit, Dr. Hwang. The name alone is legend: minimally invasive valve wizard, five papers in JTCVS this year. You nod, throat paper-dry, and turn toward the elevator bank feeling like someone has untethered your gravity. Dr. Hwangâs OR is an icebox of precision, temperature down for myocardial protection, sarcasm dialed up for survival. He watches you scrub, notes your clumsy opposite-hand brush technique, and corrects it with a quick bark. Yet once the chest is cracked and the aorta cross-clamped, he sees how your hands move: quick, economical, no wasted rotation of the wrist. âGood vessel control,â he mutters as you snare the right coronary ostium. Later, in debrief, he studies the suture line on the explanted valve ring. âSoft hands,â he says, which in his dialect counts as euphoria, but follows with, âYou second-guess too much. Stop waiting for permission, just take it.â The compliment lands like grit; you pocket it anyway. But the scent of chlorhexidine in Peds still clings to your scrubs, and each time the unit phone rings across the OR, your pulse spikes, waiting for a code youâll no longer answer.
By the end of the second day, the NICU corridor carries your absence in every echo. Hayoungâs text arrives like a cautious ripple: âSunshineâs residuals are up. I tried your slow-drip angleâit didnât settle.â Beneath the bright fluorescents, the incubators stand like empty pews, waiting for someone who knows their hymns. Hyejinâs message reads: Day 3: she misses you. How do I make her stop crying? The accompanying photo shows Sunshineâs lashes stuck together with tears, cheeks mottled pink, eyes too big for her face. You send back instructions, tuck the blanket corner just so under her chin, pacifier rotated to the magic angle, a humming note in F-sharp to match her resting heart rate but the reply is a cascade of crying-face emojis. Down the hall, whispers say Dr. Na prowls the bay like a stormâs eye; when a resident delivers an NG tube two millimeters too large, Dr. Naâs low âTake it backâ cuts sharper than any reprimand youâve ever heard him offer.
Heâs accustomed to your rhythm: the exact moment youâd read a drop in sats and cradle her head, the way youâd coax a stubborn feed track into her gut as if it were your solemn vow. He never voices itâprefers to let the wardâs heartbeat betray his preferenceâbut when Hyejin steps forward to lower the FiOâ by protocol, he slides his gloved thumb to tweak the dial up just enough to see that familiar flicker of calm return to Sunshineâs face. When she gags on her line and Hyejin hesitates, Dr. Naâs hand drifts to your old stoolâs empty space, his gaze lingering on the scratches your penlight made on its leg. And though he never summons your name aloud, every order he issues, every shift he schedules, bends toward the unspoken certainty: youâre the one who can speak her language, who knows by heart the fragile grammar of her survival.
And youâtorn from the little miracles of midday rounds and the soft triumph of a warmed towelâfeel the wardâs pulse in empty spaces. You miss the steady click of the pump when she takes a full feed, the hush that falls when babies like her hold still under your touch, the sharp comfort of a successful central line placement. You miss the shuffle sneakers as you arrive to pre-rounds, the low hum of drip alarms and the chorus of tiny sighs that greet sunrise. Most of all, you miss the small hand that once sought your lanyard and the confident tug that felt like a promise. In the quiet hours between Cardiacâs sterile walls, you close your eyes and hear again the soft gasp of a little fighter beneath the sun-woven blanket, and you know that every stitch you ever madeâand every stitch youâll ever makeâexists only because her breath still needs you.
Day Five dawns beneath a vault of piercing lights in Dr. Hwangâs operating theater, where the stainless steel and polished glass gleam with an almost reverent intensity. You stand beside the patientâa silent promise of new life etched into the pale curve of her chestâfingers gloved and poised on the prosthetic valveâs silken cuff. The heart-lung machine hums at your side, its steady pulse echoing the very organ youâre about to replace, and the room smells of antiseptic and opportunity, as if salvation has a scent. Monitors blink in unison, their green and yellow digits sliding across the screen like a countdown to rebirth, while Dr. Hwangâs measured voice issues commands that you, reflexively, transform into precise action: clamp here, suture there, a swirl of motion so practiced it feels like breathing.
Then the doors melt open, and Dr. Na steps in as though summoned by fate itself, mask hanging slack beneath his chin, eyes obsidian pools reflecting the perfusion lights. His presence shifts the air: confidence sharpened to a bladeâs edge. He crosses the threshold with the soft authority of someone accustomed to victory, and without hesitation says, âI need her for a consult.â His tone carries no question. Dr. Hwang pauses mid-incision, glancing at the perfusionist as if the entire divine hierarchy has realigned; a single, meaning-laden sigh escapes him. He turns to you, eyebrows arched, and with the quiet grace of a conductor acknowledging another soloist, he nods. In that moment, gowns and gloves become vestments cast aside. You slip out of your apron without ceremony, hand off your instruments, and follow Dr. Na through the antiseptic corridor, the soft click of your boot soles a promise of returnâreturn to the row of incubators where dozens of tiny lives still tremble, each one waiting for the careful hands that know its name.
He says nothing down the hallway, but his pace is clipped; you lengthen your stride to keep up. In the NICU procedure room a 34-weeker lies blue-mottled; a pleural drain has occluded. He snaps on gloves, hands you curved hemostats, and you fall into rhythmâno speech needed. You angle the trocar, he rides the guidewire, and together you chase the trapped air until the pleura sighs and the baby pinks up like dawn over snow. Fifteen minutes, one silent ballet. When the lid is sealed, he nods once. Thatâs it. You half-expect dismissal, but he holds the door as you wheel the bassinet back, and the air between you feels warmer for the first time in days.
Just before the hospital clocks flick past midnight, the electronic roster shifts without fanfareâyour badge ID vanishes from Cardiac Surgery and reappears beneath Pediatrics, as if carried on a silent breeze. No emails, no explanations: one moment youâre scrubbed in for valve repairs; the next, youâre back amid the soft hum of incubators and the diffuse glow of night-shift lamps. In the NICUâs gentle glow, Sunshine lies swaddled in her yellow blanket. Beneath her cheek, the tiny sun Dr. Na stitched gleams like first light, its golden rays a silent promise. She breathes in slow, trusting rhythmsâfeed residuals minimal, heart steadyâand then stirs. A single fist drops free to curl around the loop of your lanyard, tugging once as if greeting an old friend, before her lashes flutter closed again. You press your palm to the glass, feeling the warmth of her tiny victory in every exhale, and in that hush you know youâre exactly where you belong.
Six months have passed since that first fragile sunrise in the NICU, and outside, winterâs breath has begun to frost the glass. Dawn arrives later now, silver light seeping through drawn blinds into the hushed corridor. You pause by Sunshineâs isolette every morning, noting how the steam from her heater mingles with wisps of chill air. The world beyond these walls has shifted from springâs tentative green to winterâs crystalline stillness, but inside, her incubator glows like a private hearth. Nurses pad past in wool socks, carefully closing doors behind them to guard her microclimate, and you feel the weight of timeâs passage every time you see how much sheâs grown.
Once a three-pound ember fighting to stay alight, Sunshine now tips the scales at nearly five kilos, her limbs plump with promise. Her cheeks, once translucent as porcelain, bloom a petal-pink when sheâs warmed; her tiny shoulders undulate with breaths that no longer rattle but rise in lazy, confident arcs. She no longer needs invasive ventilation, only a gentle nasal cannula that nestles beneath her button nose like a protective halo. Ultrasound echoes show stable shunts, steady cardiac function; every lab value whispers of a body learning to thrive. And within that expanding vessel of flesh and resolve, a personality unfurls: when the mobile swings, her fist bats at dangling stars; when your voice drifts near, her lips curve in an emerging smile that brightens the monitors more than any reading ever could.
Her daily check-ups have become routine rituals rather than alarms. At 0800, the neonatologist traces her growth chart, notes her weight gain, and listens to her lungs with that same stethoscope that once coaxed the first giggle from her belly. No new murmurs surface; no fresh bleeds stain the scans. Feed tolerance climbs to full oral volumesâthirty milliliters every three hoursâand the NG tube only remains in place for emergencies. With the stability earned after half a year of vigil, Sunshine now joins a select few for âwinter walksâ: nurses tuck her into a thermal blanket burrito, pop the isolette into a stroller, and glide her along the wardâs sunlit atrium. Her eyes widen at the soft crunch of gravel in the courtyard below, and for those precious moments of fresh air and gentle landscape, sheâs more than a patientâshe is a child tasting the world.
And oh, how she explores it. Head held high against her pillow, she tracks faces with that arresting stare that once only prompted solemn charts; now she beams, coos, and squeals like a tiny songbird. Her fingers, once too feeble to clasp, now curl around a nurseâs pinky with surprising strength. She reaches for the music-box ballerina atop her isolette, a tentative grasp followed by delighted gurgles. Rolling from back to sideâa milestone she practiced under the soft lamplightâSunshine declares her presence in the room. Hayoung laughs when she sees the crooked sun on her blanket peeking from beneath her chin, and you sigh against the glass, heart full. In every twitch of an eyelash, every breath drawn in the cold winter air, you witness a living miracle becoming herself: lovely, stubborn, and utterly impossible to imagine ever leaving this world without leaving a piece of herself inside every soul sheâs touched.
Midday in the NICU has become its own quiet tradition: the hum of monitors and soft whir of ventilators fade into the background, replaced by the gentle clatter of paper cups and the low murmur of stolen lunches beside Sunshineâs isolette. It's become tradition for interns, nurses, and the occasional resident to gather around Sunshineâs incubator for lunch. It began as whispered guilt: how hollow the bay felt when she sat alone under those fluorescent beams, tray tables untouched, her tiny chest rising and falling without anyone to witness. Now you come armed with fold-out chairs and paper cups of Jihoonâs miso soup, steam curling like a benediction, and the corridor hums with rustling wrappers and soft laughter. Hyejin sits at Sunshineâs head, knitting yet another pastel hat whose stitches count the days of warmth youâve given her. Hayoung perches on the foot of the isolette with her sketchbook, capturing the curve of a cheek, the slope of a newborn nose in quick graphite strokes. You slip a single marshmallow beneath Sunshineâs blanket for âprotection,â tucking it into the fold so that, if luck were candy, sheâd have enough sugar to share. When Dr. Na strides by, brow furrowed beneath his cap, you and Hayoung exchange a conspiratorial glance before nodding as if bathing babies at lunch were the most natural thing in the world. Hayoung sighs, strides out, and returns with matcha bunsâplastic bags crackling like applauseâurging, âEat up,â because Sunshineâs feast is the only one speeding up the universe.
Over weeks, the bay has become a small, sacred ecosystem of devotion. The isoletteâs walls gleam with new stickers every shiftââfighter,â âsunshine,â âbaby astronomerââeach one a talisman pressed against the plastic. Youâve knitted half a dozen more blankets: a sky-blue shawl dotted with ivory clouds, a rose-tinted wrap flecked with golden stars, and a mustard-yellow square embroidered with Grandpaâs initials. Plush bunnies multiply beside her chestâone wears a tiny bow tie in forest green, another a lace collarâwhile a rotating mobile of silver moons arcs above, each rotation a silent benediction. Behind the incubator you keep a little leather notebook, its pages blossoming with scrawled notes: She smiled when I hummed last night, Coos when the thermometer clicks, Fist-bites the NG tube, tiny rebel. That diary is your secret sanctuary, where every flutter of her growth is chronicled like a miracle in bullet points and half-drawn hearts.
But not every story here blooms. One afternoon, youâre mid-round when the resident calls a code on Baby Râa tiny preemie only days older than Sunshine. You rush in, hands steady but heart pounding, to help with chest compressions on a body so small you canât believe youâre pressing down at all. The machines whine, the alarms pierce, and despite every intervention, he slips away. His isolette stands empty afterward, the space beside his cradle ghostly. You swallow against the lump in your throat, taste bitter fear on your tongue, and slip out to the stairwell, each step echoing your loss. The world narrows to the sound of your tears soaking your scrub sleeve, shoulders shaking like youâve forgotten how to stand. Jihoon finds you there, eyes soft with shared grief. He doesnât say a word, he never needs to. He presses a sticker into your palm, bright yellow and crowned with the words Worldâs Best Intern, and steps forward until youâre wrapped in his arms. His chest rises beneath yours, solid and warm, and you let yourself dissolve, head falling against his shoulder as he hums a single note of comfort. âIâd lose myself,â you manage between ragged breaths, âif anything happened to her.â He holds you closer, the hum resonating through his ribs, a promise that in this bay of fragility, hope still breathes
You slip into the bay at noon, still carrying the weight of yesterdayâs loss like a stone in your chest. The grief of Baby Râs passing, so close in size and age, has shadowed every breath you draw, and you find yourself flinching at the thrum of alarms, haunted by the echo of compressed chests. Jihoon watched you disappear into the stairwell, shoulders heaving, tears soaking your sleeve, and he vowed to carve out a moment of light. So today heâs assembled six plush bunnies around Sunshineâs incubator, not as mere toys, but as symbols of hope. Each one was chosen for the way its fur recalls a memory of comfort: mint-green for morning baths, sky-blue for gentle ventilator hums, buttercream for every feed you coaxed her through, and three more in pastel hues youâve yet to name. He wants you to see that life still blooms here, that joy can return even after weâve been scorched by sorrow.
The air in the NICU feels charged with something tender, anticipation, maybe, or the quiet insistence that life endures. Jihoon bursts in mid-afternoon with two new plush arrivals cradled in his arms: one snow-white bunny with button eyes like polished pearls, the other golden-furred and soft as spun dawn. âAll the bunnies need names,â he declares, setting them on the edge of Sunshineâs incubator as though presenting royal guests. Sunshine, swaddled in her lavender blanket dotted with silver stars, stares at them with wide, unblinking eyes, the first clear focus youâve seen all day. Her tiny hands seem constantly curious, reaching forwards with delighted determination. She babbles, her little mouth forming consonants as if eager to speak. A gummy smile spreads, occasionally accompanied by a drool that traces her chin. Her eyes, when she focuses, are impossibly wide, full of wonder as she reacts to the world around her. Her small belly rolls gently as she wriggles, her movements soft and innocent, evoking a tender, near-aching affection.
Jihoon clears his throat, voice low and ceremonious, and you feel the weight of every eye in the bay resting on the scene. âFriends,â he begins, tilting his head toward the golden-furred bunny, âI present Egg Yolk.â His tone is playful but firm, as though heâs performing a rite older than any youâve witnessed in these walls. Sunshineâs big plump cheeks flush a soft sunrise pink at the sight of her new companion, and you watch her lower lip tremble in an exquisite, heart-touching moment when the world seems to hold its breath just for her.
You step closer, cradling Sunshineâs head in your gloved hand, the gentle warmth of her fine downy hair brushing your palm. âEgg Yolk,â you murmur into her ear, letting the name roll off your tongue like a lullaby. Her tiny fists uncurl from the folds of her blanket and she reaches out, fingertips brushing the honeyed fur of the golden bunny with a tenderness that feels too profound for her six months of life. As her hand closes around the soft ear, a delighted gurgle escapes herâan unexpected sparkle in the sterile air. You half-laugh, half-sigh, unable to stop the emotion threading through your chest. âYes,â you whisper, voice thick, âEgg Yolk, because youâre the first light of our mornings.â Jihoon watches her, eyes softening, and Hayoungâs pencil flutters over the paper as she captures the upward tilt of Sunshineâs lashes. In that suspended second, as the golden bunny nestles against Sunshineâs cheek, you sense the full weight of what naming can mean: belonging, protection, the promise that she will never wander these corridors alone.
Now it falls to Cloudâthe pristine, snow-white rabbitâto claim her place beside Sunshine. Jihoon shifts beside you, pressing a gentle finger into Sunshineâs open palm as though guiding the choice. You lean in, voice hushed: âAnd this friend, what shall we call her? Do you like the name Cloud?â Jihoon smiles, a rare soft curve to his lips, and replies, âBecause even on stormy nights, sheâll carry you to peaceful skies.â As he speaks, you watch Sunshineâs eyes brighten, that familiar glint of recognition flickering like a celestial spark. She extends both chubby hands, batting at Cloudâs perky ears with surprising purpose, then presses the bunnyâs belly against her own in a sleepy, contented sigh. Her small body shivers with a half-giggle, a wet, breathy coo that seems to ripple through her like sunshine breaking through winter clouds.Â
Hyejin pauses her knitting to offer a quiet âYes,â and the nurses lingering nearby press their palms to the glass, sharing in the warmth of the moment.Â
You lean forward again, voice soft as snow: âCloud and Egg Yolk, official guardians of our Sunshine.â The words hang between you, a tapestry of devotion woven in syllables, and as Sunshine nestles her head into the curve of Cloudâs back, you know she has, in naming these companions, chosen her own small constellation of love.
Jihoon arranges the six plush bunnies around Sunshineâs incubator with precise reverence: two stand guard at her head, two flank her feet like dutiful escorts, and two rest at her sides as loyal companions. Sunshineâs cheeks bloom with a gentle flush as she lifts her head to regard her new court, bright eyes alight with curiosityâan imperious little monarch surveying her circle of soft, devoted attendants. Her tiny hands emerge from the folds of her lavender blanket, plump fingers brushing the ears of the nearest bunny in a delicately deliberate salute. A soft gurgle of delight escapes her lips, and she gives a tentative tug on the silk bow around the bunnyâs neck, as if testing the bonds of loyalty she helped forge. You and Hayoung exchange triumphant smiles: the original naming ceremony may have christened Cloud and Egg Yolk, but here, in this moment, every stuffed friend feels newly honored. Jihoon steps back, hands on hips, eyes shining with the quiet satisfaction of a guardian who knows his charge is surrounded by love. In the hush that follows, Sunshine coos again, her coo rippling through the bunnies like a royal decree, and you realize that her laughter has become the anthem of this makeshift court, binding each of you ever closer to her bright, unfolding world.
Then, as if deciding theyâre trustworthy, she reaches out one pudgy hand. Her fingers are plump crescents tipped in milky-white nails, each one flexing with surprising purpose, and she wraps them around Egg Yolkâs silky ear. A single droplet of clear drool pools at the corner of her mouth, catching the light like a dew-kissed petal. You nearly gasp at how perfectly it glows against her rose-tinted cheek. She gives a gentle tug and the golden bunny wobblesâbut doesnât fallâand she emits a soft, breathy squeal: a tender half-coo, half-laugh that reverberates through the incubator like a blessing. Encouraged, she shifts in her swaddle, exposing the tiny dimples on her knees as her legs kick in joyous arcs. Each kick sends a ripple through the blanket, and you swear sheâs dancingâsix months old, still tiny enough to fit in the crook of your shoulder, yet bold enough to claim space in your heart. Her lips part in a gummy grin, and you glimpse the faintest hint of tooth buds just beneath her gums, two pearly pledges of the milestones still to come. Then, between another series of kicks, she coos again, clear, resonant, an unmistakable âma-maâ that echoes off the glass. Your breath catches. Itâs the first time youâve heard her attempt a consonant, and the sound feels like sunrise breaking through winterâs longest night.
As she settles her hands on Cloudâs plush belly, she breathes out in a sigh so contented it feels like a lullaby in itself. Her eyelids flutter into soft crescents; the bunnies rock gently with the sway of her body. Even the monitors quiet, their beeps retreating into the hush. In that intimate pause, you and Jihoon exchange a glanceâno words neededâbecause you both know: this tiny miracle, this bubbling sprite of light and laughter, has grown not just in size, but into her own radiant self, full of purpose, promise, and the tender power to bind all of you to her orbit forever.
You catch Jihoonâs eye and he offers you a soft, conspiratorial smile, an unspoken assurance that this was for you, that even in grief you can find reasons to rejoice. You lift Sunshine from her incubator, cradling her against your chest as though she might drift away otherwise. âWhoâs my wittle princess?â you coo, voice low and tremulous with delight. Her eyes open wide at the sound of your tone, those bruised-plum irises fixing you in a gaze so knowing it feels like a touch. She answers with a stream of warm gurgles, tiny lungs humming under your scrub top. You lean down, pressing a sweet, gentle kiss to her forehead. âYes, you are, my shining star, my Sunny-Bunny,â you murmur, each pet name tumbling out in a river of soft vowels.
Around you, the interns fall silent, chairs scraping the linoleum in hushed awe. Hayoungâs pencil stills mid-sketch; Hyejinâs needles pause in mid-click; even Jihoon stops the rustle of wrappers in his hands. The nurses drift to the doorway, glancing in with tender smiles, whispering among themselves, âLook how perfectly she fits in her arms,â and âSheâs so at home with her.â Sunshine coils her fingers into the fabric of your gown as though anchoring herself to your heartbeat, then releases a series of coos and squeals, each one a miniature conversation, as if sheâs replying in her own newborn dialect to your stream of endearments. You sway in the soft overhead glow, lost in the rhythm of her breath, the hush of the bay folding around you like a benediction.
At the threshold, Dr. Na stands with his back to the corridor, shoulders tense, mask lowered like armor. He watches you and Sunshine entwined in that private orbit, and a knot tightens in his chest, equal parts longing and reverence. He doesnât step forward; he doesnât speak. Thereâs a tender ache he canât describe and an emptiness in his chest that no monitor can measure. The world beyond these walls blurs into quiet insignificance, and all that remains is the soft chorus of your coos and Sunshineâs trusting squealsâa duet heard only within the hush of this sacred bay.
The night after, the NICU hums under low evening light, monitors pulsing like distant constellations, and Sunshine lies nestled amid her newly christened court of bunniesâCloud curled beneath her chin, Egg Yolk tucked at her hip, Marshmallow posted like a sentinel at her feet. At six months she still fits in the crook of your arm, yet her movements have gained intention: a careful palm patting Cloudâs velvety ear, a gummy kiss pressed to Egg Yolkâs honey-colored nose. She studies each plush friend with solemn concentration, blinking wide lavender-grey eyes as though she can read history in their stitched smiles. When she coos, the sound carries a whisper of ownership, an almost musical lilt that claims these soft companions as part of her story. Even her breathing seems gentler tonight, as if the bunnies have absorbed the sharp edges of the day and handed back only quiet.
Jihoon hovers at the bedside, arms folded, watching her explore this miniature kingdom. âLook at her,â he murmurs, voice half-reverent. âTreats them like glass heirlooms.â Sunshine answers with a gleeful squeak, patting his offered knuckle with sticky fingers. The gesture snags a sigh from his chest, one of those involuntary releases that happen when hope outweighs fear. You lean closer, adjusting her cannula prongs with feather-light precision; she hardly notices, too busy stroking Marshmallowâs ribbon, the frayed satin catching on her still-dimpled knuckle. The nurses slow their steps near the isolette, drawn by the hush that settles whenever Sunshine enters this state of concentrated gentleness, as though she knows tenderness is a power, and powers should be wielded carefully.
When the overhead clock clicks past twenty-two hundred, you begin the bedtime ritual youâve refined over months of sleepless vigils. First, Egg Yolk is positioned under her elbow for warmth; then Cloud is tucked beside her cheek to catch stray dreams; finally, you unfold her blanket edged with moon-white yarn and lay it over her lap, smoothing each ripple until it mirrors still water. Sunshine watches with grave attention, lower lip caught between soft gums, as if memorizing every fold for the nights you might not be here. You bend to kiss the center of her forehead, skin warm, faint antiseptic scent in her baby curls, whispering, âGoodnight, precious baby,â and her eyelids drift down while a rose-petal sigh escapes her.
Jihoon breaks the hush with a mock ceremonial bow, sweeping his arm across the bunnies. âSleep tight, Her Royal Brightness,â he says, conjuring a smile that lifts the weight from his shoulders, and Sunshine rewards him with a half-giggle that bubbles like tonic water. He taps the isolette glass twiceâan unspoken seal to the ritualâbefore stepping back, cheeks pink with quiet pride. The hallway lights dim to their midnight setting, and for a breath you think the night is wrapped, but rain begins to tap against the tall windows: soft, insistent percussion that turns the bayâs reflective surfaces into shifting rivers of light.
âRain,â Jihoon whispers, eyes widening. âSheâs never seen it.â Before the monitors can mark another heartbeat, you both nod with an unspoken agreement. Heâs already rummaging through the supply cart for colored paper. You fish a sheet of translucent raindrop stickers from your binder, left over from a discharge poster, and begin to press them onto the isoletteâs clear canopy, one after another, until a cascade of sapphire droplets drips across her field of view. Sunshine stirs, pupils tracking the new shapes with awed fascination. Jihoon brandishes a quick-cut paper umbrella, blue handle crooked just right, and tapes it above her head like a comic-strip sky. You dim the overheads, swipe open a cloud-slow video on your phone, and angle the screen so shifting cumulus reflections ripple across the blanket. In that gentle gloom, the isolette transforms: raindrops trickle down acrylic walls; a paper sky shelters her; distant thunder murmurs through tinny speakers. Sunshineâs mouth forms a perfect O, lashes fluttering as she reaches into the hologrammed air, fingers curling around visible nothing. A single delighted squeal escapes her, and she kicks both feet, the bunnies wobbling around her like cheerful life preservers.
The bay doors hiss. Dr. Na steps in, rain-speckled scrubs, gravity in his shoulders. He pauses, absorbing the tableau: you crouched in semi-dark with a phone-lit cloudscape, Jihoon holding a construction-paper umbrella over an isolette cloaked in blanket and bunny guards. One eyebrow arcs. âDo I even want to ask?â he mutters, voice low, though the faint crease at the corner of his mouth betrays intrigue. The rain-track melody answers for you, soft tambour strokes tapping the silence.
âSheâll walk in the rain one day,â you reply, adjusting a droplet sticker. âTonightâs just rehearsal.â Sunshine echoes with a breathy sigh, gaze flicking from the projected clouds to Dr. Naâs silhouetted frame, as though acknowledging every player in her private storm. The moment hangs, thick with quiet prophecy. Outside, real water traces erratic paths down the windows; inside, paper rain and sticker droplets fall in perfect choreography. In the lamplight Dr. Naâs eyes softenânot joy, not sorrow, but something suspended between: a tender ache, a promise of mornings yet to come. The storm flickers across Sunshineâs blanket, and for one breathless span the metaphor aligns: her bodyâa world of fragile weather; the umbrellaâyour steadfast team; every dropletâa survival flagged and named. When the projectorâs clouds drift away, sheâs already asleep, one tiny fist curled around Cloudâs ear, face lit by the smallest smile, a child who has weathered so much, cradled by the quiet certainty that she never storms alone.
Your first six months at the hospital are lived between breaths held too long and exhaled too quickly. You enter the sterile glow of surgery with textbooks still imprinted behind your eyelids, yet you discover swiftly that anatomy in ink is nothing compared to anatomy beneath your fingertips. Under the stark, humming lights, you learn that a steady hand means nothing without a steadier heart; that the body, when opened, yields not only bone and sinew but storiesâfragile and whispered, stark and unforgettable. You learn the mathematics of precision, how the smallest measurement can mean life or loss, and that vulnerability is something your textbooks leave untouched.
But itâs not just technical skill you find scrubbed beneath your nails. Within each procedureâevery suture, every exact clamp of a bleederâyou uncover layers of yourself. Hesitation transforms into quiet decisiveness; the tremor in your fingertips steadies into confident grace. You discover your instinct isnât cautionâitâs compassion, and it blooms fiercely. Your capacity to carry pain surprises you: each loss presses its fingerprint into your chest, each success becomes a quiet celebration in the curve of your palms. You become the kind of surgeon whose strength is drawn from empathy rather than distance, whose courage flourishes quietly in the silence after loss.
Around you, the other interns are not just colleagues but family forged by late nights and whispered anxieties over lukewarm vending-machine coffee. Jihoonâs steady humor shines like a sunlit corridor; Hayoungâs soft intensity sketches itself into every careful note she scribbles; Hyejinâs resilience threads gently through the wool she knits during each midnight shift. They fill your days with a companionship as essential as breath. Within hospital walls, among antiseptic scents and fluorescent hums, you find a home that nestles deep into your bones, a place where your fears are shared, your hopes held gently, and your dreams tended by hands as careful as those that wield the scalpel.
Yet of all your teachers, the most profound is the smallest. Sunshine arrived wrapped in quiet tragedy, a newborn miracle cradled by incubator walls, fragile limbs mapped in veins delicate as lace. She teaches you bravery with every rise of her tiny chest, every fluttering blink beneath eyelashes like silver threads. Because of her, you learn that courage means stayingâthrough fevers and midnight alarms, through terrifying silences and small victories that feel monumental. Your hands grow steadier for her, your voice softer, your heart larger. Without conscious thought, you revolve around her axis, her survival a silent religion you practice every day with quiet reverence.
And orbiting alongside you, always at the edge of your awareness, is Dr. Na. He teaches without speaking, his presence quiet yet colossal, a surgeon whose clipped voice hides oceans of care. You mirror him unconsciously, your movements syncing into unspoken choreography, your fingertips tracing paths he first outlines. But the closer you grow to Sunshineâs small, resilient heart, the more his shadow blurs with your own. In the intensity of your shared vigil, your pulse sometimes flutters not from exhaustion or anxiety, but from something deeperâsomething you will only recognize later, once it has already taken root within your chest.
At the center of it all remains Sunshine, cradled in the quiet pulse of your shared gravity, a delicate bloom facing resolutely toward whatever faint warmth your fingertips and voices offer. Sheâs a sunflower turning instinctively toward your muted glow, her face open and trusting as petals unfurled beneath the sterile glare. Yet even in her perfect softness, beneath the porcelain silk of her skin and the ink-black lashes that sweep shadows down her cheeks, lingers the hushed tremor of something stolenâinnocence pilfered by a mother who slipped away, leaving only fragmented echoes and silence thick as velvet curtains falling closed after the final act.
She holds a secret behind eyes luminous as nebulae, quietly reflecting galaxies you have not yet learned to navigate. Each tiny breath she draws into lungs once too frail for air whispers promises she cannot yet fulfillâpromises of survival, yes, but also promises steeped in shadows that creep just beyond your sight. She becomes the axis of your private universe, a small sun around whom your and Dr. Naâs lives revolve unknowingly, pulled into an orbit that masks something darker, more precarious, beneath the incandescent sweetness of her smile. Behind every quiet coo lies the faintest echo of the puppeteerâs strings, threads you cannot see but sometimes feelâtugging softly at your heart, leading you gently, inevitably, toward a deeper ache. You begin to sense, in the hush between her breaths and in the silence that settles when your lullaby fades, that the purity of her existence has always held both light and dark, two sides of the same celestial coin spinning silently through the void.
And Dr. Na, whose guarded eyes flicker briefly behind surgical masks, whose carefully composed expressions hide oceans vast and turbulent, orbits beside you unawareâpulled into the dance, suspended in the strange, cosmic ballet of her gravity. He is a planet eclipsed by shadows of feeling he does not yet recognize, wearing masks like armor against truths he dares not face, truths that quietly, relentlessly press closer, inevitable as tides pulled by distant moons. Yet you are blind to the fracture lines spreading quietly beneath the surface, hairline cracks that trace futures still shrouded in darkness. You hum lullabies, tracing gentle patterns over her skin, believing you hold storms at bay, not realizing those storms swirl already within, readying themselves behind the fragile sky of her chest. She is both the star you chase and the thief who will quietly steal your heartâwho already hasâleaving behind a void in which you will wander, searching desperately for light that flickers faintly just beyond reach.
You fall irrevocably into love with her luminous presence, her sunflower face turned faithfully toward your warmth, not yet understanding that her survival will demand a cost, a darkness heavy and waiting like curtains poised at the edges of your vision. Her tiny fist grips your finger, impossibly soft and yet strong enough to hold galaxies captive. In that small touch, you sense dimly the ache you are running towardâa heart cracked open beneath fluorescent lights, a surgeonâs quiet devastation, a mask slipping just enough to reveal the raw humanity hidden behind practiced precision. You donât yet realize she is guiding you toward the storm, her tiny breaths quietly drawing you forward, each gentle sigh a promise and a warning intertwinedâtelling you that love, like innocence, comes cloaked in both brilliance and shadow, a sweetness stolen quietly, inevitably, beneath your very fingertips.
Sunshine is eleven months old now, a living testament etched delicately into the hushed miracle of the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit. Her third surgery, a meticulous Fontan procedure to reroute the path of blood through her tiny heart, has been deemed an unequivocal success. Every intricate suture, every precise alignment of vessels was stitched by hands steadier than prayer, leaving behind a gentle scarâa silver whisper beneath her sternum. Though there have been nights thickened by uncertainty, days blurred by fevers and episodes of hypoxia that rippled briefly across the screen of her monitor, sheâs emerged stronger, brighter. Good nights now outweigh bad, her chest rising and falling in perfect synchrony beneath the pastel blankets, and the soft hum of machinery around her crib has gradually become a song of reassurance rather than caution.
This NICU, a place once stark and foreign, has gradually melted around her like wax warmed by a gentle flame. Sheâs grown familiar with its rhythms: the lull of distant monitors, the faint rustle of charts in early morning rounds, even the whispered shifts of nursesâ feet over linoleum floors. She no longer startles at every click and beep; instead, her wide eyes trace patterns in the ceiling tiles, curious and calm, each gaze a tiny explorer charting constellations out of sterile hospital lights. The once-alien scents of antiseptic and sterile plastic tubing now mingle seamlessly with softer notes of lotion and freshly laundered cotton, forming an atmosphere of delicate comfort.
Her small, sacred corner in the NICU is a universe unto itself, draped lovingly in soft hues of soft yellow, cream, and goldâher blankets adorned with tiny embroidered stars, stitched meticulously by your hands in quiet midnight hours. The walls of her isolette gleam gently, decorated meticulously with baby-safe stickersâraindrops, clouds, suns, and stars, each one placed with whispered hopes. The mobile suspended above her head spins slowly, turning stars and moons into a gentle orbit that dances across her field of vision, lulling her into peaceful dreams. Beneath these softly swaying shapes, plush bunnies guard her bedside, their velvet noses gently worn from her kisses, ears curled lovingly from her tiny fists that clutch and stroke them as though even at eleven months she understands the fragility of comfort.
Sunshine has warmed not just to the hospital itself, but to the hearts beating softly within its walls. She coos whenever Nurse Chaeyoung smooths lotion into her tiny palms, giggling softly when the nurse playfully taps her fingertips against Sunshineâs button nose. Nurse Yejin, known for her melodious voice, always hums softly while changing Sunshineâs IV lines, each gentle note met with a delighted gurgle from the little girl nestled in the crib. Nurses Mingyu and Sora often linger longer by her bedside during the quieter shifts, telling her gentle, nonsensical stories about brave princesses in faraway kingdoms, their voices wrapping around her softly, like lullabies spoken rather than sung.
And then there are the interns, her beloved companions. Hayoung sketches softly by her isolette, tracing Sunshineâs perfect bow-shaped lips and impossibly delicate eyelashes into her journal, each pencil stroke like a gentle caress. Jihoon arrives bearing miso soup and matcha buns, crumbs dusting the corners of his mouth as he insists Sunshine will eat buns one day soon, his confident assurances earning a delighted wave of her little arms. Hyejin knits steadily, her needles clicking rhythmically, creating soft hats and socks that adorn Sunshineâs tiny feet and head, each knitted row a pledge of devotion. But itâs you, above all, whose presence is now woven intricately into the very fibers of her day. Youâre there every night, murmuring softly as you tuck her blanket beneath her chin, smiling as her small fingers curl around your thumb with tender insistence, as though sheâs found her anchor in the world. She recognizes your scent, your voice, your heartbeatâyour presence a certainty etched deeply into her small, fragile bones.
She shares this delicate space with other tiny souls, her roommates in this fragile kingdom of wires and whispered hopes. She smiles softly at Minho, a bubbly nine-month-old with wild tufts of hair, who waves clumsily from the isolette beside her, both babies exchanging soft gurgles and wide-eyed looks of gentle curiosity. She coos in gentle delight at baby Yunaâs tiny yawns, each yawn contagious enough to prompt Sunshine to mimic the gesture herself, stretching her little arms and releasing an exaggerated sigh, bringing soft laughter from the nurses nearby.
But her favourite presenceâundeniably, unmistakablyâis Dr. Na. He walks into the NICU quietly each morning, the click of his shoes a familiar rhythm that sparks a luminous change across her cherubic face. Sunshine knows him by the subtle hintsâthe crisp lines of his scrubs, the deliberate movements of his hands, the soft shift of his shoulders beneath his white coat. Her eyes brighten instantly upon catching sight of him, widening in recognition, sparkling with quiet, adoring expectation. It is not just his appearance, though she studies the sharp line of his jaw and the familiar pattern of his scrub capâitâs the essence of him, a quiet gravity she orbits instinctively, a healer whose very presence seems to imbue her small universe with warmth.
The moment he nears, Sunshineâs whole tiny body transforms: her little feet kick excitedly, the rhythmic tapping against the mattress a small drumbeat of welcome. Her arms stretch upward, reaching for him with such hopeful insistence itâs as if she believes she can grasp his gentle aura in her tiny palms. Her lips form soft, exploratory syllables, âdaa,â ânaaa,â little sounds so tenderly formed they tug at the hearts of anyone listening. But when Dr. Na bends low, murmuring softly, asking her about her night or teasing gently about her bunnies, her babbles grow more intentional, more emphaticâas if sheâs holding conversations only they can understand.
She is mesmerized by him, entranced not just by the warmth of his voice, but by the scent of him that she recognizes instinctively, vanilla and spice lingering softly on the fabric of his coat. Each time he leans over her crib, she lifts her head eagerly, nose crinkling delicately as she breathes him in, a gesture of recognition so clear that nurses glance away with quiet smiles. When his fingers brush her cheek, she tilts into his touch, eyelids fluttering in quiet, perfect trust. This tiny, luminous child transforms in his presenceâcalmer, softer, happier, as if she knows he is both her guardian and her greatest comfort.
He checks her diligently each day, changing her ointments himself, his fingers infinitely careful as they glide over her silvery scar, his voice murmuring words as soothing as his touch. Sunshine doesnât flinch beneath his hands, her tiny fists uncurling, the muscles in her small frame easing into complete tranquility. Even during auscultation, she settles instantly under the gentle press of his stethoscope, her breaths slowing in a measured rhythm matched perfectly to his heartbeat, as though her tiny body recognizes its safest haven.
In these moments, the world narrows down to just themâdoctor and patient, guardian and child, healer and healed. Each visit Dr. Na makes is another gentle petal unfolding within Sunshineâs small world, brightening her eyes and softening her heart. Nurses and interns alike whisper quietly of their connection, shaking their heads fondly at how unmistakably she has chosen him. Jihoon teases him about being her favourite, earning only quiet smiles in response, but no denialâbecause they all see the truth woven between every interaction, delicate and profound.
In this fragile corner of the NICU, lit softly by gentle fluorescents, surrounded by plush bunnies and embroidered stars, Sunshine blooms gently beneath Dr. Naâs care, a sunflower following the quiet warmth of his presence. He is her healer, her gravity, the silent core around which her small universe rotates, unknowingly tethered to him by a bond so sacred it makes everyone pauseâwatching in awe at the tenderness that flows silently between them, invisible yet palpable, as steady as the quiet heartbeat thrumming beneath his gentle fingertips.
Sunshineâs world narrows each time Jaemin crouches beside her cot, the smooth metal disk of his stethoscope cradled gently, almost reverently, in the careful curve of his palm. Itâs the kind of quiet that shouldnât exist after surgery, the fragile, crystalline stillness woven from shared breaths and whispers of comfort. Every other approach draws discomfort from her tiny frame; nursesâ gentle touches or other doctorsâ cautious movements send her squirming, arching, tiny fists clenched tight in helpless protest. But with him, she quiets instantly, a silent blossoming of trust, the trembling petals of anxiety folding inward to shield the precious calm blooming beneath his hands. Her lashes dip low, casting delicate shadows over her flushed, cherubic cheeks, and her breath eases into a gentle tide of recognition, rhythmic and peaceful, as if her body remembers the first time Jaemin listened and chose, unwaveringly, to stay.
There is a sacredness, a secret language their bodies speak as Jaemin threads a central line into her fragile vein. Sedation should erase awareness, yet somehow her hand drifts instinctively toward him, fingers curling around his gloved digit in a grip surprisingly strong and heartbreakingly tender. Nurses pause in quiet reverence, their glances lingering on the silent tether of her tiny palm wrapped around his finger. Jihoonâs voice breaks the hush, soft and teasing: âShe knows who her person is.â Jaemin doesnât speak, the silence deepening as his thumb strokes soothing circles against her hand, holding on longer than clinical protocol requiresâlonger, perhaps, than he fully comprehends himself.
Sunshineâs vitals become poetry when Jaemin nears. Itâs almost mystical, the way her oxygen saturation rises subtly, the tense line on her monitor smoothing the moment he steps through the doorway. On difficult mornings, when alarms pulse frantic signals, he appears like quiet deliverance, his silhouette framed sharply against the pale hospital walls, a still point of certainty amidst uncertainty. Her gaze lifts through the clouded haze of discomfort, finding him with the instinctive precision of sunflower petals tracking the sun, her small body recalibrating gently, her breath easing, heart synchronizing quietly to the measured rhythm of his voice. Jihoon insists itâs mere coincidence, but you see more: you see her cells remembering the timbre of his comfort, his steady presence like gravity pulling her back from the brink.
Post-operatively, Jaemin insists on performing her ointment changes himself, though it defies hospital rotation schedules and clinical practicality. Each time, his movements are carefully deliberate, each tape peeled from her scar with infinite tenderness, as though unwrapping delicate lace. His voice murmurs quiet reassurances, syllables stitched gently into her healing tissue, smoothing the sting of antiseptic, blunting the tug of gauze. Sunshine never flinches, never withdrawsânot from him. Her tiny feet wiggle, her head turning slowly to the gentle timbre of his voice, her gaze fastening to the shape of his mouth behind the surgical mask, trusting implicitly the quiet story he whispers into the skin over her heart, letting him retell it until pain fades softly into comfort.
Chart updates become gentle conversations. Jaemin narrates softly as his pen traces careful lines of ink across her recordsâeach measurement a chapter in the quiet narrative of her survival. âThirty grams today,â he whispers, a faint smile curving beneath his mask, pride softening his eyes. âSomeoneâs been working very hard.â Sunshineâs feet kick happily, delicate limbs stretching in playful affirmation, and small coos tumble from her lips, punctuating his reports with innocent delight. Jihoon jokes sheâs gunning for his job, but Jaemin only taps her name band gently, fingers lingering, communicating devotion rather than mere documentation. Sunshine watches him, eyes wide and luminous, responding as if every softly uttered word knits another stitch into the fabric of her healing.
Even masked, Jaeminâs subtle cologneânotes of vanilla, spice, muskâenvelopes Sunshine in gentle familiarity, a fragrance of quiet constancy in her shifting world. Her tiny nose crinkles adorably, lips curling upward into a delighted little sighâhehh!âeach time he leans close, his scent triggering recognition deep within her. Her head turns instinctively, even in sleep, toward the warmth radiating from his skin, her body drawing comfort from the memory woven into his presence. Nurses watch fondly from a respectful distance, softly murmuring, âItâs him. She knows itâs him,â their quiet awe amplifying the tender reverence of the moment. Jaemin remains silent, allowing her delicate senses to confirm what they all know but never speak aloud.
When Sunshine emerges from sedation, Jaeminâs voice is always the first anchor drawing her back from anesthesiaâs gentle twilight. He leans close, murmuring softly: âSunshine,â the syllables a quiet incantation of return, a gentle tug pulling her consciousness through the haze. Her tiny fingers twitch, limbs stretching lazily, mouth parting in gummy yawns filled with sleepy relief. She babbles softly, syllables blurred and slurred yet unmistakably addressed to himânonsense threaded with love. Her eyes flutter open, finding him first, as if his voice alone carries the magic needed to coax her spirit back from the gentle brink of sleep.
Even off-schedule, Jaeminâs quiet nightly visits leave clear signatures of care. The warmer always dims precisely to the gentle hue she sleeps best under, her favorite bunnyâsoftly worn at the earsâis always tucked exactly at her left side, within easy reach. Her blankets fold crisply at perfect angles, corners symmetrical, edges smoothed with meticulous tenderness. Nurses and interns exchange knowing glances, their quiet smiles a silent hymn to his unspoken devotion. Jaemin never acknowledges their whispers; he merely leaves these quiet gestures behind like fingerprints of tenderness, helping her dreams settle more peacefully each time his shadow passes gently over her sleeping form.
Around eleven months, Sunshineâs babbles sharpen into syllables bearing faint, intentional shapes. Each time Jaemin steps into the NICU bay, she lights up, arms reaching eagerly, her little mouth forming ecstatic sounds: âdaa!â Sometimes ânmm,â and once, astonishingly clearââna.â Jihoonâs startled gaze meets yours in silent astonishment as Sunshine stretches her fingers, desperate to pull Jaeminâs presence nearer, her lips smacking softly as she tastes the shape of his name. Jaemin freezes in gentle awe, caught off-guard by the sacred clarity of her tiny voice calling softly to him, a prayer spoken softly from innocence, puncturing the sterile silence with breathtaking purity.
Sunshine grows fiercely protective of her plush companionsâher bunnies become tiny charges entrusted to her loving care. When Jaemin draws near, she lifts them protectively, small hands patting their heads gently, brows furrowing with comical seriousness. She tucks them tenderly beneath her chin, eyes lifting expectantly, as though weighing Jaeminâs approach with serious, infantile judgement. Your whisper, âEgg Yolk, youâre being evaluated,â draws an affectionate chuckle from him as he leans in solemnly, whispering, âI come in peace.â Sunshine giggles uncontrollably, joyful laughter bubbling from her chest, soft and sweet as summer rain, echoing delicately against sterile walls.
Night after night, even on difficult post-operative evenings, Sunshine watches the NICU doors with quiet anticipation. Each soft hiss of automatic doors draws her eyes, hopeful and searching, toward the illuminated entrance. When unfamiliar footsteps pass, she deflates gently, eyes drifting closed in quiet resignation. But when Jaeminâs familiar silhouette appearsâsteady, quiet, filling the doorway like gentle gravityâher small body relaxes instantly, a delicate sigh of relief parting her lips, her lashes fluttering softly against rosy cheeks. Her tiny chest lifts gently, as if the air itself settles back into harmony, comforted by the quiet certainty of his return.
These threads of tenderness, the careful stitches woven by daily devotion, create a tapestry binding Sunshine irrevocably to Jaemin. Beneath fluorescent lights and sterile walls, their quiet dance unfoldsâsmall gestures, whispered lullabies, careful caresses forming a silent language only they speak fluently. Sunshineâs universe rotates softly around the quiet orbit of Jaeminâs presence, his shadow casting gentle patterns over her healing days, his voice threading through her dreams, his touch tracing invisible paths of comfort across her skin. In the quiet pulse of their shared moments, an unspoken truth blooms silently: Sunshine has chosen him, her tiny heart tethered gently yet irrevocably to the quiet devotion woven within Jaeminâs every gesture. Nurses and interns watch, humbled by the gentle miracle of connectionâa fragile child and her quiet healer, bound softly by threads of trust and silent adoration. As Sunshineâs tiny fingers reach instinctively for Jaeminâs steadying presence, her heart beating in quiet synchrony with his quiet breaths, the NICU holds its breath gently, witnessing the delicate, unbreakable bond growing silently, profoundly, between them.
Even though Sunshineâs favorite presence in the universe is unmistakably Dr. Naâher sunflower head swiveling whenever his silhouette enters the bayânight still wedges itself between them like a restless tide. Since her third heart surgery, her sleep has unraveled: low-grade fevers drift in after dusk, her pulse-ox trace stutters, and every lullaby you cradle in your cracked voice frays before it settles. Hayoung tries warm compresses that cool too soon; Jihoon fusses with the fan filter and humidifier settings; you hover for hours, tension climbing your shoulders like vines, while Sunshine claws at sleep, eyes luminous and wet, tiny fist welded to your pinkie as though that fragile link might anchor her to rest.
The air in the NICU grows stiff with exhaustion, monitors ticking, nurses trading looks edged with worry, yet Dr. Na lingers a heartbeat longer at the chart, studying the erratic peaks of her circadian graph, thumb ghosting over the page as if he can smooth the data flat. No one says it aloud, but you sense him rereading her logs after hours, searching for the rhythm that will let her sink peacefully into darkness again. Dawn filters through frosted windows, and a new object sits beside her isolette: a pale-pink device, all rounded edges and soft-mesh speakers, silver accents gleaming like moonlit water. Bunny stickers parade in a ring around its base, and below them, a single gold sun in a tutu, labeled in his precise handwritingâSunshine, Unit B2. Dr. Na is conspicuously absent, tenderness tucked out of sight.Â
Hyejin arches a brow, fishing her phone from her pocket. âLet me see that,â she murmurs, thumbs flying over the screen as she Googles âneonatal lullaby machine price.â Her eyes skim the results. âWowâŚâ she says, voice low, scrolling. âThese start at three thousand dollars.â
Jihoon leans in, pressing his ear to the grille. âIt even pulls in audio via Bluetooth,â he says with a smirk. âSo you can stream wind chimes or whale songs.âÂ
Hayoungâs whisper follows: âHeâs pretending itâs hospital-issued.â Yet no one believes it.
You situate the machine just outside the isoletteâs acrylic wall. Itâs a neonatal-calibrated lullaby generator, imported, whisper-quiet: a minute hum floats across the crib like a feather. You toggle through the settings, heartbeat thrum, distant rain, until you reach one titled âTwilight Symphony.â Soft piano enters, joined by silk-thread orchestral strings, a melody that feels less like a song and more like arms opening. At once Sunshineâs frantic kicks slow. Her eyelids drift, hover, fight, then blink in drowsy wonder; your finger brushes her brow, smoothing the fine down of stray hairs. âDr Na knows just how to make you happy, doesnât he?â She exhales a brief, underwater bubble of sound. a barely audible pbbttâand the ward hushes at last. Nurses pause mid-note in their charts, monitors seem to soften their beeps, until nothing remains but music and the sigh of a child surrendering to sleep.
Her cheeks flush with a deeper rose beneath the isoletteâs gauzy glow, as if the very warmth of the lullaby has settled into her skin. The music rises gently, a tinkling cascade of piano notes embroidered with whisper-soft strings, each delicate motif spinning like ballet slippers twirling across a mirrored stage. In that delicate hush, every electrical hum and distant footstep recedes until only the princess melody remains, wrapping her in a silken cocoon of sound. She tugs once at your pinkie, an anchoring ritual, and then unfurls those tiny fingers like petals peeled apart by morning light, settling fully into the rhythmâs tender embrace. Her chest lifts and falls in perfect synchrony with the heartbeat pulses of the machine, a duet of flesh and circuitry that hushes her restless stirring into a tranquil dream. Around her, the sticker trail gleamsâgold suns, moonlit clouds, ballerina footprintsâeach tokens of a jeweled vow in the court of Unit B2, proclaiming her gentle royalty even as she drifts toward sleep.
This melody, though born of transistors and clinical precision, feels holy here, an unbidden heirloom forged from circuitry rather than cradle songs. It breathes warmth into the antiseptic air, weaving threads of calm where fever once frayed her nights. The lullabyâs crystalline notes shimmer against the curved walls of her incubator, pooling into silent eddies that wash over sensors and tubes until they too seem to pause in awe. In this sacred moment, love arrives not on the wings of ancestral memory but in an engineered hymn, humming through imported speakers, slipping beneath her fragile brow, and stitching rest back into the fragile seams of her small, brave heart.
Close to midnight, you hear the soft click of the door before you see him. Youâre crouched beside the isolette, fingertips gently brushing the speaker grille as the lullaby drifts on, and your heart leaps at the sound of his boots on linoleum. He steps in. scrubs rumpled, mask lowered at the chin. eyes immediately flicking to the pale-pink device. You clear your throat, cheeks flaring so fiercely youâre certain the glow of the isolette will betray you.
âIâthank you,â you babble, voice thick with relief. âItâs⌠itâs perfect, really. I mean, the decibels, the pulse settings, how did you even find something with a âtwilight symphonyâ mode?â You reach to tuck a stray curl behind your ear, throat tight, all your practiced confidence slipping into shy stutters. âI mean, who even stocks lullaby machines with heartbeat pulses and twilight modes? I looked online just nowâthese cost thousands. Itâs ridiculous how⌠thoughtful you are, to bring something like this in. I didnât expect it, and sheââ You break off, flushed, because Sunshineâs eyes flutter open and she manages a small, drowsy coo of recognition as if she agrees. She tugs your sleeve once, a gentle insistence that she hears every note. You lean closer and murmur, âSee? You love it, donât you baby?â Her lashes drift shut in contentment, curls brushing your palm in soft reassurance. You look up, cheeks still warm.Â
He watches you with that inscrutable gaze, jaw working like heâs chewing on something unsayable. Finally he says, low and clipped, âMonitor her closely.â His fingertips linger by the speaker for a heartbeat too longâan imprint of warmth you wish you could bottleâthen he turns, already halfway to the shadows of the nursesâ station. You stand rooted, throat echoing with unspoken gratitude, watching the slight stoop of his shoulders as though every step away pulls at a silent thread between you.
Later in the week, Sunshine babbles toward the machine when its song begins, round vowels that tumble like new planets searching for orbit. Jihoon, mischievous, records his own voice over track three: âUncle Jihoon loves you, go to sleep!â Sunshine giggles so hard the pulse-ox blips; you shake your head, half scold, half smile. By monthâs end the device graduates with her to a crib beyond the isolette. On tough nights she reaches for its soft glow, fingers brushing the bunny stickers until the Twilight Symphony swells again, catching her before she drifts too far from the quiet gravity anchoring her to dreams.
Sunshine is eleven months and five days oldâa lullabyâs worth of heartbeats shy of her first birthdayâand she remains a pocket-sized cosmos, galaxies tucked into threadbare cotton that never fully dries between hurried wash cycles, forever smelling of bleach instead of backyard sunshine. She has never tasted the metallic tang of playground swings or felt grass bite her knees, never known the delirious, ordinary freedom of toddling from living-room carpet to a parentâs open arms; her calendar holds only the choreography of dawn rounds and lab draws, breakfast bottles served beneath the blue glow of a pulse-ox clip, and lullabies that must compete with the metronome of a vitals monitor. Sometimes you catch yourself wonderingâdoes she sense the absence? Does she know that beyond these walls most children grow giddy on kitchen aromas, drowsy under ceiling fans, lulled to sleep by the reassuring duet of Mommyâs and Daddyâs voices instead of by the whir of air pumps and the rustle of isolation gowns?
Each season that should have shaped her growing bodyâspring pollen icing her lashes, summer sweat curling her hair, autumn smoke curling through a cracked windowâhas collapsed into the one sour-sweet smell of antiseptic and plasticized tubing, a scent so constant it has become her weather, her climate, her private atmosphere. The fluorescent bars overhead, too bright to permit shadows anywhere else, carve hollows beneath her lids that whisper of sleepless decades rather than sleepless nights; their hum is the cradle song the hospital canât turn off. She shares her days with a chorus of other incubators, fragile planets orbiting the same fluorescent sun, each crib holding a story that feels both twin and alien to her own; some babies are swaddled in the soft murmur of visiting parents, others lie in an ache of silence broken only by machines, and you canât help but ache at the uneven distribution of kisses and bedtime stories. When the elevator doors groan open down the hall, Sunshine lifts her head as if to greet an incoming sunrise, but the light that reaches her is only the elevatorâs pitiless glare reflecting off burnished linoleum, and you find yourself choking on the question: does she already understand that the world outside these walls is vast and green and full of laughter she hasnât heard, or is she still innocent enough to think that childhood begins and ends beneath this unblinking, clinical sky?
Night after night a nurse whispers, âtime to go,â and the scrub-green doors swallow Sunshine for âsmallâ procedures that always steal another piece of her tiny future. While other babies learn to crawl across living-room rugs, she crosses thresholds into operating theatres, trading milestones for scalpel lines. Every squeak of the gurney splits your world in two: you are stuck outside, clock-watching; her inside, drifting under anesthesia instead of lullabies. She should be weighing finger-paint messes, not intubation risks, yet each trip robs her of strength she hasnât even had time to earn. You kiss the soft dip between her brows, promising survival youâre not sure you can deliver, then stand in a corridor that freezes your breath and counts your heart beats like overdue debts. In that cold hush you do desperate mathâheartbeats Ă minutes á prayersâbut the sums never add up to a normal childhood. Meanwhile, the notebook in your pocket fills with names of other infants wheeled past you and returned, proof that luck exists but is rationed; you pray her name isnât the one the universe overlooks.
However, Sunshine rejects the hospitalâs careful calculus. She sits now like a monarch on a plastic-cushioned throne, her spine trembling but unwilling to bow, her head bobbing in rhythms that belong to a future dance she intends to master outside these walls. She reaches for her bottle with the conviction of a child who has lived through too many hands doing things for her; the first time she threaded her fingers through its curved handle, the room erupted into an impromptu celebration, nurses cheering, monitors screaming in alarm at their sudden movement, you crying soundlessly because a plastic bottle had become an act of revolution. Those same fingers, once filaments so translucent the veins looked like morning-glory vines, now curl into something purposeful: today they tug at her nasal cannula with mischievous intent, tomorrow they will, you dare believe, lace your own hand on the way to the park. When she grips her threadbare bunny, a pale-yellow relic whose stuffing has migrated into lopsided bulges, the toy transforms under the fluorescent glare: itâs a shield, a pennant, a declaration that she will name her own allies even in a ward filled with sterile strangers. And each time she drags that bunny across the sheets, tiny sparks of static crackle, bright and fleeting, as if the universe is applauding her stubborn will to generate light where none is offered.
Her eyesâvast, dark nebulae rimmed with lashes that tremble like comet tailsâsearch the doorway every time footsteps reverberate down the waxed corridor. In those glassy pupils you glimpse all the worlds waiting beyond the ward: the first-day-of-school chalk dust she hasnât yet sneezed, the firefly lanterns she hasnât yet chased, the bruised-orange sunset that will one day wash her cheeks in color more honest than overhead LEDs. One nurse tucks a paper snowflake above her bed; Sunshine reaches, convinced she could catch winter in her fist if given one inch more slack on her IV line. Another nurse wheels in a potted basil plant from the staff lounge; Sunshine leans, nostrils flaring to claim a scent her lungs still struggle to decipher. Loving her hurts precisely because every triumphant milestoneâthe spontaneous giggle, the first syllable of a babbleâcarries the echo of something stolen, a cost paid in childhood moments the hospital devours like a voracious clock. You applaud her victories and mourn their context in the same breath: clapping when she tolerates seven uninterrupted minutes of oxygen, grieving that those seven minutes happen inside a room with no window that opens.
Still, beneath the layered clamor of alarms and the rhythmic hiss of the ventilator, there is a quieter percussionâan irreverent, clutch-fisted hope that evades every monitorâs graph. It drums each time she blinks against the fluorescent glare as though rehearsing for sunlight, each time her fingers trace the edge of the cribâs steel rail like a cartographer mapping the perimeter of tomorrow. You imagine a day when her name is called not by overworked residents but by friends across a playground; the only beeping then will be the triumphant countdown of the ice-cream truck reversing out of the cul-de-sac. Until that hour arrives, you measure life not in months or hospital billing cycles but in lungs that continue to rise and fall, in the warmth of her fist closing around your thumb during night checks, in the way her gummy smile unspools the knots in your chest. You mend your frayed courage by threading it through the buttonholes of her stuffed bunny, repurposing fear into silent lullabies, letting the improbable glow of her existence thaw the metallic chill of another fluorescent nightâone more night you survive together, chasing dawn through the slats of the venetian blinds.
Today is significant. You and Dr. Na turn the corridor in step, your rubber soles squeaking, his quiet authority announcing itself in the click of his clipboard against his thigh and the hush of after-midnight pediatrics feels almost reverent compared to the perpetual storm of the NICU. Sunshineâs cubicle door stands ajar, its paper nameplate still reading NICU 3-B, but the first thing you see is her face: wide awake, as if she was waiting for you, moon-pale cheeks flushed with anticipation, eyes sparking like two held-back giggles. The instant she spots her favorite silhouettes, your lopsided ponytail and Dr. Naâs tall, muscly shadow, she unleashes a flurry of almost-acrobatic joy: arms pinwheeling, fingers opening and shutting in applause, little bottom trying to levitate off the mattress as if propelled by pure delight. She heaves herself to a wobbly sit, triumph written in that determined pout, only to topple sideways onto her stuffed bunny; she rebounds with an indignant squeak, kicks both feet so hard her ankle-ID band flashes, then tries again. The music box clipped to her crib detects the motion and chirps its tinny lullaby, which only spurs her on. She flaps, she coos, she squeals a syllable that might be âba!ââor might be the universe giving itself a pep-talk.
Dr. Na leans over the railing and says, âGood morning, Sunshine.â She giggles like she outranks him, and even the IV pump chooses that moment to hush its alarm, surrendering the nightâs command to Sunshineâs joyous racket. You and Dr. Na work around her orbit, he releases monitor leads, you gather dangling fluid lines like a bouquet of translucent vines, while Sunshine, now on her knees, throws a one-woman parade inside the crib. Whenever the gurney wheels creak forward, she slaps the mattress in applause, convinced field trips are her personal invention. You baby-talk instructions she doesnât need: âHold tight, sweet pea, weâre going for a ride!â She answers with earnest babble, eyebrows vaulted in concentration, as if spelling out coordinates for your journey to the next galaxy. Nurses lean from their stations to wave; Sunshine responds with exaggerated waves of her own, palm splayed, wrist flicking wildly.Â
You catch yourself staring at him as he wheels Sunshineâs isolette down the corridorâDr. Naâs strong forearms tensing beneath his scrubs, the line of his chest defined even through hospital blues, the way his back muscles shift when he steadies the crib like itâs carved from holy glass. He glances over one shoulder, mouth twitching upward in that half-scowl youâve come to recognize as both rebuke and invitation. âStop staring at me,â he mutters without turning fully. But you canât help it. You watch the soft thaw in his gaze as he guides the incubator through the doorway, one hand firm on the rail, the other adjusting the speed with surgeonâs precision. Sunlight shards, from the monitor glow and the dawn bruising the horizon outside the dimmed windows, play across his strong jaw and the curve of his throat. Sunshineâs triumphant kicks set her hospital socks spinning into a blur, and somewhere between the elevatorâs hum and Pediatrics East she discovers echo: every delighted squeal bounces off tile and ceiling panels, returning to her doubled, and she shrieks with pleased disbelief. You pass that bank of windows together; outside, a pale dawn bleeds into the sky, and her reflectionâfuzzy hair haloed by plastic and lightâclaps right along with her, as if the glass itself knows how to cheer.
Her new room waits with impossible quiet: soft-yellow paint, a rocking chair you wheeled in at the last minute, andâmiracle of miraclesâa real crib, not an incubator, its wooden rails wrapped in star-patterned bumpers you and Jihoon stitched last week. Dr. Na positions the isolette beside it like an old shell sheâs finally outgrown; gently, you lift Sunshine into her âbig-kid bed.â She sits, legs splayed, diaper rustling under a lavender romper printed with cartoon bees, grasping for her bottle with one hand and her threadbare bunny with the other, uncertain which treasure counts as more essential. You settle the pink music box on the headboard; instantly she reaches up, presses the cracked yellow button, and beams when the first notes chime. The room feels enchanted: no constant compressor thrum, no crowd of blinking LEDs, just the faint hiss of oxygen tubing and the soft woof of the rocking chair nudged by Dr. Naâs knee as he adjusts the pulse-ox sensor. Your heart pinches sharp: this is the cozy tableau you always pictured for her, yet itâs only temporary. Paperwork waits in Dr Naâs tote, forms that will place Sunshine with the Kwon family, a couple two counties over in a white-clapboard farmhouse, who own a therapy-dog mutt and three acres of orchard and ran out of tears the day they learned they could not carry a child to term. Wealthy, kind, background-checked to perfection, people who can give her something more enduring than your night-shift affection and Dr. Naâs guarded optimism. Still, you fold the forms shut each time Sunshineâs fingers brush yours; the contact feels like a stay of execution against the inevitable signing-over.
When the last monitor is silenced and the corridor lights dim to peach, Sunshine leans back against her bunny, cheeks sticky from drool and victory, and gazes up at you both as though expecting an explanation. Does she know her universe is changing again? That beyond these walls two strangers are trying to choose a name for her legal name, which isnât âSunshineâ at allâand discussing paint swatches for a nursery sheâs never seen? Will they keep the nickname or replace it with something delicate and store-bought, something that matches the lace on christening gowns and monogrammed blankets? Watching her blink under the unfamiliar hush of her new room, you ache with the knowledge that identity is another thing sheâs never been allowed to own: first the hospital bracelet decided who she was, and soon a courthouse stamp will decide who sheâll become. She babbles a soft âda-da?â to no one in particular, maybe you, maybe the empty space above her head and Dr. Na clears his throat, turns away, fusses with the IV pole that no longer needs fussing.Â
You tuck Mr. Bunny right against her tiny chest, snuggle him under her chin, and breathe, âThere you go, sunshine-peach, your snuggly friend is right here.â She reaches up, those small, star-bright fingers threading into your hair and tugging with surprising conviction, as if her whole soul is saying, stay. You laugh softly, tilt your head so she can fist a thicker lock, and let your thumb smooth the worried little line between her brows. âItâs okay, sweetheart, Iâm not going far. Youâre my brightest girl, no matter what they scribble on those big scary forms.â She answers with a half-tooth, half-gummy grin that melts you clear through, eyes crinkling like crescent moons. Somewhere out there, a nursery lamp is already glowing warm, practicing the light it will spill across her first real bedroomâbut for now itâs just you, her, and the soft hush of this hallway, her tiny hand still tangled in your hair, holding you right where she needs you.
Dr. Na lingers at the foot of Sunshineâs crib, ostensibly tightening the line on an IV pole that hasnât needed adjusting all morning. His gloved fingers move with practiced calm, but theyâre slower than usual, deliberate, stalling. The soft overhead glow paints the cut of his jaw in quiet gold, and every so often, when he thinks you arenât looking, his gaze slips past the drip chamber to the curve of your shoulder, to where Sunshineâs fist remains tangled in your hair. You feel the weight of his attention before you meet itâan almost-static hum that prickles down your spine. You turn, half-smiling, and catch him mid-sweep of the monitor screen, as if heâs reading vitals that havenât changed in hours. He clears his throat, murmurs something about âbaseline stability,â but the words float, unanchored; thereâs no clinical urgency here, only the hush of a man reluctant to leave a scene he finds quietly sacred.
Sunshine gurgles at the sound of his voice, and his eyesâdark, steadyâsoften. He shifts closer, one palm settling on the crib rail with a surgeonâs controlled grace, knuckles brushing yours as you adjust the bunny under her chin. For a heartbeat, neither of you moves: skin buzzing where it almost, almost touches; the warm exhale of his breath stirring a strand of hair at your cheek. Itâs nothing overt, just a current, a subtle pulse of something that sits between professionalism and confession. Then he straightens, a mask of composure sliding back into place, though a faint flush lingers low on his neck. âCall me if she needs anything,â he says, voice low, steady, but as he turns away you see the corners of his mouth fight a smile he doesnât let surface, and his hand hovers on the doorframe a second too long, as if memorizing the light around you before he slips into the corridorâs cool hush.
Lunch rolls around, feeling like a farewell party no one is brave enough to name. Dayoung corrals an extra-wide rolling tray and drapes it with a disposable linen, as though a linen could ever make vending-machine cuisine look refined. Jihoon arrives last, eyes red-rimmed, balancing a foil pan of strawberry shortcake that lists dangerously to one side. cream sliding, sugared crumbs scattering like confetti across Sunshineâs blanket. âLast lunch with our princess,â he warbles, already tearing up again. Hyejin opens her sketchbook to a fresh page, determined to capture every gummy grin, every curl of downy hair, every droplet of formula on Sunshineâs chin. You prop Sunshine against a fortress of knitted pillows, tucking Cloud Bunny under one arm and Butterscotch Bunny under the other. She laughsâan unfiltered, chiming soundâand pats the checkered napkin as though christening her own banquet table. âMmmm!â she declares, a command for more food or perhaps more adoration; you oblige with a heart-soft âYes, my bright girl, banquet time!â and guide her hands around the bottle she insists on holding alone. She gulps, pauses to babble at Butterscotch, then smacks a strawberry chunk with unsteady delight.
Jihoonâs tears donât stop; they glimmer on his lashes like doomed dew. âThis is it,â he sniffles, spoon hovering over soup heâs forgotten to taste. âTomorrow sheâs gone.â
You reach a calming hand to his shoulder. âNot gone,â you say, though your own voice trembles. âSheâll be back for monthly check-ups, remember? She wonât leave us fully, plus sheâs going to an actual home, we should be happy for her, this will be her first chance to experience a normal childhood.â But as Sunshineâs tiny fist locks onto the sleeve of your scrub top, fingers curling, tugging like she can fasten you in place, heat pricks your eyes. Hyejin chooses that moment to sketch you both, pencils fluttering; Dayoung hums quiet encouragement while wiping strawberry residue from Sunshineâs chin. The music box Sunshine adores so much sits on the trayâs edge, its baby pink speaker humming a delicate harp-and-wind-chime melody. With each accidental press of her thumb the tune restarts, and Sunshine squeals in triumph, a maestro rediscovering her orchestra. The lullaby drifts over plastic rails and swinging doors, turning this ordinary corridor into a soft palace echoed by baby giggles and Jihoonâs sniffly sighs.
Sunshine sits in her brand-new crib, her little fists clutching the rails as she waits for her new parents to arrive. She looks up at you with wide, trusting eyesâan echo of hope in her gaze and you press both hands over your face, âpeek-a-boo!â You giggle and her laughter erupts, tiny bells in an empty cathedral. She grabs both your hands with fierce determination and promptly stuffs three of your knuckles into her gummy mouth. Drool glitters on her chin like glass beads; you smooth it away with the back of your wrist, murmuring, âOh, hungry baby girl.â When you offer her bottle she latches instantly, cheeks hollowing, eyelids fluttering in bliss. Milk beads at the corner of her lips; you wipe it with a napkin no bigger than a postage stamp, then trace the silk-fine wisps at her hairline. Her skin is soft as the inside of a magnolia petal, still almost translucent: veins like faint blue rivers beneath sunrise-pink ponds.
Jihoonâs sniffles fade into gentle background static. Hyejin sketches, Dayoung hums, and the lullaby box loops its filigree melody, harp, distant chimes, the faint click of a ballerina twirling in paradise under the speaker grille. The room feels suspended in warm syrup, each of you orbiting gently around the bright nucleus of one small girl. A faint clangâmetal against tileâbreaks the syrupâs surface. You pause mid-stroke, thumb still resting on Sunshineâs brow. Itâs the kind of sound that doesnât belong in a ward softened for babies: sharp, arrhythmic, like someone dropping a tray in an echo chamber. Then another clash, closer, as if a faulty heartbeat is advancing down the corridor. Sunshineâs eyes flick to the doorway, bottle still clutched between her fists but forgotten; a single drop of milk rolls down her chin, slow as a comet.
The hallway hushes, a ripple of tension moving through the nursesâ station. You feel it before you see it, an obstruction in the air, a cold draft sweeping ahead of something that has no place near a cradle. She appears in the doorway as though prised from a nightmareâs seam. Bare feet slap the linoleum with slippery, crimson smears, blood painting her soles like ruined lipstick. Her hospital gown hangs askew, neckline torn, one sleeve ripped clean away. She cradles a pacifier on a fraying shoelace to her breast the way Sunshine cradles Butterscotch, knuckles white, wrists webbed with old needle bruises that bloom like nightshade. Hair once intended to be platinum tumbles in split, muddy streaks; every violent turn of her head fans it like a shattered halo. Layers of foundation crack along her jaw, peeling where sweat beads beneath, and her pupils are so dilated they look like collapsing stars.
She staggers forward alone, each unsteady step echoing in the hollow corridor. Her gaze slides past you, never lingering, scanning walls and ceiling lights as though searching for hidden exits. âGlass garden⌠she lives in the stars⌠my baby,â she murmurs, voice ragged and hollow, as if the words themselves have been clawed from her throat. The air around her flickers with tension, each breath carrying a metallic tang of fear and old sorrow. Her mismatched bracelets chime softly, hospital tags, a faded club band, a velvet choker once inscribed with âDaddyâs Girlâ now threadbare and broken. Foundation cracks along her cheekbones like dried riverbeds, and sweat beads, trembling, at her temples. In that fractured light, she seems to teeter between worlds, an unmoored spirit dragging grief behind her, unseeing eyes cast outward yet never truly meeting yours.
You tighten both arms around Sunshine. She squeaks, startled, but presses closer, her cheek hot against your collarbone, the lullaby still chiming its delicate lie behind her. Jihoonâs spoon clatters to the tray. Hyejinâs pencil stalls mid-line. Dayoungâs humming dies. In that instant, the corridor splits: on one side, a woman crumbling under the weight of ghosts; on the other, a baby wrapped in yarn and hope, eyes wide, breathing clouds onto your skin. And between those worlds, no sound except the soft click of the ballerina turning, turning, turning, unwilling to face whatâs coming.
Instinctively, Hyejin, whoâll never admit how deeply sheâs grown to love Sunshineâsteps in front of you both, her body a trembling shield between the strangerâs pain and the two of you. Hyejin steps forward on instinct, voice gentle but firm. âMaâam? Are you hurt? Do you need a doctor?â
The womanâs jaw works in a silent scream before words tumble out, jagged and surreal. âStars, the parasite star, it burrowed through my ribs, I swearâswallowed me whole, then spat me out on the glass garden roof⌠my baby, my beating star parasite, you stole the glow from inside me.â She clutches the cracked pacifier to her chest, eyes rolling back as though sheâs listening to voices no one else can hear. âThey fed her my blood but she doesnât bleed like meâshe blooms in the dark, a black sunflower, he made her here, a god trapped in skinâŚâ
Her limbs jerk as though pulled by invisible strings. âOpen your eyesâcanât you see? The stars are crawling down the corridor, carving parasites into the wallsâŚâ
The womanâs body convulses once moreâand then she lunges forward, arms flailing as though reaching for a phantom constellation. Her eyes remain unfocused, tracking nothing and everything at once. Sunshine, enthralled by the sudden movement, lets out a delighted giggle and coos, patting at the air as though playing her own game of peek-a-boo. You press her tighter into your chest, heart hammering, folding her arms across her little torso so she canât slipâno matter how she squirms in innocent delight. With your free hand, you slide a finger over the silent alarm button at the cribâs foot rail, a discreet plea for reinforcements that only you know youâve sent. As the soft chime rings down the hall, you rock Sunshine gently, whispering into her hair, âItâs okay, my love. Iâve got you.â
The alarmâs soft chime curls down the hall like a silver thread, too gentle to belong to the dread it heralds, yet the woman hears it as a summons. Her body, until now a marionette of spasms, falls eerily still, head tilting as though to receive a secret frequency. When her eyes slide to Sunshine they widen, black-marble and awful, not with mother-love but with recognition warped into prophecy. Itâs as if sheâs staring at a cosmic crime scene: a god in a diaper, an executioner sucking on a bottle.
âItâs her,â she breathes, reverence and ruin in the same syllable. âShe came out of me. She crawled out of me.â
The corridor hushes so completely you feel reality falter, like a stage whose scenery might peel away at any moment. Her gaze darts to the lullaby machine perched beside Sunshineâs crib, the gentle box whose underwater-princess melody has cocooned the ward for months. She moves with predatory velocity: one lunge, one rip, and the device slams to the tile. Plastic fractures with a scream of its own; wiring spills across the floor like snapped veins, sparks guttering out in forlorn pops. Sunshineâs eyes balloon with confusion. She doesnât cryâshe laughs, a bright, bubbling trill, blinking up at the silence as though the smashed lullaby were playing peek-a-boo and would spring to life again any second. To her, all of this is only a new round of the game, a world still full of wonder, untouched by the shadows collapsing around her.
âThat sound kept her from me,â the woman snarls, voice grinding like gravel set aflame. âThatâs what made her forget.â Now her pupils hook on the butter-soft blankets you spent nights knitting, sun-colored yarn, crooked stitches that spell half a name. She tears them free, shredding the pastel fabric with clawed fingers. âThey dressed her in false skin so I wouldnât know my own,â she hisses. âBut I see her now.â The unraveling strands puddle to the floor like peeled flesh. Sunshineâs tiny mouth quivers, a tremor before the quake.
Then the womanâs fury ricochets into a brutal kick, once, twice, against the cribâs frame. Metal rings out, a bell tolling doom. âThey told me she died inside of me!â she shrieks. âThey lied. They cut her out. They cut me open and they took her!â She paces, pacing the trauma into physical space, calling the blanket's skin, calling the lullaby box the machine that fed her lies. She smears blood from a split knuckle across the pristine wall. âThis is what they fed her,â she mutters, drawing a crude constellation that drips like dying stars. An overturned sharps bin scatters needles, tiny silver stingers glinting beneath fluorescent glare. She claws at the vitals monitor, ranting that it âmaps her mind.â
âBorn of stars, fed on parasites!â she sobs, delirious. âShe was born screaming, clawing through my ribs like a god that wanted out. Now she giggles, playsâwho taught her that?!â The scent of antiseptic mingles with burnt sugar and copper, burning your nostrils. Sunshine begins to wail, an animal-raw cry youâve never heard, worse than post-op nights, worse than chest tubes or morphine wearing off. Her bunnies lie gutted on the linoleum; her blankets hang in ribbons. She sobs so hard her whole body quakes, and something inside you tears.
The woman wheels back, eyes blazing, and lunges straight towards you, straight for the child. Instinct detonates. You clutch Sunshine tighter to your chest, spin, and thrust your shoulder against the advancing figure. The impact knocks the breath from both of you; she staggers but doesnât fall, hissing curses about glass gardens and stolen gods. Sunshineâs scream ratchets higher, a siren of pure grief, tiny fists pounding your clavicle.
âYou donât touch her,â you rasp, voice shaking with rage you didnât know you possessed. The womanâs reply is a babble of star-parasite nonsense, a warning drenched in madness, yet you register none of it. All you feel is the hot weight of Sunshineâs terror, her soaked cheeks sliding against your scrubs, your own heartbeat drumming a single vow: no one reaches her whilst sheâs in your arms.Â
âLet her go, nurse-girlâsheâll hollow you like she hollowed me. She drinks marrow, she drinks dreams, sheâll burrow into your ribs and light her little suns until you burn from the inside.â She steps closer; the overhead fluorescents flicker across the sweat on her brow. âYou think sheâs laughing? Thatâs not laughter, thatâs the parasite singing. She sang inside me, carved constellations in my blood. When sheâs done with you, sheâll crawl back into the stars and leave your body empty as glass.â
Sunshineâs sobs knife through the air, high, desperate, breaking like waves against your sternum. You tighten your hold, rock her, whisper hushes, but the woman only climbs in volume, her threats turning razor-thin: âGive her to me or Iâll crack your shell open myself. Iâll peel the doll-skin they wrapped her in and show you the god underneath, show everyone how she burns. Do you want to watch her set this place on fire? Do you?â She spreads her fingers, nails splintered and slick. âShe set my lungs alight, sheâll feast on yours next. Hand her over, little puppet, and maybe the parasite wonât learn your name.â A fresh wail bursts from Sunshineâraw, scraping, furiousâwhile you plant your feet, pulse thundering against her trembling back, and wait for securityâs footsteps to thunder down the hall.
Finally, security barrels down the hall in a tangle of radios and clattering batons but Dr. Na is faster, a silent blur in surgical blue. His gaze goes first, instinctively, to Sunshine: your arms locked around her trembling form, her face botched crimson from crying. The moment he sees her aliveâsafeâhis chest loosens, a breath sucked through clenched teeth. He reaches, fingertips hovering to soothe the tears streaking her cheeks but then he looks past you.
The woman. She might as well be an eclipse dragging its own gravity, every fluorescent bulb dims the instant her outline collides with his vision. His breath stops; not held, stolen. Itâs as if a long-sealed incision in memory rips open and bleeds across the hall, staining the air between them. Her face is warped, paint cracked, eyes raw but beneath the ruin he maps a familiar constellation: the tilt of a cheekbone once kissed by nightclub neon, the mouth that once shaped his name like smoke. A thousand unspoken midnights flicker behind his irises: velvet couches, chemical laughter, a wrist pressed to his pulse where a hospital tag now dangles like a noose.Â
His clipboard slips; gravity forgets him for a beat. Sunshineâs sobs thud against your collarbone, but he hears only the subterranean echo of that past life, the throb of bass, a strangerâs perfume, a promise made too casually to ever stay buried. She stares back with pupils blown wide, a mirror reflecting everything that was abandoned and left: desire, recklessness, a single misstep that grew teeth and learned to howl. And in the wobbling fluorescence he sees the equation completeâchild, mother, surgeonâthree bodies locked in an orbit he wrote in careless ink and canât now erase.
His pupils blow wide, shock shattering the practiced calm youâve watched him wear like armor for a year, this is the only time itâs ever slipped. Horror floods the space between themâdark, electric, cataclysmic. âJaemin,â she croons, voice a cracked lullaby as the guards wrestle her flailing limbs, âthey were the men in white coats, they carved her out, your star-seed, she has your blood, not mine. You injected her into me, remember? Your little god. Your parasite.â Her laugh rasps like a saw through bone. âYou promised to save her. You promisedââ Words crumble into babble: glass garden, burning galaxy, ribs torn open like creaking doors.
Dr. Na staggers one half-step, mouth slack. âAseul?â His voice fissures, equal parts disbelief and dread. âAseul, what the fuck happened to you?âÂ
She lunges, spitting accusations at the guardsââYou stole my baby, white-coat thieves!ââthen swings her gaze back to him, eyes glittering obsidian. âYour baby never needed me. She only ever needed you.â For one split second, as the guards drag her backward, her face rearranges itself, painted ruin collapsing into something heartbreakingly familiar. The mascara runs, the mouth trembles open not as a snarl but as a childâs plea, and the madness seems to peel away like wet wallpaper. You glimpse the woman she once was, young, startled, fragile as unfired clay, and her eyes, suddenly lucid, spear Dr. Na with a grief too naked to bear. âSave your child,â she sobs, voice shredding on every word, âsave her from the parasite, save her from the voices that live in me!â Security tightens their grip; she reaches anyway, fingers splayed, as if trying to tear open her own chest to show the demons gnawing there. âThey want her dead, the shadows in my blood, theyâll crawl out of me and swallow her light!â Her wail ricochets off the polished walls, a strangled hymn of terror and love, before the sedative syringe bites her arm and the doors swallow her whole, leaving only the echo of that desperate command: save her.
The scream dies, hollowing out the air around him until Jaemin hears nothing at all, no heartbeats, no whispers, no soft hum of machinery, only the echo of a voice from a past he thought that he buried deeply. His limbs lock as if crystallized, every muscle freezing as the fragments rain down. The floor feels unsteady, unreal, as the walls ripple like water disturbed by a stone. Your face blurs through his vision, tears glittering down your cheeks, your hands trembling where they clutch Sunshine tightly, her sob piercing him like shattered glass. Heâs heard her whimper through morphine fog, felt her shudder when chest tubes were pulled, watched silent tears leak beneath anesthesia tape but this cry is different. It rips out of Sunshine like something torn from the root, a howl so old it sounds ancestral. Her world has been razed in seconds: the lullaby box she learned to command with a single push now lies gutted on the floor, gears exposed like a small mechanical heart that will never beat again; the butter-soft blankets you knitted through night shift after night shift hang in shredded pennants from the crib rail, their pastel threads unraveling across tile like intestines; her court of bunnies, Cloud listing on one torn ear, Butterscotch caved at the belly, Egg Yolk beheaded, sprawl in mute carnage where they used to stand sentry. In Unit B2 the other babies still drift in cotton cocoons, flanked by balloons and family hands and lullabies sung off-key; Sunshine only had these talismans you made her, and now even those have been desecrated.
The memory detonates without warning, blooming behind Jaeminâs eyes in smoky chiaroscuro: a spring wedding at an expansive villa where string lights trembled like distant galaxies and champagne tasted of polite disappointment. He had arrived draped in designer complacency, hand in the delicate grasp of a woman whose hair fell in liquid silk down her spine, her gown stitched with the kind of haute geometry that photographs well but never warms a body. Old friends toasted reunions; old sorrows skimmed beneath the laughter. Something hollow yawned inside him all evening, a vacancy that no vintage could drown. Laterâhours, glasses, and smiles too tightâhe let himself be pulled to a bachelor party in a velvet-walled lounge pulsing low with bass and sorrow. Thatâs where he saw her: Aseul, the familiar dancer his best friend had once used as morphine for a broken heart. Glitter dusted her cheekbones like meteor fallout, and her eyes held the bright, panicked shimmer of a creature running too fast to stop. Their gazes locked, a collision of hungers, and something reckless flared alive in his chest. The designer girl with silk hair vanished from his periphery, replaced by red lights and the scent of cheap vanilla and smoke.
Hours later, glossy black hair pooled like ink across pristine sheets while Aseul straddled him, hips rolling with decadent slowness; perfume and sweat mingled into a narcotic fog. Her laughter rang sharp as shattered crystal as she arched over him, fingers clawing his scalp, vodka-sweet breath branding his skin. A cascade of black hair poured like silk over Jaeminâs face, strands tickling his mouth whilst heâd been smothered beneath thighs that tasted of jasmine and salt, her hips grinding slow and deliberate against his tongue. The woman above, elegant, obsidian, rides his mouth with a designerâs entitlement, her hands tangling in his hair, tugging until his jaw aches. Her laughter falls in cool ribbons, scattered through the dark. Below, Aseul arched back on his cock, body a honey-gold vessel painted in sweat and wild streaks of glitter. She bounced on him shamelessly, reckless and ruined, her pulse thundering as she leaned forward, mouth latching hungrily onto the other womanâs ass, tongue slick with need. It was a tangled symphony, Aseulâs moans sharpened by the slick friction of flesh, the other womanâs gasps fracturing through Jaeminâs mouth, hands, hips, everywhere. Perfume and vodka saturate the sheets, breaths threading into the etherâgrief and hunger made holy, made obscene, made temporary sanctuary.
He tasted desperation at the seam of her thighs, felt the fever under her painted flesh, sensed the fault lines trembling beneath every whispered dare but he chased oblivion anyway, swallowed her broken starlight like it might fill the void gnawing his ribs. In that darkness he was young and ravenous, willing to drink any ecstasy that promised to drown the ache he refused to name. And even thenâbetween the smoke and her shaking laughterâhe knew something inside her was fracturing, a dangerous pulse flickering beneath the glitter. He took it into himself regardless, letting her body become the vessel for every unanswered hunger he carried but never once imagining the night would echo back to him in the form of a crying child cradled in his arms nearly two years later.
And now that ache returns, tenfold and roaring, burning into his ribs, demanding recognition. Sunshineâs wail pierces him, sharper than any scalpel heâs ever held, shattering the veil between past and present. His gaze snaps down to where Sunshine struggles violently in your arms, her tiny limbs desperate and flailing, fingers grasping toward him through a torrent of tears. He moves without conscious thought, propelled by a force deeper than blood, surer than bone. The second his arms close around her trembling form, she clings to him fiercely, little hands gripping his ear like itâs the only anchor she has left in a world that has turned hostile. And in that moment, feeling her sobs vibrate against his chest, feeling her small body mold itself so perfectly to the hollow beneath his collarbones, Jaeminâs entire universe aligns.Â
It clicks into place with an undeniable, quiet finality, a truth so stark it aches like a bruise deep in his marrow, yet Jaemin feels no luxury of paralysis. Weakness is a currency he can no longer spend, not when the small, shaking body in his arms has nothing left to cling to but the cadence of his heartbeat. He steadies his breath, corralling the tremor in his hands, forcing every muscle to remember what duty feels like. Regret can howl later; right now responsibility climbs his spine like armor, locking each vertebra in resolve. Sunshineâs sobs hitch into hiccups against his collar, and he realizes the equation of his life has changed forever: her safety before his comfort, her future before his penance, her heartbeat before his own. The debris of shattered lullabies and gutted bunnies litters the floor around them, but he gathers her closer, standing taller, spine ironed straight by purpose. There is no room to freezeâonly to move forward, to build a fortress of flesh and certainty around the child who has chosen him. In the fluorescent hush, he plants his feet, recalibrates his pulse, and vowsâsilently, fiercelyâthat from this breath onward, every beat of his heart will circle hers like a shield. He whispers into the dark silk of her hair, voice breaking, raw and vulnerable, âYouâre mine. Youâre mine, baby. Iâm going to protect you.â
Around them the ward still crackles with echoes of madnessâglass garden, parasite, cut from meâbut Jaemin lets the words drain into static. All he hears is Sunshineâs grief: a heartbreaking wail from a child discovering too soon that even handmade miracles can be smashed. He seals his mouth to the damp crown of her head as if heat and skin could solder the fractures in her sense of safety, swearingâbone-deep, marrow-deepâthat she will never feel this hollow again. Nurses tiptoe through wreckage, sweeping up the shattered lullaby box like itâs a fallen organ; bunnies are gathered with the tenderness reserved for battlefield dead. Jaemin tightens his arms until her sobs gutter to exhausted hiccups, until the only heartbeat she can find is hisâsteady, claiming, unbreakable.
She keens again, high, forlorn, as though her tiny body intuits loss before it understands language. The sound needles through his ribs and something inside him crystallizes into ruthless clarity: she is his, and he has failed her already. He draws her closer, her fingers locking around the shell of his ear, last unbroken talisman, and her lungs convulse like sparrows against a cage. Each hiccup shudders through both of them, and he feels the sum of her ruins: the music that once promised sleep, the yarn that once promised warmth, the silly fabric animals that once promised sheâd never be alone. He rocks her in slow, tidal circles, voice splintering as he whispers, âShh, mine, mineâDaddyâs got you,â tasting salt where her tears meet his own.
Facts blur under the roar of devotion. The timeline fits, but bloodlines remain a gamble, Aseulâs life was a revolving door of lovers and long nights. Biologically, Sunshine could belong to anyone. He doesnât care; chromosomes arenât the measure of fatherhood. In this luminous, brutal instant he decides: love will outrank DNA, intention will outrank accident. Whether fate drew her from his body or destiny simply laid her in his hands, she is his. He will sign forms, fight courts, rewrite the origin story if he must, because the fierce rush in his chest tells him family is forged in crisis as much as in blood. Found, not given. Chosen, not owed.
He bends to her ear, voice hushed and velvetyâwords woven more for comfort than comprehension, yet spoken in full, steady sentences. âSweet girl, Iâll write you new lullabies, notes gentle enough to cradle your dreams. Iâll knit blankets thick with warmth and patience, stitch enough bunnies to stand watch along every edge of your night. No shadow will reach you while my arms are near. If the world bares its teeth, Iâll meet it first and break its bite. Your work is to breathe and bloom. My work is to keep the path clear. Sunshine whimpers, then sighs against him, loved, trusting, the wet heat of her cheek cooling on his collar. Jaemin presses a final kiss to her temple, feeling the place where fear has welded into resolve, and thinks: If lineage is questioned, let them test me. They can measure genes and alleles; they cannot measure this.
His heart, previously fractured and scattered, now holds her with the reverence of myth, a truth written in fate, etched in the cosmos. A slow, sorrowful symphony settles over him, grief mingling seamlessly with revelation, each breath drawn feeling like the first genuine inhale heâs taken in a lifetime. It doesnât matter how many times Aseul screamed deliriously about parasites and stars, blood and betrayal, beneath the madness and horror lies a single stark thread of truth that Jaemin canât shake. He doesnât need tangible proof, doesnât need lab results or paternity tests, not yet, because the connection thrumming through him now, skin against skin, heart to heart, surpasses anything that cold science could offer. He knows because he feels itâin her trembles, in her heartbeat synchronizing perfectly with his own, in the way she settles into the cradle of his arms like sheâs always belonged there, even before he knew she existed, that she was his.
The woman dragged away moments ago was a shadow, twisted and broken beyond recognition, yet undeniably woven through his history. He knew her once, intimately, carelessly, and she planted within him the seed that now blossoms with devastating clarity. All this time, Sunshineâthis tiny miracle heâd held first when she emerged broken from that rooftop, beneath dying stars and impossible oddsâhad been his own flesh and blood. Sunshine, who first opened her eyes to his face as if she knew him, who hushed instantly in his arms as though recognizing the heartbeat that once pulsed beside her in the womb. The thought is too overwhelming to voice aloud. Instead, Jaemin stands rooted in place, chest heaving silently beneath his scrubs, cradling Sunshine as though sheâs not just made of fragile, healing flesh but spun from something sacred and luminous, threads of starlight and resilience intertwined into a tiny girl who survived against every conceivable horror.
He shifts slightly, angling himself instinctively between you both and the retreating chaos, and something ancient stirs within him, fiercely protective, dangerously possessive. This child chose him first, before either of them knew who they were to each other, before he recognized the invisible, golden cord of fate looping endlessly around their lives. Itâs the sort of mysticism heâd always scoffed at, scorned in favor of clinical rationality. But here, in the sterile halls stained with violence and grief, holding Sunshine close as she buries her tear-streaked face deeper into his chest, all his skepticism fractures into dust. His world realigns around this tiny creature, this impossible child, whose arrival was heralded by loss and tragedy and whose existence now reshapes his entire soul.
Somewhere deep within his chest, beneath layers of ache and realization, Jaemin already knows what comes next: confirmation, bureaucracy, paternity tests, guardianship battlesâlegalities that cannot be avoided. But those concerns pale in this instant, eclipsed by the profound weight of his newfound truth, a revelation stronger than any evidence could hope to be. He glances down, meeting Sunshineâs eyes, those eyes that always felt familiar but never more so than now, and whispers once more, voice thick and cracking softly, âYouâre mine. Youâve always been mine, Iâm always gonna fight for you.â She nestles closer, whimpering softly as her sobs fade into hiccuping breaths, small fingers threading through his hair as if claiming him back. And there, beneath the sterile fluorescence and the watchful eyes of nurses, interns, and security still lingering, he cradles his daughter for the first time knowingly, heart breaking open with a love so fierce it threatens to destroy him as it rebuilds him, piece by piece.
Jaemin holds Sunshine tighter than heâs ever held anything, his pulse hammering against his skin in an anxious rhythm. He believes in his bones that she belongs with himâher tiny fingers fit perfectly around his thumb, her soft babbles seem to respond to his voice in a language no one else understands. Every instinct screams at him that this is his daughter, that fate had conspired to place her in his arms, from the first moment he calmed her cries in the NICU to the nights he stayed awake beside her isolette. Heâs memorized everything: the delicate curl of her eyelashes, the precise way she smiles when he whispers her name, how she settles only for him when the world overwhelms her. Yet the fear curls deep, stubborn and bitter, because the only way to bring her home is through a paternity test. He hates the thought that genetics could betray what his heart already knows. But one detail anchors his hope: the way her eyes mirror his own, a soft almond shape, dark and knowing. Itâs something no one noticed until whispers began that they might be father and daughter.
The gossip spreads like wildfire through the hospital corridors, nurses and interns hiding smiles behind clipboards, whispering in delighted awe whenever Jaemin passes by with Sunshine nestled protectively in his strong arms. He towers over everyone, muscles defined beneath the fitted scrubs, a silent, vigilant bodyguard beside the tiny girl who clings to his shoulders like heâs her personal jungle gym. Itâs adorable, the contrast, the strength of him against the fragility of her and the hospital staff melts each time he patiently fixes the little bow in her hair, wipes drool from her chin with his sleeve, or gently rubs her back until she sighs into sleep against his chest. It seems, to everyone who watches, like Sunshine has always known exactly who he isâDaddyâher little hands grabbing at his ear, her excited squeals when he appears in the doorway, her sleepy murmurs in response to his whispered reassurances.
You watch him closely now, cheeks flushed with a heat you try to blame on embarrassment or nerves, but your pulse quickens whenever Jaemin cradles Sunshine in the crook of his arm, whenever he leans down to kiss her forehead, voice dropping into soft baby talk that makes your heart flip dangerously. You flush deeper when he catches your eye, a subtle, knowing smile curling his lips, the silent exchange charged with a tension neither of you have the courage yet to name aloud. Especially the day you take their blood samples for the paternity test, your hands trembling slightly as Jaemin distracts Sunshine with gentle tickles and kisses, giggling and playing until sheâs blissfully unaware of the needle prick, cooing softly as he murmurs, âYouâre okay, Daddyâs got you,â into her hair.
In the following weeks, Jaeminâs days blur into a whirlwind of meetings with lawyers, detailed discussions about custody and parental rights. Each time he attends these stressful consultations, Sunshine sits contentedly on his knee, oblivious to the tension thickening in the air, absorbed completely in her ever-growing collection of brand new plush bunnies. She babbles softly, reaching out to pat his cheek whenever his voice tightens, as though reminding him why heâs fighting so fiercely. His heart clenches when her little fingers stroke his jaw, a gentle anchor amidst harsh words and cold legal jargon. He knows the road ahead is complicated, but whenever she giggles into his neck or squeals in delight as he bounces her gently on his knee, heâs reassured. Heâll fight endlessly for her if he has to.
He would wade through courtrooms like minefields, baring every secret scar if the blast meant she could sleep unafraid. He would duel bureaucracy with scalpel-sharp patience, carve loopholes in statutes the way he once carved infection from bone. He would mortgage time, reputation, even the marrow of his own certainty, trading away sleep and solace until the ledger of her safety showed nothing but black ink. If the law raised walls, he would scale them hand-over-hand; if another family laid claim, he would stand between, a living bulwark of muscle and vow. Every breath he owns is already pledged, each one a brick in the fortress heâll build so her heartbeat never has to echo in a room without him.
Finally, the day arrives. Jaemin sits rigidly across from the lawyer, Sunshine curled sleepily into his chest, unaware that the next few minutes will decide her entire future. His stomach twists with nausea as he contemplates every possible scenario: if the test denies their connection, he knows heâll wage war anyway. Heâll petition, appeal, fight relentlessly to make sure Sunshine never has to endure another moment feeling abandoned or unloved. Heâll use every resource, every argument, because despite biology, he feels in every fiber of his being that this little girl is his daughter. But even as he braces for disappointment, prepares himself for an endless battle, the lawyer looks up from the document and meets Jaeminâs eyes, voice calm but firm as he finally utters the words Jaemin didnât realize he was holding his breath for: âDr. Na, this baby girl is yours.âÂ
Relief crashes through him so hard his knees nearly give. He sinks into the cotton-soft crown of her hair, breath catching on the scent of talc and warm milk and lets the tremor in his voice glide against her ear. âYouâre mine, baby girl,â he murmurs, lips brushing her temple like a vow sealed in skin. âDaddyâs hereâDaddyâs not going anywhere now.â
Sunshine slumbers against his chest, small lips parted in the gentlest O, lashes trembling each time his breathing shakes. In the hush he presses reverent kisses along her downy crown, one to the soft spot still pulsing with life, one to each curve of her cheeks, another to the bow of her chin. Between kisses he pours out promises in a whisper meant for her dreams. âYou have a room waiting, sweetheart,â he murmurs, voice thick and wet with tears. âWalls the color of first light, clouds stenciled across the ceiling so you never feel trapped under a roof. Your crib, dressed in the softest cotton, picked it three times until it felt right and thereâs a chair beside it where Iâll sit whenever you stir.â He grazes her button nose with his lips. âThereâs a shelf already sagging under storybooks. Iâll read you every single one, even the silly rhymes, until you choose your own.â
He kisses the shell of her ear next. âOutside, a park with swings that squeak like laughter. Iâll run behind you, promise I wonât let go until you beg me to. Saturday mornings weâll wander the farmersâ stalls, let you taste strawberries warm from the sun. On Sunday evenings weâll buy flowers for the house: tulips in spring, dahlias in September, white camellias in winter so you always have color. Iâll always buy you flowers, my beautiful girl.âÂ
Another kiss finds the soft pulse in her neck. âBaths that smell of lavender bubbles,â he breathes, letting each promise glide over her skin like warm water. âPajamas that are softer than moonlight, so even your dreams feel soft. A night-light shaped like a lighthouse, turning its little beam until morning because even in the dark you should know thereâs a door left open for you.â Tears slip from his lashes and vanish into her hair. He doesnât pause; the vows keep spilling, a steady litany of devotion threaded through gentle breaths. âI swear youâll grow up knowing seasons by their scents: spring lilac on the breeze, cinnamon in autumn air, the sharp bite of pine at Christmas. Iâll learn lullabies in every key until I find the one that makes you sigh deepest. Iâll hide love notes under every fitted sheet, Iâll play with you until my arms tire.â
His voice wavers, but the words keep coming. âMy life is yours nowâevery breath, every heartbeat, every call shift, every dawn that pries my eyelids open. If you need marrow, Iâll offer bone; if you need shelter, Iâll become stone. You owe me nothing, just open your eyes each morning and let me be the first thing they reflect. Let me stand guard when fevers climb, when nightmares knock, when the world grows loud enough to shake the windows. Iâll meet every thunderclap before it reaches you. Iâll carry umbrellas the size of constellations, learn storms by name so I can spell them into silence. And when you fallâbecause all children fallâIâll kneel first, so my hands become the ground that finds you.â
He presses another kiss, this time to the delicate curl of her ear. âYou have the most beautiful birthday parties, whatever theme you want, parades for your lost teeth, Iâll teach you the innocence in believing in the Tooth Fairy and Santa Claus. Iâll create galleries for your finger-paint masterpieces. Iâll show you how river water feels against bare feet, how fireworks braid color into night, how forests speak if you hush long enough to listen. Iâll buy you every flavor of ice creamâyes, even the strange onesâbecause discovery should taste like delight. One day weâll walk to the oceanâs edge, and Iâll show you how to let the waves lift you like a lullaby. When you doubt yourself, I will list every brave thing your heartbeat has ever done. When you soar, I will cheer loud enough to lift the sky.â His tears blot the sun-yellow dress, tiny blossoms blooming where salt meets cotton and still he whispers, softer, fiercer: âYou never owe me a thing, my girl. Just exist. Breathe. Grow at your own impossible pace. Let me love you in the space between each heartbeat you borrow from the stars.â
She stirs at last. A tiny coo flutters from her chest as she nudges herself higher beneath his jaw, clenches a fistful of his collar, settles with a sigh that sounds suspiciously like trust. Jaemin breaks, silent tears tracking down his cheeks, throat squeezed shut by gratitude and fear. He thinks of the nursery he and Jeno built: the pale-wood crib assembled at 2 a.m. to the soundtrack of whispered jokes; the mountain of pastel dresses, today she wears the yellow one embroidered with sunflower hearts, bought a week ago on a blind, impossible hope; rows of tiny socks rolled like white peonies; jars of organic purĂŠes labeled for flavors she hasnât met; a plush zoo occupying half the floor. Every object back home feels, in this heartbeat, like proof that he has already been living for her long before the test confirmed what his heart decided. He kisses her brow once more, softer than a prayer, and breathes against her skin, âI love you. I love you. I love you,â until the words melt into her warmth and steady both their hearts.
Yet outside the glowing sanctuary of his newfound fatherhood, shadows creep along the edges, a storm brewing in the distance. Across town, the Kwon family nursery, painted pastel and adorned with meticulous care, now echoes with raw, wrenching sobs. Eunbi clutches a tiny blanket to her chest, the fabric slipping helplessly from her fingers as Jiyoung slams a hammer repeatedly into the delicate crib they spent weeks lovingly assembling, wooden slats splintering and cracking with each violent strike. Their dream lies shattered around them, the empty crib symbolic of a loss so profound it tears relentlessly at their hearts, leaving them hollow, bitter, and ready to fight.
At the hospital, Jaemin cradles Sunshine proudly, peppering her small face with kisses as he announces the joyful news, the staff clapping and cheering softly, hearts warmed by the happy ending theyâve all secretly hoped for. His victory curdles in an instant. A lawyer with a black suit, expression bloodless, slides into the room like a shadow with edges, a thick envelope held out as if it carries contagion. Behind him stand the would-have-been parents, a woman hollowed by sleepless grief and a man tight-jawed with silent rage; both watch Jaemin with eyes that shine like broken glass, all fight layered over a sediment of despair. He breaks the seal; the letters on the page slash upward, custody petition, emergency injunction, expedited hearing, each phrase a blade replacing the air in his lungs with iron shavings. The roomâs warm fluorescence recoils, bleaching into grayscale; even the nursesâ soft smiles seem to ossify, like flowers flash-frozen mid-bloom. Jaemin feels the sunlight drain from the moment, replaced by a howl of cold wind he alone can hear, and the envelope in his hand suddenly weighs as much as fate itself.
Jaemin glances down at his baby girl, blissfully unaware as she plays happily in your arms, wrapped in the soft, lovingly knitted blankets that now carry twenty-one brand new, carefully stitched symbols and images, one for every staff member who loves her deeply, twenty-one and counting. Sunshine giggles, tiny fingers tracing embroidered motifs, her world safe and warm, unaware that her newfound family, the home sheâs supposed to sleep in tonight, now hangs precariously in the balance.Â
Sheâs no longer the abandoned baby left on a rooftop, no longer the lost child waiting endlessly in sterile rooms; now she is the child two worlds are reaching for, cradled in one set of arms while another claws desperately to claim her. Tonight was supposed to be her first night at home, her first night tucked securely beside Daddy. But as Jaemin clutches the harsh legal notice tighter, feeling the cold bite of paper against his palm, he knows the fight has only just begun. Another family, heartbroken and grieving, is coming for the daughter heâs only just found, and Sunshineâunaware and innocentâremains caught blissfully in the crossfire, her future once again uncertain beneath looming clouds.
The night-shift hush thins toward dawn as Jaemin climbs the final stair with Sunshine curled against him, warm and weighty as a sleepy kitten. This is the very rooftop where she was first found, then a fist-sized miracle wrapped in hospital linen, the stars above her as indifferent as broken glass. Now the early light rinses the garden boxes in brushed silver; calendula buds yawn wide, their orange petals blinking awake like tiny suns relieved to keep watch for her. Jaemin settles on the low parapet, tucking her into the hollow of his chest. Sheâs dressed for the occasion in a butter-yellow pinafore sprinkled with white polka dots, cream tights bunched adorably at her knees, and toy-silk ballet shoes that barely brush his ribs when she kicks. One dimpled hand pats the zipper of his scrub jacket, the other reaches toward the horizon, and she releases a delighted chain of vowelsââah, da, ya-yaââas though sheâs announcing herself to the sky sheâs only now allowed to claim.
He studies her face in the newborn light. Those eyes, dark, fathomless, unmistakably his, catch the sunrise first, twin mirrors pooling liquid gold. Otherwise she shares none of his features; her cheeks are plump crescents dusted rose, her nose a perfect button, her hair a soft corona of honey-brown curls that refuse to part neatly. Yet the eyes are enough: windows where his own childhood stares back at him, equal parts wonder and will. She coos again, puckering her lips into a tiny âo,â and he canât resist, he presses a kiss to each cheek, feeling their satin coolness give beneath his lips. âMorning, princess,â he whispers, letting the pet name glide like a feather over her ear. She squeals, tiny fists tightening in his jacket, and for an instant the whole hospital below seems to hold its breath just to listen to her joy.
She turns those mirror-dark eyes onto him, pupils blown wide in trust, and he feels the universe tilt: her world is eleven months old, and he is the gravity that keeps it steady. Swallowing a rush of tenderness so fierce it borders on pain, he begins to speakâsoft, steady, a fatherâs dawn-lit monologue. He tells her the calendulas opened just for her, that the city beyond the rooftop is full of parks where pigeons will scatter like confetti for her laughter, that there are bookstores with carpets plush enough for story-hour nests, and a tiny bistro on the corner that already keeps a highchair waiting. âWeâll walk there after your next surgery,â he promises, brushing a curl from her forehead. âNo scalpels for Daddy anymore, Iâll just be holding your hand while we count down from ten. Iâll be right there when you wake up, ready to cuddle you and sing silly songs to cheer you up. Thatâs my job now.â
Sunshine answers with another babbleâhigher, brighterâas if the syllables themselves are bloom-tips of happiness. Her yellow dress catches the breeze, fluttering against his forearm like a flag of new territory claimed. He rocks her gently, heart thrumming under her ear, and the rooftop feels transformed: no longer a place of abandonment, but a balcony of beginnings, the first true morning of a life he is determined to fill with warmth, color, and every tenderness he once thought was beyond his reach.
He marvels at how much space she now occupies in his armsâonly a year ago she was scarcely heavier than a stethoscope, lungs fluttering like moth wings against his palm, and he held her without guessing the blood-thread knotting them together. Since then she has stretched into herself with stubborn grace: thighs no longer matchsticks but soft rolls snug beneath her cotton tights; fingers once wrapped around a single ridge of his thumb now span two, intent and insistent as they explore his buttons and penlight. Even tethered to surgeries, she has learned to sit unassisted, to fling both arms skyward when she wants lifting, to trumpet her opinions in vowel choirs that echo clear down the ward. Every gram sheâs gained feels stolen from the jaws of statistics, a living proof that mercy sometimes chooses the smallest vessels. Looking down at her nowâcheeks flushed peach, hair riffled by dawn breezeâJaemin feels the weight of that improbable growth settle in his chest like a second heart: she is a miracle he once cradled by duty and now embraces by destiny, his bubba, his living affirmation that love can rewrite biologyâs bleakest footnotes.
He speaks in a voice barely above the breeze, describing every fragile marvel in her new kingdom. âThat yellow flower is called marigolds, baby, it smells like pepper and sunlight. Those are wisteria vines, theyâll drip purple in spring. See that little red light on the horizon? Thatâs a plane; people inside are chasing morning across the ocean, planes take you from one place to another but in the sky.â She squeals, kicking her star-patterned socks, and he laughs quietly before adding promises: âI canât wait to show you oceans up close one day. Iâll stand behind you on the swing so the world feels safe. When surgeries come, I wonât hold the scalpelâdaddies donâtâbut Iâll hold your hand until the room stops echoing. You have a family now, and waiting is what families do.â
She gnaws experimentally on the collar of his scrub top, eyes shining wet in the half-light. He brushes a thumb over her cheek. âYou hear that heartbeat?â He presses her hand to his chest. âItâs your metronome. Any time youâre scared, sync to it.â Her eyelids dip, a slow blink of trust, and the rooftop seems to inhale around them, old loss exhaling at last into something tender and new.
Footsteps scrape at the service-door landing, and you pause, sudden, breathless, an uninvited guest at a private sunrise. For a moment you only watch: Jaeminâs broad shoulders curved protectively, Sunshine half-dozing against the steady rise and fall of his ribs. The picture is so raw with devotion you almost retreat, but the idea burning your tongue refuses to be swallowed back. You clear your throat; the sound flutters like a nervous bird. Jaemin looks over, one eyebrow lifted. âWhy are you up here?â His tone is neutral, but the hand on Sunshineâs back tightens, territorial.
âIâwellâsorry,â you start, words tangling. You look ridiculous, an inner voice hisses, but you soldier on. âI couldnât sleep. I kept thinking about the name we keep calling her, the name on her chart. Sunshine is a lovely name, truly, but maybe not her forever, and it suddenly felt important to me that she has a real name, something chosen, not inherited from circumstance.â Your pulse thrums; Sunshine peers at you, thumb halfway to her mouth. You inhale. âSo I made a list, actually several lists. I looked up meanings, syllables, and cultural roots. I wanted something gentle but strong, something that carries light the way she does.â Still no interruption so you forge ahead.
Second paragraph of ramble: âI narrowed it down to names that mean grace, or dawn, or salvation because thatâs what she is, isnât she? Grace for all of us, dawn after the ugliest night, proof that survival can be soft. I kept circling one in particular: Haeunâ hae for sun, eun for grace. It feels like brightness but also depth.â Your voice wobbles; you clutch the notebook youâd carried like evidence. âAnd it sounds musical when you whisper itâtry it, the vowel slides like a lullaby. I donât want to overstep and I made an entire list so you can see if you like any more, because, well, you should decide, obviously, but I wanted to offer it before the paperwork finalizes.â
âI know Sunshine isnât wrong, sheâll always be sunshine but children grow and maybe one day sheâll want a name that fits on school forms and passports, something that still holds the light but also lets her be whoever she chooses beyond this rooftop story. Haeun does that. And if you like, Sunshine could stay her nickname, a secret code between all of us who knew her first.â You exhale, cheeks burning, gaze fixed on the note pad rather than his unreadable eyes. Silence stretches; only the whir of rooftop vents and the faint click of IV tubing sway. Then Jaemin lowers his chin, looks down at the baby blinking up at him as if awaiting her own verdict. He whispers the syllables onceââHa-eunââtesting shape and sound. Sunshine coos, a pleased gurgle, and pats his chest like a seal of approval. Something eases in his shoulders; he kisses her hairline. âNa Haeun,â he says again, fuller this time, letting the consonants anchor against his surname. A soft, incredulous smile cracks through the fatigue. âI like it.â
He gathers her under his chin, bunching the sunflower blanket until its yarn presses a soft sunflower seam between them, and shifts so that dawnâs first blade of gold slices over the horizon and crowns them in trembling light. The rooftop inhales, petals quiver, air tastes of tin and morning dew and suddenly the hum of generators, the drone of distant traffic, the courtroom thunder that waits below all fall away. Only three pulses remain: his, heavy as cathedral bells; hers, quick as sparrow wings; yours, somewhere between, stitching the moment closed.
He lowers his forehead to hers, skin to skin, sunrise to sunrise and lets her name float out on a breath like pollen: Haeun. The sound drifts upward, latching to the breeze, a firefly syllable that makes even concrete feel fertile. Calendula heads turn as though summoned; shadow pulls back from the parapet like a curtain, and the city beyond seems to pause, leaning in to eavesdrop on the vow wound inside that single word. There will be gavels and ink, families fractured into legal shards, nights when fear scratches at the door louder than lullabies. But none of that exists in this sliver of honey-lit stillness. Here, a father plants his heartbeat in a childâs ear. Here, a baby tucks her fist into the fabric of his collar as if anchoring dawn itself. Here, a witness stands one pace away, feeling the earth tilt just enough for hope to spill forward like warm milk. As long as the horizon keeps leaking gold, you hold your place in an impossible orbit: Haeun, newborn sun, pulsing warm against your collar; Jaemin, once a planet of stone, now lit from the inside by her fire; and you, the steady moon that keeps their tides from tearing loose. Together you rise above the waking city like a brand-new constellationâthree bright points soldered by miracleâburning the nightâs leftover ghosts into pliant, honey-soft clay, ready to be shaped into whatever tomorrow you dare to build.
comment to be added to the tag list. two more parts coming.
authorâs note
surprise !!! to my back to you loversâdid you catch that name reveal at the end? and what did you think of haeunâs tragic, tangled backstory? sheâs always been more than just a hospital legend or a little miracle in a yellow dressâsheâs got her own storm, her own origin, and her own kind of magic. i hope this chapter made you ache for her even more, because she needs all the love you can give her. sheâs our sunshine, our ballerina, our little magic bubba. :((( just so you knowâthis isnât the end. not even close. the fic will have at least three parts (possibly more if you all yell loud enough), and yes, i promise the slow burn between mc and jaemin is about to catch fire. if you felt the ache and the longing in this part, buckle in: itâs only going to get more intense from here. their story is just starting, and i canât wait to share it with you. it was wrong if i made mc or jaemin fuck in this chapter considering the main events, plus she may be a virgin so !!!! yeah next chapters about to be very interesting
now, if you made it this far, iâd love it if you left me a comment, reblog, or even a like. i read every single one and they mean so much to meâitâs genuinely the best way to let me know what moved you, what you loved, or even what broke your heart. writing is a little lonely sometimes, it always takes me restless nights, and hearing from you makes it all feel worthwhile, like sharing a secret or lighting a candle for these characters. so donât be shy! every little note is treasured and makes me want to keep going. thank you for reading, and for loving these messy, magical people with me. <3
taglist â @yukisroom97 @fancypeacepersona @jaeminnanaaa17 @shiningnono @junrenjun @honeybeehorizon @neotannies @noorabora @oppabochim @chenlesfeetpic @kynessa @awktwurtle @euphormiia @hi00000234527 @yvvnii @sunwoosberrie @ppeachyttae @dee-zennie @ballsackzz101 @neonaby @kukkurookkoo @antifrggile @dedandelion @fymine @zoesruby @yoonohswife @jessga @markerloi @ryuhannaworld @yasminetrappy @sunghoonsgfreal @jaemjeno @lovetaroandtaemin @yunhoswrldddd @dowoonwoodealer @enhalovie @jenzyoit @sunseteternal @dewyspace @markiesfatbooty @raysofpolaris @sunseteternal @oppabochim @markerloi @xiuriii
Salma Deera, "Salt"
it be lik tha
atz as thirst instagram dmâs
bom note: i used google translate for hjâs part im sorry. also i genuinely canât stop laughing at ys its literally the entire reason i made this post

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DRAPED IN ARROGANCE | J.Yunho
âYou werenât just wearing my designs, you were wearing me.â
Pairing: Designer!Jeong Yunho x Model!Fem.Reader
Word Count: 14,473 words Reading Time: 52-ish mins
Trope: Enemies to Lovers kind of- | Workplace Tension | Designer x Muse | He Falls First And Hard
Genre: Angst | Romance | Fashion Industry AU | Slow Burn
Warnings: Gossip, bullying, class divide, touch-starved tension, emotional trauma, mild alcohol use, mentions of attempted murder (non-graphic), NO PROOF READING WAS DONE.
Synopsis: You crash an invite-only fashion casting. He stops the show. Picks you. The industry whispers that youâre his obsession. He says itâs just business. But when touch turns to tension, and jealousy turns to warâ Youâll either become his greatest masterpiece⌠or the muse that ruins him.
Note: For the girls whoâve ever been told they donât belongâthis one if for you. For the ones who walk like a storm, speak like they mean it, and still get called âtoo muchââthis one is stitched for you.
1.2k followers special <3
The air in the cavernous studio was a thick, palpable hum of ambition and barely contained nerves. It wasn't just the scent of new fabric and expensive perfumes; it was the unspoken desperation of a hundred dreams crammed into one room. An elite, invite-only casting, the kind that legends were made from, or careers were quietly extinguished. And you? You were an anomaly, a rogue element in this carefully curated ecosystem, a rookie with no real business being there, yet somehow, you were.
You strode in, not with the demure, practiced grace of the models who had been groomed for this moment since childhood, but with a raw, almost feral energy. Each step was a statement, a ripple of defiance in a perfectly still, perfectly polished pond. Your head wasnât tilted in an apology or a plea for acceptance; it was held high, a banner of your untamed spirit. You knew you stuck out, felt the sidelong glances and the faint whispers that followed your unauthorized passage. They were sizing you up, dissecting your every move, but you met their stares with a cool indifference that bordered on disdain. You weren't here to make friends. You were here to walk.
Then, the atmosphere shifted. A palpable wave of anticipation, a sudden hush that swallowed the nervous chatter. He entered the space. Yunho. The name itself was a whisper of power, a reverberation of success and unyielding control. He was everything the industry deemed perfect: sharp angles, an intimidating presence, and eyes that missed nothing. They weren't just observing; they were dissecting, analyzing, calculating. And then, those eyes landed on you.
The world seemed to narrow, the periphery fading into a blur. His gaze, cold and assessing, fixed solely on you, a stark spotlight in a room full of flickering possibilities. He didn't just look; he consumed, absorbing every nuance of your posture, the subtle curve of your lips, the defiant set of your jaw. And then, he did the unthinkable. He brought the entire audition to a standstill. The music faded, the murmur of voices died, leaving only the deafening silence punctuated by the soft click of cameras.
Confusion, thick and immediate, rippled through the room like a tangible force. Heads swiveled, whispers like silk ribbons unfurled, imbued with a mixture of bewilderment and barely concealed resentment: Who is she? Why her? What just happened? You could feel their frustration, their carefully constructed poise cracking under the unexpected halt. But you didn't flinch. You just met his gaze, an unyielding challenge in your own eyes.
Yunhoâs voice cut through the murmurs, perfectly polite yet infused with a chilling cruelty that made the air itself seem to thin. "The rest of you," his words resonated through the vast space, each one a precise, devastating incision, "are mannequins. She walks like war."
A collective gasp, stifled quickly by the sheer force of his presence. The words hung in the air, a declaration that simultaneously elevated you and annihilated everyone else. Mannequins. Lifeless. Impersonal. Disposable. And then, you, walking like war. It was a compliment, undeniably, but delivered with the detached precision of a surgeon.
You couldn't help it. A subtle, almost imperceptible roll of your eyes was your immediate, involuntary response. A direct, unvarnished challenge to his pronouncement, to his power, to his very perception of you. The clash was instant, undeniable. It was as if two opposing forces had collided, sparks flying in the silent room.
He saw it, of course. That flicker of defiance in your gaze, the slight twitch at the corner of your lips. He was annoyed by your attitude, you could sense it radiating off him, a tightly coiled tension beneath his composed exterior. But it was precisely that unbridled spirit, that audacity, that shaped your walk, the way you carried yourself. It wasn't about perfection; it was about presence. It was about impact. You weren't just moving across a floor; you were claiming the space, demanding attention, igniting a reaction.
You were the one who could command a runway, leave jaws on the floor, render an audience breathless. You were the one the industry would kill to have as their model, the elusive quality that every designer chased. And there was no way in hell he was letting you walk out of this room without being his. He saw the fire in your eyes, the unwavering confidence that bordered on arrogance. He saw the potential for greatness, not just in your movements, but in the sheer force of your personality.
That raw, untamed essence was the very reason he would even bother handling you. You were a project, a challenge, a potential goldmine. It was business, after all. A highly calculated, exceptionally profitable business venture. Or was it something else? A flicker of something unreadable crossed his face, a momentary crack in the polished facade. A recognition, perhaps, of a kindred spirit, a mirror of his own relentless drive. But it was quickly masked, relegated to the realm of the unspoken. For now, it was strictly business. And as you held his gaze, a quiet battle raging between you, you knew this was just the beginning.
The vast studio, a crucible of ambition and cutthroat competition, now felt like a gilded cage. The initial shock of Yunhoâs chilling pronouncementâthat you âwalked like warâ while others were mere mannequinsâhad solidified into the stark, unyielding reality of training. It was brutal, an endless cycle of grueling rehearsals and meticulous fittings where fabric was stretched and pinned with surgical precision. Other models, once poised and seemingly unbreakable, often ended their days in quiet despair, their confidence chipped away by Yunhoâs relentless pursuit of perfection.
Yet, with you, it was glaringly different. He was weirdly calm, a stark contrast to the storm he unleashed on everyone else. His instructions to you were delivered with a quiet intensity, his gaze steady, almost expectant, as if he saw something unique within you that others lacked. You found yourself arguing back, a natural reflex to his calculated demands, challenging his directives, questioning his methods. And to your surprise, he listened, sometimes even engaging in a quiet, intellectual sparring match that left other models baffled and envious.
This unusual dynamic, however, did not go unnoticed. The other models, a tightly wound coil of simmering insecurities and cutthroat ambition, observed your every interaction. At first, it was barely audible murmurs, like the rustle of expensive fabrics. Then, it escalated to outright backbiting like crazy, their voices dripping with a saccharine sweetness that masked potent venom. They spun elaborate rumors, painting you as a calculating opportunist, a schemer who had somehow, inexplicably, earned Yunhoâs favor through illicit means. The most persistent, and perhaps the most infuriating, was the insinuation that you were âsleeping with the head himself.â Theyâd goad you, making snide comments just loud enough for you to overhearâremarks about âshortcuts to the topâ or âspecial treatment.â Theyâd try to bully you when Yunho wasn't around, their tactics ranging from âaccidentallyâ bumping into you in the halls to subtly sabotaging your props during rehearsals.
But did you let it affect you? No. A cold, quiet rage often settled in your gut. You knew these whispers, these petty acts, meant nothing to your ultimate goal. They were the desperate thrashings of those who couldn't comprehend or replicate the raw spark that had caught Yunhoâs eye. You were here for business, a singular, unwavering focus that acted as your shield. And you believed Yunho meant the same. He was a visionary, a perfectionist, driven by an ambition as ruthless as your own. You were his tool, his muse, his latest project. Nothing more.
Seven months in, the relentless grind, coupled with the incessant, festering rumors, began to take its toll. The whispers had become a constant hum in your ears, a background noise that never truly faded. The isolation, enforced by the other modelsâ disdain, became a heavy cloak you wore daily. You were excelling, pushing the boundaries of what a model could do, mastering every walk, every expression. But every success, every hard-won compliment, felt tainted by the unspoken accusations, by the knowledge of the poisoned atmosphere that surrounded you. It was a suffocating weight, an invisible barrier between you and the world, and it was getting worse and WORSE day by day. You felt your resolve fraying, the steel in your spine beginning to bend. You were on the brink, ready to throw in the towel, to walk away from the very thing you had fought so hard to be a part of. The frustration was compounded by the fact that Yunho had no concrete proof of the bullying, and neither did you. It was a shadowy war of whispers, glances, and calculated omissions, impossible to pin down, impossible to confront directly.
One evening, after a particularly grueling rehearsal that had stretched late into the night, the vast studio finally began to empty. You lingered, gathering your belongings slowly, the desire to escape the building warring with the profound exhaustion that had settled deep in your bones. The last few models hurried out, their footsteps echoing before fading into silence. You were alone, or so you thought. Suddenly, Yunho was there, his presence filling the vast, quiet space, his back to the door, effectively blocking your exit. He hadn't made a sound.
You had requested for wanting to quit, knowing yunho wouldn't take it well. Especially since it was cause of the other people.
He cornered you, not physically, but with the sheer intensity of his gaze, an almost magnetic pull that held you in place. His voice, when it finally broke the silence, was low, stripped of its usual polite cruelty, replaced by a raw, almost impatient edge.
âYou think I chose you for your politeness?â His words were not a question, but a challenge, an accusation that cut through your exhaustion. He was testing you, pushing, as he always did.
Your frustration, seven months of bottled-up anger and hurt, of relentless striving under a cloud of suspicion, finally erupted. The words tumbled out, sharp and uncontrolled, laced with the bitterness that had been simmering beneath the surface. âNo,â you hissed, the word cutting through the quiet like a whip. âYou chose me because I make your ego hard.â The audacity of the statement, the brutal honesty, hung in the air, a volatile charge.
The first tension crackled between you, an almost audible sizzle in the charged atmosphere. His eyes, usually so guarded, widened imperceptibly, a flash of surprise, perhaps even a flicker of grudging admiration, crossing their depths. He stiffened, his jaw clenching almost imperceptibly, as if your words had struck a nerve he didn't realize was exposed. Yours, blazing with defiance, met his without a single flinch, refusing to back down from the raw truth you had just laid bare. The eye contact lingered, stretching for what felt like an eternity, far too long for a boss and his employee, too long for mere colleagues. In that prolonged, silent stare, something fundamental shifted. It was a silent acknowledgment of a connection that transcended the professional, a dangerous, undeniable current that had been building beneath the surface for months. It was the first undeniable tremor, a significant crack in the carefully constructed façade of business, revealing a glimpse of something far more complex, far more personal, and potentially far more dangerous than either of you had anticipated.
He broke the gaze first, though his eyes still tracked you, a subtle shift in his posture suggesting a battle within. He took a slow, deliberate breath, his chest rising and falling. âAnd what does that imply, exactly?â he finally asked, his voice now dangerously low, each word weighted with an unspoken challenge. âThat my choices are driven by something so⌠base? So easily satisfied?â
You scoffed, a short, sharp sound that conveyed all your contempt for his carefully maintained illusion. âIt implies you chose me because I give you a thrill, a challenge. Because Iâm not a mannequin, as you so eloquently put it. Iâm a war you canât quite win, and that excites you.â Your voice had dropped too, matching his intensity, a quiet ferocity that belied your exhaustion. âIt implies Iâm a disruption youâre obsessed with controlling, because you canât stand not being in absolute command.â
His eyes narrowed, a flicker of something almost akin to amusement in their depths, quickly extinguished. âControl is essential in this industry. Chaos leads to ruin.â
âAnd Iâm chaos, arenât I?â you retorted, stepping closer, your own anger finally giving way to a weary clarity. âIâm the rumor mill, the one they hate because you show me an ounce of respect. The one they say is âsleeping her way to the topâ because you donât scream at me like you do everyone else.â Your voice cracked slightly on the last words, the weight of the past months momentarily crushing your defiance. You hated showing weakness, especially to him.
A muscle ticked in his jaw. He studied you, his gaze sweeping over your face as if searching for something, some hidden vulnerability. âAre these accusations bothering you?â His tone was almost gentle, a softness that was more unsettling than his usual harshness. âIs that why youâre ready to break?â
The question hung in the air, a direct hit to your most vulnerable point. You wanted to deny it, to put on a brave face, but the exhaustion was too profound, the emotional toll too heavy. You just stared at him, your eyes welling slightly, not with tears of sadness, but of pure, unadulterated frustration. âWhat proof do you have?â you finally whispered, your voice hoarse. âWhat proof do I have? They donât leave notes, Yunho. They leave glances, whispers, âaccidents.â Itâs a poison that you canât see, but itâs suffocating.â
He took a step closer, his shadow falling over you, momentarily enveloping you. The air between you was thick with unspoken truths. âAnd you think quitting solves anything?â he challenged, his voice regaining its sharp edge. âThat you can outrun their pathetic jealousy? You think this industry will suddenly become kind just because you step out of my orbit?â
âNo,â you hissed, the fight returning, your voice regaining its steel. âBut maybe I can breathe. Maybe I can find a place where Iâm not a trophy, not a project, not a symbol of your ego.â
His eyes locked onto yours again, the raw intensity back in full force. He reached out, his hand hovering for a second, then he clenched it into a fist, dropping it back to his side. It was a micro-expression, a momentary lapse in his control, but you saw it. He wanted to touch you, to offer comfort, or perhaps to exert control.
âYou think I donât see it?â His voice was barely a whisper now, resonant with a surprising depth of emotion. âThe way they look at you, the things they say. I see it all. Do you think Iâm blind to how youâre treated? You think I tolerate it?â His eyes narrowed, a dangerous glint in them. âI protect whatâs mine. Even if whatâs mine is stupid enough to think it isnât.â
The words hit you like a physical blow. âProtect whatâs yours?â You laughed, a hollow, bitter sound that conveyed all your contempt. âI am not yours, Yunho. I am not an object, a fucking marketing piece for your collection. I am an employee, and this is business.â The defiance was back, stronger than ever. âAnd as your employee, Iâm done.â
You turned, the exhaustion and the anger finally propelling you towards the door he had once blocked. You would walk out, you decided, and you wouldn't look back. You would reclaim your breath, your sanity, even if it meant sacrificing the dream you had fought so hard to achieve.
He let you go. The silence behind you was deafening. But as you reached the door, you heard itâa faint, almost imperceptible sound of his jaw clenching, hard enough to bruise. You couldn't see him, but you knew. He was standing there, rigid, his composure fracturing in the quiet aftermath of your fight. He knew you were something way more than just an employee, more than a marketing piece, more than a âwarâ he wanted to control. He kept telling himself you were nothing to him, just a business decision. But the tightness in his chest, the unexpected fury that flared when you spoke of leaving, told a different story.
You walked out into the cool night air, the city lights a blur. That night, the two of you didn't meet, though y'll had come face to face you chose to walk past him.
---
The fitting room was a sanctuary of soft light and hushed fabrics, a stark contrast to the usual controlled chaos of the studio. Yet, even here, the air was thick with an unspoken charge. You stood on the platform, clad in a design that was both breathtaking and unnervingly revealing. It was a gown of rich, dark silk, molded to your form, but its most striking feature was the entirely backless piece, a plunging cut that exposed every curve of your spine, ending just at the rise of your hips. The dress clung to you like a second skin, intimate in its design, demanding absolute stillness and confidence.
A junior assistant had initially been fussing with the hem, but then Yunho appeared, a silent, commanding presence at the edge of your vision. He dismissed the assistant with a curt gesture, his gaze already locked onto the shimmering fabric. He held a handful of pins, their metallic gleam reflecting the soft light.
There was no one else in the room now, just the two of you. The quiet of the fitting room amplified every subtle soundâthe whisper of silk as he moved, the soft click of a pin being placed. He knelt slowly, his proximity immediate and intense. You could feel the warmth radiating from him, the subtle scent of his cologne, sharp and clean, invading your space.
He began to adjust the hem himself, his fingers deft, precise, tracing the line of the fabric against your skin. His concentration was absolute, his brow furrowed in a way that suggested the dress was the only thing that mattered in the universe. But for you, the intimacy was overwhelming. Each small adjustment brought his hand closer, his breath ghosting against the sensitive skin of your lower back. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, punctuated only by your own shallow breath and the soft, almost imperceptible touch of his fingers against the silk.
Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage. You could feel your body tensing, a nervous energy building beneath your skin. It wasn't just the cool air; it was a flash of heat, a sudden, unexpected jolt that shot through you as his hand brushed against your bare skin, a fleeting contact as he smoothed the fabric.
You caught his eye in the vast, antique mirror positioned directly in front of you. His gaze was already there, reflected back, dark and intense. It was a locked stare, a silent acknowledgment of the charged current between you. There was no pretense, no business façade in his eyes now; only a raw, almost predatory focus that mirrored the turmoil in your own chest.
His voice, when it came, was a low whisper, almost a murmur against your bare back, sending shivers down your spine. âStop shaking,â he commanded, his tone sharp, but laced with an undeniable intimacy. âIt ruins the structure.â
Your breath hitched. Stop shaking? The audacity. You werenât shaking because of the dress, but because of him, because of this unnerving proximity, this unwanted awareness that sparked between you. Anger, hot and sudden, flared through the nervous energy. You bit back, your voice a low, furious whisper that barely left your lips. âThen stop touching me like that.â
The words hung in the air, a direct challenge, an accusation. The tension in the room coiled tighter, reaching an almost unbearable pitch. He straightened slowly, his movements deliberate, his eyes still locked with yours in the mirror. For a moment, you thought he might say something, might retort, might even physically step back. But he said nothing. He simply held your gaze for another beat, then turned, a swift, almost violent movement.
The door slammed shut behind him, the sharp crack echoing in the suddenly empty space. You were left alone on the platform, still and rigid, the silk of the dress now feeling like a suffocating vice. You pressed a hand to your chest, your heart still racing, your breath caught in your throat. He had left you breathless, not just from the unexpected intimacy, but from the sheer force of his presence, the unnerving power he held over you.
The runway lights were blinding, a blazing tunnel of white that swallowed the buzzing anticipation of the crowd. You could feel the tremor of the bass from the music, a low thrumming that resonated through the floor. This time, you weren't the show opener, the coveted first spot. That had gone to one of the models who had been whispering behind your back. You were the 2nd one to walk, a significant position nonetheless, carrying the weight of the opening collectionâs first impressions.
As you stepped onto the runway, you carried yourself with an almost exaggerated care, each movement precise, measured. The memory of the fitting, of his proximity, of your desperate whisper, still haunted you, a lingering heat on your skin. You were acutely aware of the backless gown, its daring cut, its vulnerable expanse. You felt his eyes on you, somewhere in the dark, watching, always watching. You tried to channel the anger, the frustration, the sheer defiance you felt towards him, towards the industry, into your walk, turning potential weakness into fierce strength.
The crowd was a blur of faces, a sea of cameras flashing. You moved through the kaleidoscope of light, your expression carefully neutral, focused on the end of the runway, on the turn, on making every pose count. And then, it happened. A sudden, terrifying tug. A rip.
A gasp went through the front row. Your mind registered it instantly: a wardrobe malfunction. A seam had given way, or a delicate thread had snapped, and the backless gown, already clinging precariously, shifted, threatening to expose you to the hundreds of eyes fixed upon you. Panic, cold and sharp, threatened to surge. This was it. The moment they had all been waiting for. The rookieâs spectacular downfall.
But in that split second, something clicked. The anger, the defiance, the very âwarâ Yunho had seen in you, took over. You didn't falter. You didn't stop. With a grace that belied the internal storm, you subtly, almost imperceptibly, shifted your weight, angling your body just so, twisting your pose into something new, something unplanned. Your arm, which was meant to be elegantly extended, came up to cover the revealing gap, turning what would have been a disaster into an intentional, powerful gesture. Your head tilted, a silent dare in your eyes. It looked like part of the choreography, a sudden, bold innovation in the walk.
A ripple went through the crowd, not of horror, but of fascination. Murmurs turned into appreciative gasps. The flashes intensified. You hadn't just recovered; you had transformed the mistake into a moment of pure, unadulterated artistry. You handled it with grace, with a raw, improvisational brilliance that defied expectation.
As you completed your walk, the applause was thunderous, louder, more enthusiastic than for any model before you. You hadn't just recovered from a wardrobe malfunction; you had stolen the show. The audience, the critics, the industry, they had witnessed something unexpected, something truly captivating. You had turned a moment of potential humiliation into your triumph, etching your presence into the collective memory of Fashion Week. And somewhere in the dark, you knew, Yunho would have seen it all.
The tension from your last confrontation with Yunho, the sting of words exchanged and the unresolved emotions, still clung to you, a silent hum beneath your skin. You had left his text on âseen,â a small, defiant act, but it hadnât quelled the turmoil churning within. Three weeks of quiet had passed since that charged exchange, yet the sharp bite of his words and the unsettling intimacy of that final argument lingered like a phantom touch. Now, the preparations for Milan Fashion Week were in full swing, demanding your presence back in his orbit, forcing a proximity you weren't sure you were ready for.
The air backstage for the Seoul collection launch was a chaotic symphony of nervous energy, hairspray fumes, and the rustle of expensive fabrics. Assistants scurried, designers barked last-minute adjustments, and the rhythmic beat of the runway music vibrated through the floorboards. But beneath it all, a more insidious sound permeated the atmosphere: gossip. It slithered through the dressing rooms, echoed in the cramped corridors, and clung to the air like a noxious perfume. Your unexpected triumph at the previous show, your sheer defiance in the face of a wardrobe malfunction, far from silencing your detractors, had only fueled their venom.
âSheâs sleeping with the head himself, why would he be calm with only her otherwise?â The question, posed in hushed tones, was a constant refrain, a toxic mantra that followed you like a shadow. You felt their eyes on you, sharp and appraising, whenever you moved. A few models, eyes narrowed with disdain, openly spoke about how you âbelonged to a middle-class family,â a thinly veiled insult meant to highlight your perceived lack of pedigree, to mark you as an outsider in their opulent world. Others huddled close, their voices dropping just enough for you to overhear their pointed remarks about how you âwerenât fit enough to be here,â how you were a âfluke,â a ânobodyâ who had gotten lucky, or worse, used underhanded tactics. Each word was a tiny pinprick, designed to undermine, to chip away at your carefully constructed composure. You ignored them, focusing on the meticulous routine of pre-show prep, but the constant barrage was a silent assault on your sanity, leaving you feeling drained and perpetually on edge.
This show was crucial. Yunhoâs rival, his stepbrother, Jeong Yongjae, was also releasing a collection today, a direct head-to-head competition for industry dominance that had been simmering for years. Yunho had always loathed Yongjae, a mutual hatred that festered like an open wound between them. Yongjae was known to be a snake, cunning and utterly ruthless, willing to go to any extent for Yunhoâs downfall. The stakes were higher than ever, and Yunho, ever the meticulous strategist, had made a rare deviation from his usual aloofness, coming backstage to check on all the models, ensuring every element was flawless. His presence cast a long, imposing shadow, his eyes scanning for the slightest imperfection.
As he moved through the buzzing area, his sharp ears, accustomed to picking up every nuanced sound, caught a snippet of conversation. A voice, dripping with saccharine condescension, pierced through the din. âHonestly, I donât know what Yunho sees in her. Sheâs so⌠provincial. Doesnât even know how to properly hold her hand on the runway. Probably just good at other things to get his attention.â The words, clearly directed at you, hung in the air like a putrid stench. Yunho froze, his already cold demeanor dropping several degrees. He recognized the voice as belonging to one of his top models, a woman known for her icy perfection and sharp tongue. His eyes, now glinting with a dangerous light, swept over the model, taking in her meticulously styled hair and flawless makeup.
He approached her, his steps silent, his presence a sudden, chilling void in the surrounding chaos. Without a word, he reached out, his fingers surprisingly gentle as he brushed against her elaborate hair, then, with a swift, decisive motion, he pulled a handful of pins, causing a cascade of perfectly coiffed waves to collapse around her face. He then swept his hand across her face, his thumb smearing her dramatic winged eyeliner into a black, messy smudge, ruining the pristine artistry. âYour look,â he stated, his voice calm, terrifyingly so, devoid of any anger, yet radiating absolute power, âis destroyed.â He turned to a bewildered assistant. âGet her off the show. Now. Sheâs a distraction. Unprofessional.â The model gasped, her face crumbling in horror as tears welled in her eyes. She tried to protest, to stammer out an apology, but Yunho was already turning away, leaving a stunned silence in his wake, a clear message delivered without a single raised voice.
You heard about it minutes later, a breathless assistant recounting the scene, eyes wide with shock and fear. A cold fury, mixed with a strange, unsettling flutter in your chest, surged through you. He had defended you. But how? And why? You didn't want to be defended this way, didn't want to be the cause of someone else's public humiliation. You found him near the stage entrance, his back to you, watching the technicians, an inscrutable monument of composure amidst the frantic energy.
You confronted him, your voice sharp, laced with indignation. âWhat was that? What did you do to her?â
He turned, his expression unreadable, his gaze unwavering. âI took care of a problem.â
âA problem?â you scoffed, stepping closer, your hands clenched at your sides. âYou humiliated her. Because of me. Because of some stupid gossip.â You didnât want to be the reason for such a public spectacle, especially not by his hand. You felt exposed, vulnerable, despite his supposed âprotection.â
His eyes narrowed, a flicker of something possessive in their depths that sent an uncomfortable shiver down your spine. âI protect whatâs mineâeven if itâs stupid enough to think it isnât.â His voice was low, a dangerous rumble that bypassed your ears and went straight to your gut, demanding compliance. Those damn words again. He was like a robot constantly repeating the same shit over and over again. And you wanted to keep reminding him that you are a human not an object.
The words struck you like a physical blow. Whatâs mine? It instantly overshadowed any fleeting warmth you might have felt at his intervention. It annoyed her how he treated her as an object, a fucking marketing piece, a prize to be defended, stripped of her agency. You werenât his. You were your own. âI am not yours!â you practically spat, your voice trembling with a mixture of anger and a sudden, aching hurt. âI am not some possession to be âprotected.â I am an employee, Yunho. A person! How many times do I need to remind you!â
This was your second fight , real and raw, stripping away the thin veneer of professionalism you both clung to. The air crackled between you, thick with unspoken accusations and desires. He took a step towards you, his jaw clenching, but you stood your ground, refusing to be intimidated. "This was just business," he stated, his voice regaining its icy, controlled edge, as if he were trying to convince himself as much as you. "You are MY employee. Nothing more. You have a contract. Don't forget that."
His words, meant to reinforce boundaries, felt like a deliberate slap, designed to cut you down to size. Just business. He let you go, but you saw it, the flicker of something raw in his eyesâa mixture of frustration, confusion, and a hint of a pain he quickly suppressed. You heard the almost imperceptible strain in his jaw as he clenched it hard enough to bruise. He knew, in that gut-wrenching moment, that you were something way more than just an employee, more than a marketing piece, more than a âwarâ he wanted to control. You were becoming something unsettlingly vital. But he kept telling himself you weren't anything to him, clinging to the cold logic of business as a lifeline against emotions he wasnât ready to face.
You turned, your body rigid with suppressed fury, and stormed out, leaving him standing there in the midst of the backstage chaos. You wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing you break. You wouldn't let his casual dismissal reduce you to nothing. You would show him, and everyone else, that you were more than "his."
When it was your turn to walk the runway, you were a force of nature unleashed. The backless gown, once a source of vulnerability, now felt like a defiant armor..... A new backless dress of the collection. You moved with more sass than ever, your hips swaying with a confident swagger, your head held high. Your eyes were sharp, cutting through the blinding lights, meeting the gaze of the audience with an almost feral intensity that dared anyone to look away. You threw in new poses, which wasn't scripted and Yunho wasn't awareâa sudden, unexpected twist of your torso, a dramatic pause, a powerful pivot that demanded attention, a subtle smirk playing on your lips. It was a walk born of pure defiance, a silent scream against his attempts to categorize and control you. The audience roared, their cheers and applause erupting into a frenzy. It just made fans more happy, their delighted gasps and eager camera flashes confirming your impact. You turned heads, for sure this time. You were not just a model; you were a statement, a revolution in motion.
That night, for the first time since you started working together, the two of you didn't meet.... well..didn't even look at each other. The studio remained silent, empty of your usual late-night conversations. It hit Yunho the most. He was alone in his office, the adrenaline from the show fading, replaced by a hollow ache that gnawed at him. He knew he should be celebrating his success, but all he could taste was the bitterness of your parting words. It was your birthday. He remembered now, with a gut-wrenching pang of guilt. You had never announced your birthday, hating all the unnecessary attention, but you had told him, in some random, unguarded conversation months ago. He had even planned to do a little something, a small, private âsleepoverâ celebration, a casual night with movies and takeout, because you had grown closer, real good friends, in those odd, intense hours. But in the madness of preparing for the show, for his rivalry with Yongjae, he had forgotten. And then, he had dismissed you, dismissed everything between you, as âstupid business.â The words tasted like ash in his mouth now, a lie he desperately wanted to believe but couldn't.
Three weeks off. Milan was next. Later that night, his phone buzzed with a message. He stared at it for a long moment, then typed, a desperate attempt at re-establishing the brittle professional facade: "Don't be late, Y/N."
Your phone buzzed beside your bed. You picked it up, staring at the screen, the words stark against the dark display. You felt a wave of cold resolve wash over you, solidifying the anger, the hurt, the feeling of being reduced to a mere asset. You didn't type a reply. You simply left him on seen. Let him wonder. Let him feel the silence. Let him drown in the business he so fiercely clung to.
The three weeks off were a quiet reprieve, a chance to breathe away from the suffocating pressure of Yunhoâs orbit and the venomous whispers of the other models. But the silence didn't quite erase the sting of your last fight, nor the biting memory of his dismissive "just business." You had left him on seen, a small act of defiance that had felt profoundly satisfying in the moment, but it couldn't alter the itinerary. Milan was next. The biggest stage, the most ruthless competition.
The air at Seoulâs Incheon International Airport was thick with the scent of coffee and hurried goodbyes, a stark contrast to the sterile, quiet fury that settled between you and Yunho. You spotted him across the bustling terminal, a magnetic, imposing figure even in civilian clothes. He saw you too, his eyes, usually so unreadable, flickering with an emotion you couldn't quite decipher before hardening into their familiar, cold mask. The boarding process was a blur, a series of efficient movements. You walked ahead, then behind, always maintaining a careful distance. The flight to Milan was silent. Utterly, painstakingly silent. The tension? Immaculate. It was a palpable force, thick and suffocating, filling the space between your seats, a silent scream of unresolved conflict. Neither of you spoke, neither of you dared to break the fragile truce, each lost in your own thoughts, the ghost of sharp words and unspoken desires hanging heavy in the pressurized cabin.
Upon arrival in Milan, the energy was frantic, a whirl of photographers and designers. The silence between you persisted, a stubborn barrier. Rehearsals began almost immediately, a blur of motion and pressure. On the final day of preparations, just hours before the show, Yunho approached you in a private fitting room. His expression was grave, his voice devoid of its usual detached calm, edged with an intensity that sent a shiver down your spine.
"You will wear the final gown," he stated, not a request, but a command.
You looked at the dress, hanging like a shimmering apparition on a mannequin. It was a masterpiece, breathtaking in its audacity, but also terrifying. The piece was scandalousâa delicate latticework of lace, revealing open sides that curved dramatically from your ribcage to your hips, leaving little to the imagination. The molded bodice was an architectural marvel, designed to cup and lift, accentuating every curve, leaving your figure almost entirely exposed yet meticulously sculpted. It was a gown that didn't just walk the line of decency; it obliterated it. It was daring, provocative, a statement of undeniable power.
You felt a surge of cold dread, a wave of panic. This wasnât just a dress; it was a challenge, a vulnerability. You had handled a malfunction with grace, but this was intentional, designed to expose. "Yunho," you started, your voice a shaky whisper, "I can't. It's tooâ"
He cut you off, his voice calm, but with an unwavering certainty that brooked no argument. "You can. And you will." He stepped closer, his gaze intense, piercing through your fear. "You don't wear this for the crowd. You wear it for me."
The words hung in the air, a raw, undeniable intimacy in their declaration. You looked at him, searching his eyes for explanation, for motive, but found only a resolute determination.
The dressing room moment was charged with an almost unbearable intimacy. You stood, rigid with apprehension, as he approached you with the gown. His hands, usually so precise with fabric, moved with an unexpected tenderness as he carefully positioned the delicate lace and the molded bodice against your body. You felt the brush of his fingers on your skin, a faint spark igniting where he touched. He reached behind you, his breath warm against your bare back, as he began to zip her in. The zipper slid slowly, meticulously, the sound amplified in the quiet room. Each inch it climbed, it encased you further in the daring garment, but also, paradoxically, in his presence.
You could feel the heat radiating from his body, the subtle scent of his cologne. Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic rhythm against the quiet precision of his movements. He finished, his hands lingering for a fraction of a second at your waist. His eyes, dark and unreadable, met yours in the mirror. âYou donât wear this for the crowd,â he repeated, his voice a low, resonant murmur, almost a private vow. âYou wear it for me.â It was a statement of ownership, of trust, of a shared secret.
The words ignited something deep within you. A fire, born of defiance and a strange, exhilarating sense of belonging. The fear melted away, replaced by a surge of pure, unadulterated power. You didn't just walk out onto that runway; you moved with the confidence of a queen, the grace of a predator. The scandalous gown, which minutes ago had felt like a cage, now felt like an extension of your own skin, a second, defiant armor.
You walked like a goddess. Each step was deliberate, commanding, your body a living sculpture in lace and silk. The open sides revealed glimpses of skin, the molded bodice accentuated your form, but it wasn't vulgar. It was artistry. You owned the scandalous nature of the dress, transforming it from provocation into profound beauty. The crowd gasped, then roared, their flashes a blinding supernova. You didn't just dominate the runway; you transcended it.
From the dark, shadowed recesses of the backstage area, he watched. Yunho. His eyes, usually sharp and critical, were now fixed, unblinking, on your form. He watched you move, a silent intensity consuming him, a silent acknowledgment of the masterpiece you had become under his gaze, for his vision. He watched you, and for the first time, the lines between business and something else blurred beyond recognition.
-----
The roar of the Milan Fashion Week crowd still echoed in your ears, a triumphant symphony that had crowned your performance. The scandalous gown, which had felt like a second skin on the runway, was now carefully packed away, but the electric current of adrenaline still thrummed through your veins, buzzing with an almost manic energy. The afterparty was an explosion of flashing lights, thumping music that vibrated through your bones, and champagne flutes clinking like a thousand tiny bells. You dove into it, a release valve after months of relentless pressure and a suffocating emotional turmoil with Yunho. You drank, freely and without thought, the bubbly liquid a sweet, effervescent escape that quickly began to loosen your inhibitions, blurring the sharp edges of your carefully maintained composure. You weren't a heavy drinker, and tonight, with the accumulated stress of the show and Yunho's unnerving intensity, your tolerance was even lower than usual. Soon, the room began to spin in a dizzying, pleasurable haze, the faces around you merging into a kaleidoscope of indistinct joy and blurred laughter. A reckless abandon, foreign yet exhilarating, took hold.
Across the crowded room, Yunho, a magnetic focal point even in the throng, moved with his usual quiet grace, a solitary king observing his court. He wasn't drinking, or at least, not indulging beyond a single, untouched glass of champagne. He was never one to lose control, his mind always sharp, always calculating, even amidst revelry. But his eyes, perpetually watchful, sought you out in the swirling mass of bodies. He saw the way your laughter grew louder, the way your head tilted back, the way your movements became just a little too fluid, a little too uninhibited. He knew you had a low tolerance for alcohol, a small, intimate detail heâd likely filed away with every other observation about you, a fact that now caused a subtle furrow in his brow. A flicker of something, perhaps concern, perhaps a more complex emotion, passed through his otherwise impassive gaze whenever you threw your head back in laughter or swayed a little too much to the music.
As the night wore on, the joyous buzz began to morph into something heavier. Your head grew warm and hazy, your movements less coordinated, your thoughts drifting in and out of focus. You were adrift in a sea of revelry, but a quiet, almost desperate need for something solid, something real amidst the glittering illusion, began to surface. Suddenly, Yunho was there, materializing beside you like a silent shadow in the pulsating light. His presence, even in your muddled state, was a strange, immediate grounding force, cutting through the alcohol-induced fog.
"You've had enough," he stated, his voice low, a command rather than a suggestion, his gaze steady and unwavering. "I'm leaving. I'll give you a ride."
Too drunk to argue, too tired to resist, and too emotionally spent to care about propriety, you nodded, swaying slightly. The thought of a quiet exit, away from the pounding music and flashing lights, was surprisingly appealing, a siren song promising stillness. He led you out of the thrumming party, his hand resting lightly, almost possessively, on the small of your back, guiding you through the thinning crowds, his touch a silent, electric current you were too numb to fully process.
The Milan night air was cool and crisp, a welcome shock to your system that momentarily cleared your head before the warmth of the alcohol rushed back. The ride in his sleek, silent car was a blur of city lights and the soft, almost hypnotic hum of the engine. You were too far gone to direct him, and honestly, you didn't much care where you were going. You just wanted stillness, a place to land, a moment of reprieve from the constant emotional warfare. So it was no surprise when the car pulled up to a grand, anonymous buildingâhis Milan apartment, an extension of his own austere, perfect aesthetic.
He helped you out, his arm supporting you as you stumbled slightly on the curb. The elevator ride up was silent, the tension between you thick enough to cut with a knife, even through your alcohol-induced haze. Once inside his spacious, minimalist apartment, the silence amplified, wrapping around you both. The sprawling living space, with its clean lines and expensive, understated furnishings, felt vast and strangely intimate. You stood awkwardly in the center of the room, feeling the dizzying effects of the alcohol finally begin to recede, replaced by a raw, unvarnished clarity that only truly drunk people ever experience, a stark mirror to your deepest, most suppressed feelings.
You turned to him, your gaze unwavering, even if your balance was still precarious. The soft glow of the city lights filtering through the tall windows cast long shadows around him, making him seem even more imposing, more unattainable. You had so many questions, so much unspoken anger and hurt, fueled by the champagne that had stripped away your usual filters, leaving you exposed and unafraid.
âStill think I donât belong in your world,â you slurred, your voice thick but firm, each word a desperate challenge, âor is this still business, Jeong fucking Yunho?â With that, a dizzy spell hit, your foot catching on nothing, and he, with a flash of quick reflexes born of instinct, catches you.
His hands shot out, grabbing your waist carefully, steadying you. Your body pressed against his, the unexpected contact sending a jolt through you, igniting a dangerous spark that even your drunken state couldnât entirely dampen. The heat of his body radiated against yours, a shocking warmth that bypassed your skin and went straight to your core. You looked up at him, your eyes unfocused but daring, seeing the sudden flicker of raw desire in his, a brief, unguarded moment where his control slipped. You were too drunk for your own good. Too drunk. Too bold. Too daring. Every fiber of your being screamed for release, for answers, for connection.
The moment stretched, electric and fraught. You could feel his grip tighten slightly on your waist, your heart hammering against your ribs, a frantic, desperate rhythm. Your drunken mind, liberated from inhibition, saw only the opportunity, the raw, undeniable attraction that had simmered between you for months, now blazing to the surface. You leaned in, eyes fixed on his lips, desperate to close the distance, to finally bridge the chasm of their professional facade. You tried to kiss him, your lips already parting, seeking his, but his quick reflexes were even faster, a wall of desperate restraint. His hand, lightning fast, came up, covering your mouth, his palm pressing firmly against your lips, a soft but unyielding barrier. Instead of kissing him, you ended up kissing his own hand, the soft skin of his palm a surprising, frustrating shield against your desperate advance.
His breath hitched, a harsh, ragged sound in the quiet room. His eyes were wide, suddenly laced with a mixture of shock and desperate, agonizing restraint. He didn't move his hand, but his body language screamed caution, screamed of an internal battle of immense proportions. He was a man holding onto the last threads of his self-control. He needed to stay away from you, hell away, a silent mantra screaming in his mind. He needed to stay away from you before he does something she will hate him more for. Or worse, he won't forgive himself for. You, with your fiery spirit and unyielding defiance, were too pure, too bright, too good for his complicated, often dark world. He knew he didn't deserve you, not after all the darkness he carried. You might have an attitude, might be sharp-tongued, might be a 'war,' but beneath it all, you were too kind, too kind for his world⌠too kind for her own good. His grip on your waist loosened, his hand still covering your mouth, his gaze distant, tormented.
He released your waist, though his hand still covered your mouth for a moment longer, a lingering ghost of his control. Then, with a practiced strength that belied his inner turmoil, he scooped you up into his arms, carrying you effortlessly. You felt yourself being lifted, a strange mix of disappointment and reluctant surrender washing over you. The world swayed gently as he moved through the silent apartment, past the gleaming kitchen and expansive living area, until he reached a bedroom. He gently laid you in his bed, the soft mattress cradling your exhausted body, the cool sheets a welcome embrace.
He stood over you for a moment, his gaze intense, a battle raging in his eyes, his chest rising and falling heavily. You watched him through heavy eyelids, the alcohol still fogging your senses, but your awareness of him, of his presence, was painfully clear. He reached out, his hand hovering over your forehead, a silent deliberation. Then, with a deep, shaky breath, he leaned down. He knew, with a gut-wrenching certainty, that he had to let you go, to make you quit. It was the only way to protect you from the ugliness he knew was coming, from the fragmented, brutal world he inhabited, a world that would inevitably scar you. He kissed your head with overwhelming affection, a soft, almost lingering touch that felt like probably his last time, a silent, desperate goodbye. He had to let her go, make her quit. For her sake.
He pulled back, his face a mask of determined resignation, a profound sadness etched around his eyes. He turned away from the bed, moving towards the couch in the same room. He knew your habit of nightmares, a vulnerable detail you had shared in some random, late-night conversation back in Seoul, a moment of unguarded intimacy that he had pretended to ignore but had, of course, absorbed fully, filing it away. He slept on the room couch that night, his form rigid, his mind churning, just in case you needed something in your sleepâa silent vigil, a final act of quiet, desperate protection before he pushed you away for good, before he severed the connection he was terrified of acknowledging. The soft glow of the city outside painted the room in muted silver, a quiet witness to his silent, lonely torment.
The first rays of Milanâs morning sun, thin and pale, filtered through the apartment windows, painting the luxurious room in hues of soft grey and cool gold. You stirred, a dull ache throbbing behind your eyes, the remnants of champagne still fuzzing your senses. Disorientation gave way to a slow, creeping awareness: you were in Yunhoâs bed, in Yunhoâs apartment. A flush of heat, of shame and a strange, unwelcome longing, spread through you as last nightâs hazy memories clicked into placeâthe daring challenge, the drunken stumble, his quick hands on your waist, the brush of his palm against your lips, the gentle act of him carrying you. And then, the distant, aching memory of his lips on your forehead, a kiss that felt like a goodbye.
You pushed yourself up, heart thudding, and scanned the room. Your eyes landed on the couch, where Yunho lay, rigid and unmoving. He looked like a sculpture carved from ice, his face devoid of emotion, his body held with an almost military precision even in sleep. A pang of hurt, sharp and unexpected, pierced through you. You had seen a vulnerable side of him last night, a raw desperation in his eyes, a flicker of something almost tender. You had felt a fleeting connection, a shared understanding in the suffocating silence of his apartment. Now, in the stark light of day, he was a stranger again.
He woke with the suddenness of a predator, his eyes snapping open. He didnât stir, didnât acknowledge your presence with a glance or a word. He merely stared at the ceiling for a moment, then rose from the couch with a fluid, almost dismissive movement. He was distant. Sharp. Silent. He moved with a chilling efficiency, heading straight for the bathroom, not once looking your way. The silence he projected was a wall, thick and impenetrable.
It hurt her, a deep, agonizing ache in your chest. It wasn't just disappointment; it was a profound sense of abandonment. He was acting as if nothing had happened, as if the intimate moments of the night, the unspoken words, the desperate grab for connection, had simply vanished with the dawn. No soft talks, no subtle glances, no gentle reassurances. He was a colder man than you had ever seen him, more frigid than his usual professional demeanor. This deliberate erasure of intimacy, this calculated distance, caused pain for him too, like daggers being twisted in him. He could feel the ache in his own chest, the profound sense of loss even as he enforced it. He knew he was breaking something precious, but he truly believed it was for your own good.
You rose from the bed, feeling exposed and raw. The silk sheets, which had felt so soft last night, now felt cold, like a judgment. You quickly found your clothes, pulling them on with trembling hands, desperate to escape the suffocating weight of his silence. He emerged from the bathroom, dressed in perfectly tailored clothes, his hair impeccably styled, looking every inch the formidable mogul. He glanced at you, a fleeting, dismissive sweep of his eyes that offered no warmth, no recognition of the woman he had held just hours before. He then moved directly to the small kitchen, preparing his coffee, his back to you.
You stood there, a knot forming in your stomach, a bitter taste in your mouth. You had realized that you loved him, a truth that had solidified in the haze of champagne and the alarming intimacy of last night. You loved his sharp mind, his ruthless ambition, the surprising moments of vulnerability, the way he saw something in you that others couldn't. But he didnât want to even try. Maybe he was right, you thought, the cruel logic of his actions echoing in your mind. Maybe you weren't meant for his world, a world where warmth could be discarded with the rising sun, where emotions were dangerous liabilities.
The flight back to Seoul was a torment. He ignored you completely. Not with overt disdain, but with a chilling, absolute absence of acknowledgement. He buried himself in work, reviewing documents, making calls, his focus absolute. You, sitting just a few seats away, felt like a ghost, invisible, irrelevant. Each passing minute solidified your resolve. You couldnât do this anymore. You couldnât exist in a space where you were alternately seen as a prize, then discarded as inconsequential.
Back in Seoul, the studio, usually a place of exhilarating energy, now felt stifling. He said nothing to you, offered no explanation, no apology. He simply plunged back into fittings, into meetings, into the relentless grind of getting back to work. You spiraled. The emotional whiplash was too much. The constant barrage of rumors, the emotional distance, the shattering realization that your feelings for him were unreciprocated or, worse, deliberately ignoredâit all culminated in one decisive thought: you were done.
You approached his assistant, your voice flat, devoid of emotion. âI quit,â you stated, the words feeling both terrifying and liberating. You packed your few personal belongings, leaving the studio that had been your battlefield, your sanctuary, and ultimately, your heartbreak. You walked out into the busy city streets, the setting sun casting long shadows, your heart heavy but your decision firm.
He watched you walk awayâfrom the window of his office, from a fitting room, you weren't sure. But you knew he saw you. And he didnât stop you. A part of him screamed to run after you, to pull you back, to explain the tangled mess of his fear and love and responsibility. But another part, the cold, calculating part, the part that truly believed it was protecting you, held him rooted to the spot. It was better, he told himself, the lie tasting like ash in his mouth. Many other brands wanted you; you would do just fine, perhaps even better, freed from his complicated world. Though his empire would have to deal with a huge blow, losing his muse, his 'war,' would cripple the very essence of his next collection.
He wanted to protect you. He wanted to protect you from how his world truly operated, from the hidden cruelties no one knew of, the brutal, unacknowledged war between him and his stepbrother that could scar you forever. His family, though wealthy, was a desolate landscape, stranded with fragments of dead threads, riddled with betrayals and unspoken resentments. Whereas yours, though a simple middle-class family, was always happy, always whole. They were together in the ups and downs, finding joy in simple moments, connected by genuine warmth. That was the profound difference. Some people amassed immense wealth, only to find themselves suffocated by a joyless existence. Others, though middle class, lived at their fullest, truly experiencing life. And he, Yunho, was too deeply entrenched in the suffocating emptiness of his own world to ever truly offer you the vibrant life you deserved. Let her go, his inner voice screamed. Let her breathe.
-
The days following your departure from Yunho's studio blurred into a monochrome existence. You had quit, left everything behind, and yet, the ghost of Yunho, of his sharp words and colder silences, remained. You tried to fill the void, taking walks through quiet parks, rediscovering the simple joys of your middle-class life that felt a world away from the gleaming, cutthroat halls of high fashion. The industry, however, wasn't done with Yunho, or with you.
Just as you began to find a semblance of peace, the headlines exploded. "Fashion Mogul Yunho in Critical Condition After Car Crash!" The news reports were grim, detailing a severe accident, a truck that had veered into his luxury car. The shock was immediate and visceral, a cold dread seizing your stomach. Yunho. Critical condition. Despite everything, the thought was unbearable.
The investigation was swift, yet chillingly inconclusive. The truck driver, the reports stated, had killed himself after the crash. More likely, you knew, murdered. But there was no proof, nothing concrete to link it to anyone. The incident, however, bore the unmistakable, serpentine mark of his stepbrother, Jeong Yongjae. The rivalry wasn't just about collections anymore; it was a deadly game. The police continued their investigation, but the official narrative remained clouded.
In the wake of the accident, Yunho canât design. The new collection, intended to be his magnum opus, his declaration of dominance in Paris, was unfinished. It hung in limbo, a skeletal framework of dreams that now felt impossible to realize. Staff at the studio began to whisper, their hushed tones confirming what you already knew: Yunho was off. He wasn't just physically injured; his spirit, his creative core, seemed shattered. He threw away sketches, the very blueprints of his genius, crumpled into defiant balls on his office floor. He isolated himself, retreating into the confines of his penthouse, unreachable.
As reports of his creative block and the looming cancellation of his show spread through the industry, your mind, despite your determined detachment, found itself haunted by fragmented flashbacks. His voice in fittings, sharp yet oddly calm. The brush of his hands on fabric, precise and knowing. Your own reflection in the shimmering gowns, transformed by his vision. He had called you his 'war,' his muse, his challenge. Now, without you, he was adrift. You imagined him alone, surrounded by the ghosts of unfinished designs.
Later, in a moment of raw, desperate honesty that would have shocked anyone who knew him, Yunho whispered while burning the drafts of his new collection, "She was the collection." His words were a guttural confession of loss, of an irreplaceable muse.
Headlines screamed Yunhoâs demise: âFashion Empire in Peril: Yunhoâs Paris Show Canceled!â The public went wild, a mixture of concern, speculation, and the usual morbid fascination. The industry buzzed with the news, anticipating a power vacuum.
And then, another bombshell dropped, shaking your fragile peace. Alongside the reports of Yunhoâs cancellation, headlines dropped of Yunhoâs stepbrother approaching y/n with a deal for her to model for him and not Yunho. Photos, grainy but unmistakable, began to leak. You, outside a local grocery store, standing next to Jeong Yongjae, his face a predatory smile, yours a mask of polite refusal. The drama and rumors exploded.
NOW THE TIME OF WHEN HE APPROACHED.
Y/Nâs POV:
You were taking a walk, enjoying the mundane comfort of grocery runs, deliberately immersing yourself in the normalcy you had missed. The sun was warm on your face, a gentle breeze rustling through the leaves. Your phone was tucked away, your mind blessedly free of deadlines and runway music. As you exited the mart, bags in hand, a sleek, dark car pulled up to the curb. Your breath hitched. Out stepped Jeong Yongjae, Yunhoâs stepbrother, radiating an oily charm that instantly set your teeth on edge. He was handsome, in a way that felt manipulative, his smile too wide, his eyes too calculating.
âWell, well, well,â he purred, his voice like velvet over gravel. âThe runaway star. A bird without a cage.â He approached you, hands casually in his pockets, his gaze sweeping over you with an unnerving proprietary air. âHeard Yunhoâs lost his touch. And his muse, apparently.â
You clutched your grocery bags tighter, a cold anger replacing your earlier peace. âI donât know what youâre talking about, Mr. Jeong.â
He chuckled, a low, unpleasant sound. âOh, you know. Heâs in a bit of a bind. And frankly, Y/N, youâre too good to be tied to a sinking ship. Or a man who canât even hold onto his vision without you.â He took another step closer, his eyes glinting with a familiar avarice. âMy new collection. Itâs bigger, bolder, far more avant-garde than anything my dear stepbrother could ever dream of. And I want you to be the face of it. Think of the exposure. Think of the freedom. Think of the pay, Y/N. Iâm prepared to offer you double the pay, more profit, a partnership Yunho could never conceive of.â He painted a picture of endless opportunity, of a world where you were truly celebrated, truly free.
You stared at him, your gaze unwavering. He was trying to tempt you, to manipulate you, to use you as a pawn in his cruel game against Yunho. The thought made you sick. You remembered Yunhoâs quiet fury, his possessive declaration, his cold logic, but you also remembered the desperate vulnerability in his eyes just before you quit. You might be furious with Yunho, hurt beyond measure, but he was real. Yongjae was a serpent.
âThank you for the offer, Mr. Jeong,â you said, your voice calm, steady, betraying none of the turmoil inside. âBut Iâm not interested.â You began to walk away, your grocery bags swinging slightly.
He scoffed, momentarily taken aback by your refusal. âDonât be foolish, girl. This is your chance to truly rise. He let you go, didnât he? Let you walk away when he needed you most. He called you âjust businessâ.â
That last barb hit its mark, stinging with its truth. But it also solidified your resolve. You turned your head slightly, meeting his gaze over your shoulder. âI already have a contract,â you stated, your voice clear and firm. âAnd my loyalty isnât for sale.â
You kept walking, faster now, leaving him standing there, his predatory smile replaced by a scowl of frustrated surprise. You pulled out your phone, your fingers flying across the screen. You knew this was risky. You knew it would invite more drama, more scrutiny. But you also knew it had to be done. You opened the social media app, âXâ.
Your post was simple, direct, and utterly defiant.
Y/N @ModelY/N: Still working for Jeong Yunho. #Loyalty #Fashion
You hit post.
It surprised Yunho. Later, when an assistant, emboldened by loyalty, showed him the post on a tablet, his eyes widened almost imperceptibly. He read the words, then read them again. A wave of profound relief, so potent it almost buckled his knees, washed over him. The bitterness, the self-recrimination, the aching sense of loss that had consumed him for weeks, began to recede, replaced by a surge of something akin to hope. She was still with him. You, his war, his collection. You hadnât truly walked away.
-----
The three weeks off had been a quiet reprieve, a chance to breathe away from the suffocating pressure of Yunhoâs orbit and the venomous whispers of the other models. Yet, the silence hadn't quite erased the sting of your last fight, nor the biting memory of his dismissive "just business." You had left him on seen, a small act of defiance that had felt profoundly satisfying in the moment, but it couldn't alter the itinerary. Milan was next. The biggest stage, the most ruthless competition. The flight had been a silent torment, the tension between you a palpable, suffocating force.
The headlines screamed of disaster: "Fashion Mogul Yunho in Critical Condition After Car Crash!" The words blared from every screen, every newsstand, shattering the fragile peace you had found. A cold dread seized your stomach, twisting into a painful knot. Yunho. Critical condition. Despite every sharp word, every frustrating encounter, the thought of him, broken and vulnerable, was unbearable. The world spun in a sickening lurch, and all you could think was, no, not like this.
The investigation was swift, yet chillingly inconclusive. The official reports claimed the truck driver had committed suicide after the crash, a narrative so thin it barely held together. You knew, with a certainty that chilled you to the bone, that he had been murdered. But there was no proof, nothing concrete to link it to anyone. The incident, however, bore the unmistakable, serpentine mark of his stepbrother, Jeong Yongjae. The rivalry wasn't just about collections anymore; it was a deadly, terrifying game, played with lives. The police continued their investigation, but the official narrative remained clouded in convenient ambiguities.
In the wake of the accident, Yunho canât design. The new collection, intended to be his magnum opus, his declaration of dominance in Milan, hung in limbo, a skeletal framework of dreams that now felt impossible to realize. Staff at the studio began to whisper, their hushed tones confirming what you already knew: Yunho was off. He wasn't just physically injured, though his arm was in a sling, his movements stiff; his spirit, his creative core, seemed shattered. He lashed out, not with his usual calculated precision, but with raw frustration, throwing away sketches, the very blueprints of his genius, crumpled into defiant balls on his office floor. He isolated himself, retreating into the confines of his penthouse, unreachable, consumed by a darkness that even his closest confidantes couldn't penetrate.
As reports of his creative block and the looming cancellation of his show spread through the industry, your mind, despite your determined detachment, found itself haunted by fragmented flashbacks. His voice in fittings, sharp yet oddly calm. The brush of his hands on fabric, precise and knowing. Your own reflection in the shimmering gowns, transformed by his vision. He had called you his 'war,' his muse, his challenge. Now, without you, he was adrift, spiraling into a void. You imagined him alone, surrounded by the ghosts of unfinished designs, a king dethroned by his own despair.
Later, in a moment of raw, desperate honesty that would have shocked anyone who knew him, Yunho whispered while burning the drafts of his new collection, "She was the collection." His words were a guttural confession of loss, of an irreplaceable muse. He was burning more than paper; he was burning the last vestiges of his self-delusion, the bitter truth that his art, his vision, had become irrevocably intertwined with you.
Headlines screamed Yunhoâs demise: âFashion Empire in Peril: Yunhoâs Milan Show Canceled!â The public went wild, a mixture of concern, speculation, and the usual morbid fascination. The industry buzzed with the news, anticipating a power vacuum, a new king to claim his throne.
And then, another bombshell dropped, shaking your fragile peace. Alongside the reports of Yunhoâs cancellation, headlines dropped of Yunhoâs stepbrother approaching the Reader with a deal for her to model for him and not Yunho. Photos, grainy but unmistakable, began to leak. You, outside a local grocery store, standing next to Jeong Yongjae, his face a predatory smile, yours a mask of polite refusal. The drama and rumors exploded.
Y/Nâs POV: (NOW THE TIME OF WHEN HE APPROACHED.)
You were taking a walk, enjoying the mundane comfort of grocery runs, deliberately immersing yourself in the normalcy you had missed. The sun was warm on your face, a gentle breeze rustling through the leaves. Your phone was tucked away, your mind blessedly free of deadlines and runway music. As you exited the mart, bags in hand, a sleek, dark car pulled up to the curb. Your breath hitched. Out stepped Jeong Yongjae, Yunhoâs stepbrother, radiating an oily charm that instantly set your teeth on edge. He was handsome, in a way that felt manipulative, his smile too wide, his eyes too calculating.
âWell, well, well,â he purred, his voice like velvet over gravel. âThe runaway star. A bird without a cage.â He approached you, hands casually in his pockets, his gaze sweeping over you with an unnerving proprietary air. âHeard Yunhoâs lost his touch. And his muse, apparently.â
You clutched your grocery bags tighter, a cold anger replacing your earlier peace. âI donât know what youâre talking about, Mr. Jeong.â
He chuckled, a low, unpleasant sound. âOh, you know. Heâs in a bit of a bind. And frankly, Y/N, youâre too good to be tied to a sinking ship. Or a man who canât even hold onto his vision without you.â He took another step closer, his eyes glinting with a familiar avarice. âMy new collection. Itâs bigger, bolder, far more avant-garde than anything my dear stepbrother could ever dream of. And I want you to be the face of it. Think of the exposure. Think of the freedom. Think of the pay, Y/N. Iâm prepared to offer you double the pay, more profit, a partnership Yunho could never conceive of.â He painted a picture of endless opportunity, of a world where you were truly celebrated, truly free, implicitly offering you the validation Yunho had so often withheld.
You stared at him, your gaze unwavering. He was trying to tempt you, to manipulate you, to use you as a pawn in his cruel game against Yunho. The thought made you sick. You remembered Yunhoâs quiet fury, his possessive declaration, his cold logic, but you also remembered the desperate vulnerability in his eyes just before you quit, the raw hurt that flashed in them during your last fight. You might be furious with Yunho, hurt beyond measure, but he was real. Yongjae was a serpent, his promises laced with poison.
âThank you for the offer, Mr. Jeong,â you said, your voice calm, steady, betraying none of the turmoil inside. âBut Iâm not interested.â You began to walk away, your grocery bags swinging slightly.
He scoffed, momentarily taken aback by your refusal. âDonât be foolish, girl. This is your chance to truly rise. He let you go, didnât he? Let you walk away when he needed you most. He called you âjust businessâ.â
That last barb hit its mark, stinging with its truth, igniting the old wounds. But it also solidified your resolve. It reminded you of Yunhoâs cowardice, yes, but also of the sheer audacity you had found in yourself to walk away. You turned your head slightly, meeting his gaze over your shoulder. âI already have a contract,â you stated, your voice clear and firm, imbued with a conviction that surprised even yourself. âAnd my loyalty isnât for sale.â
You kept walking, faster now, leaving him standing there, his predatory smile replaced by a scowl of frustrated surprise. You pulled out your phone, your fingers flying across the screen. You knew this was risky. You knew it would invite more drama, more scrutiny. But you also knew it had to be done. You opened the social media app, âXâ.
Your post was simple, direct, and utterly defiant.
Y/N @ModelY/N: Still working for Jeong Yunho. #Loyalty #Fashion
You hit post, a small, trembling tremor running through your hand, but your heart swelling with a strange, fierce pride.
It surprised Yunho. Later, when an assistant, emboldened by loyalty, showed him the post on a tablet, his eyes widened almost imperceptibly. He read the words, then read them again, his fingers tracing the glowing text. A wave of profound relief, so potent it almost buckled his knees, washed over him, momentarily eclipsing the gnawing pain of his injuries. The bitterness, the self-recrimination, the aching sense of loss that had consumed him for weeks, began to recede, replaced by a surge of something akin to desperate hope. She was still with him. You, his war, his collection. You hadnât truly walked away. The thought was a lifeline in the darkness that had threatened to consume him.
Yunho called you, his voice low and hesitant, raspy from disuse and the lingering effects of his injuriesâa stark contrast to his usual commanding tone. For a long moment, neither of you spoke, the phone line humming with the weight of unspoken apologies and festering wounds.
âY/N,â he began, the name a raw plea, stripped bare of all pretense. âI⌠I need you.â His voice cracked slightly on the last word, an admission of vulnerability so profound it made your breath catch.
You listened, the anger and hurt still simmering, but a flicker of something else, a strange, undeniable pull, tugging at your resolve. You pictured him, confined and broken, stripped of the power that usually defined him. He spoke of his new vision, his voice gaining a shaky passion as he described a collection born from the ashes of his accident and your departure. He spoke of rebirth, of defiance, of a phoenix rising from the flames, not just for his brand, but for himself. And then, he said the words that finally broke through your carefully constructed walls, the words that finally acknowledged the truth you both had denied for so long.
âThis collection is you, Y/N. Itâs your fire, your strength, your refusal to be broken. Your loyalty, even when I deserved none. I⌠I canât do it without you. I realize that now.â His voice was raw, etched with a desperate honesty that shattered your defenses. It wasn't just about business anymore; it was about his soul.
You returned to the studio, not as a submissive employee, but as a collaborator, a muse, an equal. The atmosphere had shifted. The whispers had died down, replaced by a hushed respect, almost reverence. The models, once your rivals, now looked at you with a newfound admiration, a silent acknowledgment of your unyielding spirit. Yunho, too, was profoundly different. The cold, calculating facade had not just cracked; it had splintered, revealing a vulnerability, a raw intensity that was both unnerving and undeniably compelling. He moved slower, spoke softer, his eyes holding a depth of unspoken regret and gratitude whenever they met yours.
The new collection was a revelation. It was bold, daring, an explosion of color and texture that defied the industry's usual expectations. It was a story told in fabric and light, a testament to resilience, to the power of rebirth, to the fire that burned in you. And at the heart of it all was you. Every stitch, every drape, every line seemed to resonate with your essence.
The Paris show was a triumph, a phoenix rising from the ashes of tragedy. You walked the runway with a fire in your eyes, a fierce confidence that bordered on defiance. The clothes moved with you, echoing your strength, your vulnerability, your refusal to be defined. The crowd roared, their applause a thunderous ovation, a collective release of awe and emotion.
As you took your final bow, the blinding lights momentarily obscuring the audience, Yunho stepped onto the runway. He was still pale, his arm still subtly favoring his injury, but his posture was upright, resolute. His gaze, usually sharp and critical, was now fixed, unblinking, on your form. He didn't speak, didn't offer a gesture of triumph. He simply stood there, his eyes conveying a depth of emotion that words could never capture: gratitude, regret, admiration, and a profound, aching love. He saw you, truly saw you, for the first time, not as a means to an end, but as the very essence of his redemption.
That night, in the quiet aftermath of the show, the adrenaline slowly fading, he found you backstage. The air was thick with the scent of lilies and celebration, but between you, the silence hummed with anticipation. He reached out, his hand trembling slightly, hovering for a moment before gently cupping your cheek. His touch was a revelationâwarm, hesitant, profoundly tender.
"Thank you," he whispered, his voice raw with emotion, barely audible above the distant sounds of the party. "You saved me. From myself. From everything."
You looked at him, your heart aching with a mixture of love and a lingering, fragile fear. Your own hand reached up, covering his on your cheek. "I didn't save you, Yunho," you said softly, your voice thick with unshed tears. "We saved each other."
And then, finally, he kissed you. It wasn't a kiss of possession or control, but of surrender, of a shared vulnerability, of a desperate, long-denied love finally breaking free. It was a kiss that tasted of tears and triumph, of the bitter past and the fragile hope of a future. It was a beginning, not an end. The final chapter in a storm, but the breathless, uncertain, terrifying start of a story that was still being written, stitch by painful stitch, between two souls who had found light in each other's darkness.
The kiss, a desperate confession under the lingering stage lights of Paris, was the fragile bridge between the past and a terrifyingly uncertain future. It was a silent agreement, a profound acknowledgment of everything that had passed between you, a silent vow to explore the uncharted territory of what you now felt for each other. The afterparty became a distant hum as you and Yunho, hand in hand, slipped away from the triumphant chaos, seeking the quiet sanctuary of his Paris penthouse.
That night, you drove him, the sleek car a silent cocoon cutting through the city. He was leaning heavily on you, his injured arm a constant reminder of the fragility of his world, and the brutal reality of his family's war. Once at his penthouse, you guided him, gently but firmly. His usual sharp edges were softened by pain and exhaustion, his imperious demands replaced by a quiet vulnerability that both startled and compelled you. You helped him shed his tailored jacket, careful of his arm, your fingers brushing against the warm skin of his back. You brewed him a soothing tea, the fragrant steam rising between you, a small act of domesticity that felt profound in its intimacy.
He fell onto the vast, minimalist sofa, pulling you down with him, his body a heavy, comforting weight against yours. He settled, his head finding rest on your stomach, his good arm wrapping around your waist, pulling you impossibly closer. You felt his breath ghost against your shirt, a silent rhythm that filled the quiet room. Instinctively, your hands reached for his hair, your fingers tangling in the soft strands, a tender embrace.
As he drifted into sleep, his grip on you firm, you stared at the ceiling, a silent fury simmering beneath your calm exterior. You hated the people who had twisted him, hardened him, leaving him with such deep, mental scars of insecurity and isolation. And the bitter truth was, the primary architect of his pain, the cause of the crash that could have killed him, was his own stepbrother, Yongjae. A fierce, protective resolve settled deep in your bones. Karma, you knew, would take too long. You had decided to be Karma herself. You would, and you will, gather proof. You would make Yongjae pay. Many called you a bitch for your sharp tongue and unyielding stance. And indeed, karma is a bitch.
The return to Seoul was not a retreat, but a strategic regrouping. The world was still buzzing with Yunho's accident and your defiant loyalty. News outlets churned out stories, photos of you together, fueling speculation about the "power couple" of fashion. Yunho, however, was deaf to the external noise. He was consumed by a singular, obsessive drive: to design a new collection, unlike anything he had ever created.
He threw himself into the work, ignoring his lingering pain, pushing himself to the brink. You were there, a constant presence. You saw the shadows under his eyes, the clenching of his jaw as he fought through the creative block. You were his anchor, his fire, his relentless support. Your scoldingsâgentle but firm reminders to rest, to eat, to not push himself too hardâwere met with grumbles, but he always listened. Your cooking, simple but nourishing, became his sustenance, a small act of care that grounded him in the chaos.
In an unprecedented feat of sheer will and shared vision, Yunho redesigned the entire show in one week. It was a collection born of anguish and defiance, sculpted by pain, tempered by your unwavering presence. This show would be a declaration, a statement of rebirth, a testament to the muse who had pulled him back from the brink.
The final runway was set. There would be one model. One collection. One muse. You.
You walked every look. Each garment was a testament to the raw, visceral journey you both had endured. You owned the runway, transforming from fierce warrior to ethereal goddess, from understated elegance to provocative art. Every step was deliberate, every turn a statement. Your body, the canvas, narrated Yunho's agonizing rebirth, his defiance, his devotion. The audience watched, spellbound, as you moved through the meticulously crafted narrative of fabric and light.
They had created history. Yunho had not just designed a collection; he had engraved you in the history of fashion. It was the first show which was carried out by only one model, a singular vision brought to life by your undeniable power.
The final piece was breathtaking, a masterpiece of exquisite design and profound meaning. It was a second skin, molded to your form, stitched into her skin-tight, a garment so daring, so intimate, it felt like an extension of your very being. As you turned, bathed in the blinding lights, the back of the gown, meticulously crafted, revealed a silent message. In bold, crimson thread, stark against the fabric, were two simple, powerful letters: âYH // For Herâ. It was a public declaration, a permanent etching of his gratitude, his devotion, his ownershipânot of a muse, but of the woman who was his universe.
After the lights faded, after the thunderous applause finally began to die down, he met you backstage. The air was thick with the scent of lilies and triumph, but all that mattered was the space between you. There were no words needed, no grand pronouncements. Just a shared gaze, fraught with the weight of everything you had overcome. He reached for you, his hands shaking as they cradled your face, pulling you in. Your hearts, ruined by the past, now beat in a synchronized rhythm, a desperate symphony of two souls finally finding their anchor.
He kissed you. It was a kiss that tasted of tears and triumph, of the bitter past and the fragile hope of a future. When he finally pulled away, his forehead resting against yours, his voice was a ragged whisper, raw with emotion.
âYou were never just wearing my work,â he murmured, his thumb stroking your cheek. âYou were wearing me... you were carrying my empire, Y/N.â
And in that moment, you knew. The battle with Yongjae was far from over. The world would continue to challenge you. But you would face it together, two souls irrevocably bound, ready to fight, and to build, an empire stitched not just from fabric, but from devotion.
....The end? Uh......no.
---
A/n: Hie, my lovies! That's a happy ending for sure. But I do plan on posting a extra chapter in addition to this fanfic. In a few days probably, extra chapter will be smaller compared to this. Just a bit of vengeance against people who hurt yunho. And a bolder and cruel side of the reader itself. Love y'll! - Katha
This video lightened up my night. I hope it does the same for you đŤś
poems to read while eating breakfast at the heartbreak hotel
I know I am but summer to your heart (Sonnet XXVII) by Edna St. Vincent Millay
What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why (Sonnet XLIII) by Edna St. Vincent Millay
Time does not bring relief (Sonnet II) by Edna St. Vincent MillayÂ
I Am Not Yours by Sara Teasdale
[you fit into me] by Margaret Atwood
You by Carol Ann Duffy
Be Near Me by Faiz Ahmed Faiz
Blessed be the spectacle by Lev St. Valentine
You Are Tired (I Think) by E.E. Cummings
Hope you're well. Please don't read this by Lev St. Valentine
To Say Dark Things by Ingeborg Bachmann
Lilichka by Vladimir Mayakovski
Love and Hate by Elizabeth Eleanor Siddal
Sanctuary by Jean Valentine
the winter sun says fight by Peter Gizzi
The More Loving One by W. H. Auden
A Primer For The Small Weird Loves by Richard Siken
Dirty Valentine by Richard Siken
Morning by Frank O Hara
We Don't Know How To Say Goodbye by Anna Akhmatova
You'll Live, But I'll Not⌠by Anna Akhmatova
from âAn Attempt at Jealousyâ by Marina Tsvetaeva
The Last Toast by Anna Akhmatova
In Dream by Anna Akhmatova
Mad Girl's Love Song by Sylvia Plath
Talking In Bed by Philip Larkin
He wishes for the Cloths of Heaven by W.B. Yeats
La Belle Dame Sans Merci by John Keats
iris by goo goo dolls really is insane though. I'd give up forever to touch you? you're the closest to heaven I'll ever be? all I can breathe is your life? and I don't want the world to see me cause I don't think they'd understand? when everything's meant to be broken I just want you to know who I am? does anyone hear me.

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december 2024 with hyunjin


