wassup, k.

The world was a blur of flashing red lights, distant voices, and the suffocating scent of antiseptic.

You sat motionless in the hospital hallway, your hands stained with his blood. It had dried beneath your fingernails, soaked into the fabric of your clothes, and no matter how much you scrubbed at your skin, it wouldn’t come off.

It felt like a permanent tattoo, a scar.

Jungwon had been alive when they took him from your arms. Barely.

But now? Now you didn’t know.

A machine beeped steadily behind the doors of the emergency room, each sound cutting through you like a blade.

"Take anything from me. Just let him live,” you cried, praying quietly.

The door swung open, and a doctor stepped out, his expression unreadable. You stood up quickly.

“Tell me," you begged.

The doctor sighed, exhaustion heavy in his gaze. "We managed to stabilize him. But the damage was extensive. He lost a lot of blood, which led him into an arrest and arrived here in a state of shock."

You exhaled a shaky breath, the weight on your chest lifting—just for a second.

“So…w-what does that mean?” you held onto your hands.

"He suffered global anoxic brain damage…”

“Wait…so—”

“He’s in a coma.”

The world stopped.

"A coma?" you echoed, your voice breaking on the word.

"His body fought hard to stay alive, but his brain… it’s still recovering. Right now, we don’t know when or if he’ll wake up."

Your knees nearly gave out. A wave of sickness washing over you.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. You had fought for justice, for truth—for both of you to make it out alive. But now, he was trapped somewhere you couldn’t reach.

And it was all your fault.

"Can I see him?" your eyes watered.

The doctor hesitated, then nodded.

You forced yourself to move, step by agonizing step, until you were inside his room.

Jungwon lay still beneath the dim hospital lights, the strong, unshakable fighter you knew now surrounded by machines keeping him alive. His face was pale, his lips chapped, his chest rising and falling in a slow, unnatural rhythm.

You reached for his hand, the same hand that had held yours so many times before.

But this time, he didn’t hold you back. This time, it lacked the comforting warmth he radiated.

Tears burned down your cheeks as you whispered, "Please, Jungwon. Don’t leave me like this. You have to wake up.”

But he didn’t respond.

And for the first time since you met him—

Jungwon was completely, utterly silent.

Days blurred together in the sterile glow of the hospital room. You lost track of time, only aware of the steady, mechanical beeping of Jungwon’s heart monitor.

You stayed by his side. Every day. Every night.

Doctors came and went, speaking in hushed tones, their expressions carefully blank when they looked at you. They told you he was stable, but stability wasn’t enough. You needed him to wake up. But he didn’t.

His brother, Seokjin, visited as frequent as you did. He moved Jungwon to a more private, expensive, hospital. But you didn’t care where he was as long as he just woke up.

"Ms. y/l/n?"

You startled, looking up from where you sat curled in the chair beside Jungwon’s bed. The doctor stood at the door, holding his clipboard with that same unreadable expression.

"Can we speak outside?"

Out in the hallway, the doctor sighed.

"There hasn’t been any improvement in his condition. His brain scans show activity, which means there’s a chance he could wake up, but…"

"But what?"

He gave you a careful look, "Even if he does wake up, there’s a possibility of… memory loss."

The words hit you like a slap.

"Memory loss?”

The doctor kept talking—explaining the effects of prolonged unconsciousness, the risks, the rehabilitation process—but you barely heard him.

Because all you could think about was the possibility that if Jungwon woke up—

He might not remember you.

You shook your head, forcing down the fear clawing at your chest, "But he will wake up, right?"

The doctor hesitated again.

"We hope so."

Hope.

That was all they could give you.

And somehow, it didn’t feel like enough.

A month later, still, you found yourself next to him. You’ve gotten used to the smell of antiseptic and the nurses that went by.

You should have gone home.

People told you to. Begged you to. But you couldn’t.

Instead, you sat in the same chair beside Jungwon’s bed, your fingers loosely wrapped around his unmoving hand. His body had healed—at least on the outside. The bruises had faded, the wounds had scarred over.

Looked as beautiful as the day he left you.

But still, he slept. Still, you waited.

You didn’t know what woke you, but you had the sudden urge to go out. To breathe, to leave the hospital for a bit.

You headed to the nearest convenience store, placing small to-go meals into your basket. You hadn’t much appetite since that day. And then, your phone ringed.

You take it out from your pocket, glancing at the contact. It’s Seokjin.

You quickly answer, tired and still groggy.

“Y/n, you need to get here. Fast,” his voice laced with urgency.

Your heart dropped, imagining the worse. Could it be that he let go? Could it be that he suddenly got worse?

“Why, what’s wrong? I’m on my way,” you scrambled out of the store, running back to the hospital with the phone in hand.

You ran across the road, cars honking at you at close range of almost hitting you. You continue running, your chest rising and sweat accumulating on your body.

You run down the hallways and into Jungwons room. You abruptly stop at the doorway. You’re panting, your eyes scanning him. You froze.

Because for the first time in two months, Jungwon’s eyes were open.

You sucked in a breath, so shocked that you nearly tipped over. His gaze was hazy, unfocused, his brows pinched like he was trying to make sense of where he was.

"Jungwon?" Seokjin called out, placing a hand over his head.

You approached him slowly, cautiously. Fearfully.

His eyes flickered to you, blinking slowly. And for a moment—just a moment—hope surged inside you.

Then he spoke, "...Who are you?"

The world went quiet.

He didn’t remember you.

And just like that—the love you fought so hard for was gone.

Silence filled the room, thick and suffocating.

You couldn’t move. You couldn’t breathe.

Because Jungwon was looking at you—like you were a stranger.

His deep brown eyes, the ones that once traced over you with warmth, curiosity, and that infuriating smirk, now held nothing but confusion.

"Who are you?"

The words rang in your head, like a broken melody.

You tried to speak, but your voice caught in your throat.

A doctor rushed in, nurses following behind, all of them suddenly moving around him, checking monitors, asking him questions.

But you just stood there, frozen, drowning in the reality of what had just happened.

"Jungwon, do you know where you are?" the doctor asked.

Jungwon blinked, his face still pale, his movements slow and stiff.

"Hospital?" His voice was hoarse, unused for too long.

"That’s right," the doctor said with a small nod, scribbling something onto his clipboard.

“Do you remember what happened to you?”

Jungwon’s brows furrowed, "No."

Your stomach twisted.

The doctor exchanged glances with a nurse before asking, "Do you remember your name?"

Jungwon hesitated for a second, “…Yeah. Jungwon. Yang Jungwon."

Relief flickered across the doctor’s face, “Good. Do you remember anyone in this room?"

Your breath caught in your throat.

Jungwon’s gaze slowly scanned the people around him. He glanced at the doctor. The nurses. Seokjin. Then—

His eyes landed on you.

He stared for a long moment, his lips slightly parted, like something was almost there, something he was trying to grasp—

Then, finally, he spoke.

“Apart from my brother. No. I don’t."

You didn’t remember walking out of the room. You didn’t remember how you ended up in the empty hospital hallway, your breath coming in shallow gasps as the weight of it all crashed down on you.

Your hands trembled. Your vision blurred.

This was worse than anything you had ever imagined.

Jungwon was alive. But he wasn’t yours anymore.

A voice called your name from behind, and you turned to see the doctor stepping out of the room, his expression careful.

"He suffered trauma to his brain. Cases like this… the memories might return, but it’s unpredictable. It could take weeks, months—years. Or…" He hesitated.

You swallowed, “Or never."

The doctor’s silence was answer enough.

You nodded numbly, your hands curling into fists, "So what now?"

"For now, we focus on rehabilitation. Reintroducing him to familiar places, people. It’s possible something could trigger his memories."

You let out a bitter laugh. Trigger his memories? The memories you fought for, bled for, nearly died for? It’s not even possible.

Would he ever remember the way he had held you? The way he had whispered your name like it was a promise? The way he had kissed you like you were the only thing keeping him alive?

Or were those moments gone forever?

The doctor sighed, “It’s your choice how much you want to be involved. Sometimes, familiarity helps. Other times… it makes things harder."

If Jungwon looked at you every day and still saw nothing… how could you bear it?

You inhaled sharply, forcing the tears down. Then, you made your decision.

"I think… it’s best if I don’t see him."

The words felt like a knife to your own chest, but you had to do this.

Jungwon had been given a second chance. A blank slate. He could find the happiness and peace he didn’t have with you leading to his very last moments.

And you would be selfish to take away that from him.

Maybe it was better if you let him have it—without you.

And so, you turned away.

Seokjin was waiting for you. You had barely made it down the hospital corridor when you saw him leaning against the wall, arms crossed, his usually unreadable expression clouded with something heavier. Something almost hesitant.

"You heard," you murmured, voice barely above a whisper.

He nodded, “Yeah."

Of course, he had. Seokjin had been here almost as much as you had. He never strayed far, watching over Jungwon in his own quiet, guilt-ridden way.

Now, his sharp gaze flickered over you, taking in your shaking hands, your too-pale face, the way you looked like you had just lost everything—because you had.

"He really doesn’t remember you…" he said, almost as if he couldn’t believe it either.

Your throat tightened, but you forced yourself to nod.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The hallway felt too quiet, the walls too suffocating.

Then, Seokjin pushed off the wall, his usual confidence dimmed by something close to regret. "So, what now? You’re just gonna leave?"

You stiffened, “It’s not that simple."

He scoffed, “It is, actually. Either you stay and fight for him, or you walk away and pretend none of it ever happened."

Your fingers curled into fists, “You think this is easy for me? That I want to leave?"

"Then don’t."

You swallowed hard, shaking your head, "He deserves a fresh start. If I stay, it’ll just confuse him. I won’t do that to him. Not when he has a shot of becoming happy—Truly, this time.”

Seokjin studied you for a long moment. Then, quietly, he said, "You think leaving will make it easier for him? Or for you?"

You turned away, staring at the ground, but Seokjin wasn’t finished.

“You’re scared," he said simply, “Scared that he’ll never remember. That you’ll stand in front of him every damn day and he’ll look right through you."

You flinched, his words cutting too deep, too true.

Seokjin exhaled, the usual sharp edge to his voice softening.

"Look. I’m not gonna tell you what to do. But I know my brother. Even if he doesn’t remember you now, he will. And if he doesn’t…" He hesitated, "Then you make him fall for you all over again."

Your breath hitched.

“You did it once, you can do it again. And oh, was he stupid in love with you. That dumbass,” he chuckled bitterly to himself.

You stayed silent, in battle with your heart and mind.

Seokjin sighed, raking a hand through his hair before stepping back, "You love him, don’t you?"

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to.

Seokjin nodded, as if that was all he needed to hear, "Then ask yourself something: if the roles were reversed, would Jungwon give up on you?”

With that, he turned and walked away, leaving you alone in the hallway with nothing but your fractured heart and the impossible weight of a choice you weren’t sure you were strong enough to make.

You told yourself you wouldn’t see him again. You told yourself it would be easier this way. But things never seem to go your way.

So when Seokjin asked you to check in on him while he handled something, you didn’t have the heart to say no.

And that’s how you ended up standing in front of Jungwon’s hospital room again, your pulse racing, your hands clenched into fists at your sides.

You hesitated before stepping inside.

Jungwon was sitting up now, something he hadn’t been able to do the last time you saw him awake. His dark hair was still slightly disheveled, his body thinner than before, but the strength in his posture, the sharp focus in his eyes—it was all undeniably him.

Except, he wasn’t looking at you with the familiarity you had once known.

His gaze flickered to you, polite but confused.

You forced a small smile, masking the ache behind it, “Hey. Your brother sent me here. How are you feeling?”

Jungwon exhaled, rolling his shoulders slightly.

“Like I got hit by a truck,” He paused, then gave a half-smirk, “Did I?”

You almost laughed. The familiarity of his humor, even without his memories, was a cruel kind of comfort. You gave a small smile, looking down.

“No,” you said softly, “Something worse.”

His expression shifted, but he didn’t push. Instead, he nodded towards the chair beside his bed, “You can sit, if you want.”

You hesitated.

You shouldn’t stay, but you sat anyway.

For a moment, silence settled between you. It should have been uncomfortable, but it wasn’t.

Jungwon studied you carefully, “You’ve been here before.”

You froze, “What?”

He tilted his head slightly, “We met. Before today, when I woke up. You were there. Also, the nurses mentioned you.”

You looked away, “I came to visit a few times.”

Jungwon hummed, “Thought so.”

He stared at you for a long moment before speaking again, “Were we close?”

The question knocked the air from your lungs.

Were we close?

No. We were everything.

But you didn’t say that.

Instead, you gave him the only answer you could, “Not really. I’m just a friend of your brother. We saw each other a few times. My name is y/n.”

Jungwon nodded, like he was accepting the answer without fully understanding it.

“Oh, so that’s it?” he murmured.

You frowned, “What is?”

He exhaled, leaning back against the pillows, “I don’t remember you, but… I feel like I should.”

His fingers brushed absentmindedly against yours, his voice softer now, “Like something’s missing.”

Your heart clenched.

It was missing. Everything.

You.

But you had already made your choice.

So you swallowed the lump in your throat and forced another smile.

“Maybe it’ll come back,” you said, even though you weren’t sure who you were trying to convince.

Jungwon watched you carefully, as if searching for something in your expression.

Then he nodded, “Maybe.”

The next few days passed in a blur of routine. Physical therapy sessions. Doctor check-ups. Seokjin’s protective presence hovering over Jungwon like a silent guardian.

And then there was you. You weren’t supposed to stay. You told yourself you wouldn’t.

But somehow, you always found yourself at the hospital.

Seokjin never said anything when you showed up. He just gave you a knowing look, then left you and Jungwon alone.

And Jungwon… he didn’t seem to mind your presence.

Even if he didn’t know why.

"You're here again," Jungwon noted, his voice laced with something you couldn’t quite place. Amusement? Curiosity?

You shifted in the chair beside his bed, “Seokjin asked me to check in."

Jungwon arched a brow, “He did?"

No. He hadn’t.

But you didn’t take it back.

Jungwon hummed, studying you, “I think you just like visiting me.”

You rolled your eyes, relieved that some things hadn’t changed—even if he didn’t remember you, his smugness remained intact, “Don’t flatter yourself.”

Jungwon grinned, but it faded quickly. His fingers traced along the IV line in his arm.

"I still don't remember anything," he admitted, quieter this time.

You looked down at the porridge in your hands, lifting it up to his mouth to eat, “It’ll take time.”

He nodded absently, taking the spoonful, "So tell me something..."

You hesitated, “What do you want to know?"

Jungwon tilted his head, “Are you with him? My brother?"

Your eyebrows furrowed, you lips parting, “w-what?”

“Are you my brother’s girlfriend? I knew he had a thing for women younger than him but this is…”

“I’m not his girlfriend,” you blinked, shocked at his misunderstanding.

Is that what he thought all along?

“good,” he mumbled.

Your eyes flickered. You looked up at him.

What does that even mean?

"You love strawberries with chocolate," you changed the topic.

Jungwon blinked, “Do I?"

You nodded, “You said it was the best combination. You ranted about it for at least twenty minutes.”

Jungwon laughed softly, shaking his head, “That does sound like me.”

For a second, something flickered in his eyes. Recognition? A trace of the past?

But then, just as quickly, it was gone.

You were helping Jungwon walk. His recovery was slow, frustratingly so. Every step took effort, every movement was a reminder of how weak his body had become.

And yet, he pushed through.

You kept your hands close, ready to catch him if he faltered, “You’re doing good,” you murmured.

Jungwon scoffed, “You don’t have to lie."

You almost smiled, “I’m not.”

He exhaled, eyes locked ahead, determined, “Were you always like this?"

< “Are you always this shameless?” >

Jungwon briefly stops. He shuts his eyes, trying to hide the pain in his head at the sudden voice in his head. What was that?

You blinked, “Like what?"

Jungwon’s grip tightened around the rail, shaking it off, as he took another shaky step, “Always looking at me like that.”

Your breath hitched.

"Like what?" you repeated, quieter this time.

Jungwon didn’t look at you, but his voice was softer, “Like you care.”

You wanted to tell him everything. Wanted to scream that you loved him, that you had never stopped.

But instead, you just smiled, “Maybe.”

Jungwon gave you a look, but he didn’t push.

Instead, he just kept walking. And you stayed beside him.

Even if he didn’t remember. Even if he never would.

Soon, Jungwon was improving.

Each day, his steps became steadier, his movements less strained. The bruises had faded, the wounds had healed—but the gaps in his memory remained.

And yet, there were moments.

Little moments.

Moments where he looked at you too long, as if his mind was trying to recognize something his heart already knew.

Moments where he reached for you instinctively, then pulled away before he could question why.

Moments where you caught him watching you when he thought you weren’t looking.

But he never said anything.

And neither did you.

Because you had made your choice. Even if it was getting harder to keep it.

You were sitting by his bedside, absentmindedly peeling an orange when Jungwon spoke.

“You’re different from Seokjin.”

You looked up, “What do you mean?”

Jungwon leaned back against the pillows, arms crossed, “He talks to me as if he’s afraid I’ll break if he says the wrong thing. He was never like that.”

You frowned, “He’s just worried about you.”

“I know,” Jungwon murmured, “But you don’t do that.”

You hesitated, unsure of what to say.

Jungwon studied you carefully, “Why?”

‘Because I know you. Because I’ve seen you at your strongest. Because I fell in love with you when you were unbreakable,’ you thought.

But you couldn’t say any of that.

So instead, you shrugged, “Maybe I just have more faith in you.”

Jungwon’s lips curled slightly, “I think you know more than you’re telling me.”

Your heart pounded, “What makes you say that?”

Jungwon reached for the orange in your hands, his fingers brushing yours, “Because every time I ask about my past, you look like you’re about to run.”

You stiffened, your grip tightening around the fruit.

Jungwon didn’t press. He just peeled a slice off, popping it into his mouth.

But the tension hung in the air. Because he was right.

You were running.

And deep down, you knew you couldn’t run forever.

The room smelled like antiseptic, and the hum of machines was always there, but today, there was something else.

Jungwon had been trying to walk on his own. You followed behind him, making sure he didn’t hurt himself.

“Careful,” you warned, your voice low as you followed his slow, deliberate steps.

Jungwon didn’t look back at you, his gaze focused ahead, but there was a glint in his eye, “I don’t need a babysitter.”

You rolled your eyes. “If you weren’t such a show-off, I wouldn’t have to babysit you.”

<Jungwon turned, searching the crowd, and when his eyes landed on you—he smirked.

“Show-off” you crossed your arms over your chest. >

He stumbled to a halt. His eyes flickered as the image before his eyes flashed, blurry and foggy. Who was that woman? And what was he doing there? He cleared his throat, dismissing the thoughts.

He scoffed, but his lips twitched up at the corners, “You mean you like being my personal nurse?”

You tilted your head, pretending to think, “You could say that. But I’m really just here to make sure you don’t fall and break your face.”

Jungwon shot you a side-glance, “I could break your heart, too, you know.”

The words hit you like a wave, and for a moment, everything else disappeared. That voice, that playful banter— it felt like the old Jungwon was there again.

You couldn’t stop the small laugh that escaped your lips, “What happened to the guy who worriedly asked if I was their brother’s girlfriend?”

Jungwon blinked, flustered and suddenly embarrassed.

“I was not worried! Secondly, I just wanted to know how my brother got a pretty girl by his side. You must be crazy to date that old hag,” he ranted, defensively.

You laughed at him, noticing how his shoulders relaxed as he took another step. Despite the weight of the situation, there was a lightness between you two.

“Well i’m not. Don’t worry,” you teased.

And for a fleeting moment, you imagined what it would be like to have things just as they were.

<Your face burned as you shoved his arm off and sat up, scowling at him, “You were the one holding onto me!”

Jungwon stretched lazily, completely unfazed, “I was asleep. You, on the other hand, let it happen.”

Your glare could have melted steel, “I was asleep, you idiot.” >

But the reality hit you again. He didn’t remember.

You caught yourself staring at him, your heart fluttering against your chest.

He must’ve felt your gaze, because he turned his head slightly, “What?”

You quickly looked away, your cheeks warm, “Nothing. Just making sure you don’t fall again.”

Jungwon chuckled, “I told you. I’m fine.”

But his voice had softened, his gaze secretly lingering on you as he thought back to the moment he had earlier.

You had fallen asleep in the chair next to his bed.

Jungwon watched you for a long time, studying the delicate rise and fall of your breath, the way your eyebrows furrowed even in rest—like you were still fighting some unseen battle in your dreams.

<"I love you," he breathed out, his voice firm but gentle, "so ardently." >

He didn’t understand it.

Didn’t understand why the sight of you filled him with something heavy, something aching. Every time, unlocking a new memory; Still foggy yet he feels it involves you every time. What is it about you?

Why did you feel familiar when nothing else did?

Jungwon reached out instinctively—his fingers barely ghosting over yours before he hesitated. He stopped abruptly at a piercing pain in his head.

<“I truly don’t think I can be without you, y/n. I love you so much it hurts. So please…please, baby…if you can find it in you to love me one more time, i’ll spend the rest of my life in proving it to you. Just one,” he begged, “please love me one more time.”>

His eyes flickered. If he wasn’t sure before, he is now. Its you. The woman in his foggy memories. His eyes teared up, yet he didn’t know why. Before he knew it, his mind acted on for him.

He gently brushed his fingertips against the back of your hand. Just for a second. Just to confirm that you were real.

You stirred, blinking blearily awake.

Jungwon froze. He wiped his teary eyes.

Your eyes found his, confusion laced with something deeper—something raw.

"Jungwon?" Your voice was hoarse from sleep.

He pulled back his hand, swallowing, “You fell asleep here.”

You sat up, rubbing your eyes, “Yeah, I—” You stopped, staring at him as if trying to read his thoughts, “Do you need something?”

Jungwon hesitated.

He wanted to say, ‘Tell me why my body reacts to you as if it’s known you forever. Tell me why my heart aches to be with you. Tell me why the woman in my memories resembles you.’

Instead, he just shook his head.

“Nothing,” he murmured, “It’s nothing.”

But the way you looked at him told him it was everything.

It was raining. The soft patter of water against the window created a soothing rhythm, but inside the hospital room, the stillness was punctuated only by the soft sounds of Jungwon stirring in his bed as he watched his old boxing competitions.

You were sitting beside him, pretending to read your own novel, but really, you were watching him.

His brows furrowed in concentration as he watched the TV, and for a moment, you could almost pretend nothing had changed.

“Do you ever stop staring at me?” Jungwon asked without looking away from the TV.

You blinked, startled, “I—what?”

He looked at you, turning the TV off, his lips curling into a teasing smile, “You’ve been staring at me for the past five minutes.”

You tried to play it cool, turning the pages of your book and pretending to be absorbed, “You’re imagining things.”

Jungwon’s smile widened, though there was a soft vulnerability behind it now, “Right. Of course.”

You glanced up again, your eyes meeting his. And for a second, everything seemed to fall away. He was looking at you differently now—like he was trying to remember something, something that might be just out of reach.

“Do you ever remember anything?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Jungwon’s smile faded. He sighed, “I keep getting flashes. Moments that feel real. But it’s like I can’t put them together.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. You didn’t know he had them at all.

There were so many questions you wanted to ask. But instead, you just nodded, “Maybe it’ll come back to you.”

He nodded along, though there was a wistful look in his eyes.

“I hope it does,” he muttered. Then, after a pause, he turned toward you, his expression serious.

“You’re important to me,” his gaze softens, “Even if I don’t remember why, I… I can tell.”

Your heart skipped a beat.

“I’m here,” you whispered, unable to keep the truth from your voice, “I’ll always be here.”

For a long moment, Jungwon didn’t speak. He just looked at you, his gaze intense and thoughtful.

And then, as if without thinking, he reached out, his hand cupping your cheek.

The touch was soft, tentative, but it made your breath catch in your throat. His eyes glanced down at your lips, then back at your eyes.

You didn’t pull away.

Instead, you overlapped your hands over his.

And for the first time since the accident, you felt the spark—the undeniable, electric spark that had been there between you two all along.

But you were scared. Scared that it was fleeting. Scared that he’d pull away when the memories came back.

All you could do for now was hold on.

Finally, the day of Jungwon’s discharge arrived.

The doctors had signed off on his recovery, and though he still needs rest, they were confident he was well enough to leave the hospital.

But for you? It felt like the moment everything was going to break.

Jungwon had been through so much. His body had fought its way back to him, slowly but surely, and now, it was almost like he was starting to piece together some kind of new life. You’d been by his side through it all, and a part of you had let yourself believe that things could somehow go back to the way they were.

But they couldn’t. They shouldn’t.

He didn’t remember. He shouldn’t remember. He shouldn’t remember the bond you had, the love you shared. Because it was all, for the most part, painful memories. He didn’t even know who you were to him.

And yet, every day you spent with him, that pull—the undeniable connection—grew stronger. The more time passed, the harder it became to imagine walking away.

But you had to. You had to let him go.

You had to make a decision now, while he still didn’t remember. Because once he did, once those memories came rushing back, you knew the truth would tear you both apart.

So, while Jungwon was packing up the few things in his hospital room, you stood by the window, staring at the busy streets below.

“I’m almost ready,” Jungwon’s voice broke through your thoughts.

You glanced over your shoulder at him, forcing a smile. “I’ll go get the car ready,” you said.

Jungwon nodded, clearly distracted by his thoughts. He was back to his radiant, handsome, cocky self. Like he was before.

And that’s exactly why you had to leave.

You were standing by the car, feeling the weight of the world pressing down on you. The sky above was clouded, as if even the universe was mourning with you. You stared out at the passing cars, waiting for Jungwon to catch up to you.

But when you saw him approaching, something in your chest tightened.

His hair was still a little messy from the hospital bed, his eyes still a little too distant. But there was something there—something you couldn’t ignore. Something that reached inside of you and made everything feel more fragile.

Before, he looked through you blankly: like a stranger.

But now…now he’s looking at you. He may not know the you from before, but he knows the you of now.

Jungwon stopped a few feet away from you, his brow furrowed, “Hey, is everything okay?”

You swallowed hard, turning away from him so he wouldn’t see the tears that threatened to spill from your eyes, “Yeah, everything’s fine.”

But your voice cracked, betraying you.

Jungwon took a step forward, concern flashing across his face, “You don’t sound fine.”

He reached out to you, but before he could land a touch on your skin, you moved away.

“I’m fine. Let’s just go. We’re already late,” you opened the car door.

Jungwon studied you, his gaze unwavering, “I don’t believe you.”

“I just… I need to go back to my place for a bit,” you said quickly, your voice strained.

“I’ll meet you there in a couple of hours. Is that okay?” you continued.

Jungwon’s face softened, but there was still a question in his eyes, “Are you sure? Can I get your phone number just in ca—”

You cut him off, “Yeah, it’s fine. I just need some time to…” You trail off, not knowing how to finish the sentence.

But Jungwon didn’t push. Instead, he just nodded, his eyes still locked on you, “Okay. I’ll see you later.”

And then he turned and walked away.

And the moment he disappeared inside the chofer driver car Seokjin had sent for him, you felt your heart shatter in your chest.

You didn’t turn back to watch him leave. You didn’t let yourself.

Because if you did, you’d never be able to walk away.

You kept true to your word; You never showed up. You didn’t reach out. You didn’t come visit him at his house. Nothing.

Days passed. Then weeks. Each one felt heavier than the last. You kept yourself busy—burying yourself in work, drowning in cases, forcing yourself to move forward because if you stopped for even a second, the weight of everything would crash down on you.

But no matter how hard you tried to outrun it, the emptiness followed.

It didn’t go unnoticed; Jungwon waited, worriedly for you ever since that day you parted. He wanted to find you, to look for you. He didn’t know how, he didn’t know where to look. His brother wouldn’t give him answers either. He didn’t know why he cared so much. But he found himself angry, that you never came. He hated himself, for letting you occupy his mind when he’s only known you for such little time. Yet, he found himself looking for you in every room he entered. Hoping, wishing, you’d be there.

But you never came.

The city felt different without Jungwon. Even though he was still alive, it felt like you had lost him.

Seokjin called you a few times, but you never picked up. You didn’t need another reminder of what you had walked away from.

But then, after nearly a month of silence, he sent a message that shattered every last bit of distance you had tried to put between you and Jungwon.

‘He’s asking about you.’

Your hands trembled as you stared at the text.

You read it once. Then twice.

‘He’s asking about me,’ you thought.

You shouldn’t have let it affect you. You had promised yourself you wouldn’t let it hurt anymore.

But it did. It tore you apart.

And against your better judgment, you typed back.

‘What did he say?’

A few seconds later, Seokjin replied.

‘He doesn’t entirely remember you. But he keeps having dreams about someone. He thinks it might be you.’

You sucked in a sharp breath.

Your fingers curled around your phone, gripping it so tightly your knuckles turned white.

He doesn’t remember you entirely, but somehow—some part of him still feels you.

Your mind raced with everything this could mean. Was it just a coincidence? Was his subconscious trying to remember?

Or was fate just playing another cruel trick on you?

You had made your choice. You had walked away.

But what if Jungwon was already starting to find his way back?

And worse—what if you weren’t strong enough to stop him?

You weren’t supposed to see him again.

You told yourself that over and over as you tried to move on.

But fate had other plans.

The first time it happened was purely by accident.

You were rushing out of a café, coffee in one hand, your phone in the other, too distracted to notice the man walking toward you.

By the time you looked up, it was too late.

You crashed into him.

The impact sent your coffee spilling, the hot liquid seeping into your sleeve. You barely managed to stammer out a curse before you caught sight of the familiar face staring down at you.

Your breath caught in your throat.

Jungwon.

He had fully healed since the last time you saw him. His face was good as new, his walk was steady and normal, but his expression was still the same—sharp, intense. Only this time, there was something else behind his gaze.

Shock. Worry. Anger.

"Y/n…A-Are you okay?" he asked, his voice deeper than you remembered.

You swallowed hard, stepping back, “I’m fine."

His brows furrowed, eyes narrowing slightly as if he was trying to make sure it was really you. That he wasn’t dreaming.

Jungwon’s gaze lingered on you for a moment too long before he looked at the mess of coffee on your sleeve.

“Where have you been? Why didn’t you come see me?” He asked, this time his anger seeping in his worry.

Your lips parted slightly, “I…was busy. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t give me that shit,” he blurted.

It took you by surprise.

“Do you have any idea how worried I was for you? How could you disappear without a word?”

You should have walked away.

Instead, you caught yourself staring at him.

At the way his fingers twitched at his sides, at the way his brows furrowed like he was trying to figure you out. And the way his eyes pierced through you, filled with so much emotion.

"Aren’t you going to say anything?”

“I-I don’t know what to say, Jungwon. We barely knew each other, let alone call each other friends—”

He scoffed, “Yeah, right. Friends don’t tuck each other to bed, feed you, help you sleep, or stick by your side so insistently!”

Your eyes widen at his sudden confession. He grabbed your arm.

“We aren’t friends. Fuck—We’re far from just that. So don’t give me that bullshit,” his jaw tightened.

But to you, it was like reopening a wound you had barely managed to stitch closed.

Before you could say anything, he pulled you into an embrace. Taking in your scent, your warmth, and the way you feel against his body.

All familiar to him, yet he can’t place it.

Tears stubbed in your eyes. Why was he doing this? You worked so hard to let this go, yet fate would just simply not let you.

You held him back.

“Don’t leave again. I really won’t forgive you,” he mumbled.

You saw him again a week later. This time, it wasn’t an accident.

You had gone to visit Seokjin, but it was really for other intentions than you would have liked to admit.

You stepped inside the gym, that’s where you saw him.

Sweat dripped down his temple, his knuckles wrapped in tape as he threw a sharp jab at the punching bag. The sound echoed through the gym, each punch precise, calculated. The way it always had been.

Seokjin noticed you before Jungwon did. His expression tensed, but before he could say anything, Jungwon followed his gaze—straight to you.

Something flickered in his eyes.

Recognition. Joy.

“Y/n,” he muttered, wiping his face with the hem of his shirt. He walked over to you, a dimpled smile on his handsome face.

“You’re here,” he breathed out, shocked yet relieved.

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to stay still, “Guess so.”

Seokjin cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable with the sudden tension, “Jungwon, she was just here to speak with me—”

“Are you staying for dinner?” he cut in before Seokjin could say anything else.

You were taken by surprise, looking between Seokjin and Jungwon.

“…sure?” you hesitated.

Jungwon’s eyes lit, hiding his proud smile on his face, “cool.”

“Yeah. You should treat me after you almost burned my arm off with coffee,” you smiled.

A ghost of a smirk touched his lips, “You walked into me.”

The teasing was so natural, so him, that for a second, you almost forgot.

Forgot that he didn’t remember the way he used to tease you.

Forgot that this wasn’t the same Jungwon who used to call you annoying just to get a rise out of you, then kiss you like you were the only thing keeping him alive.

Seokjin cleared his throat. “Jungwon’s been training again,” he said, clearly trying to ease the tension, “He’s been doing well.”

Jungwon shrugged, “Guess muscle memory does the work for me.”

Seokjin shifted uncomfortably, “Hey, why don’t we—”

"Do you box?"

Jungwon’s sudden question caught you off guard.

You blinked at him, confused, “What?”

He tilted his head slightly, “You just… carry yourself like someone who knows how to fight.”

Seokjin stiffened beside you.

Your throat tightened. Of course he would notice. Even without his memories, he still saw you.

You forced yourself to relax, shrugging, “A little.”

Jungwon studied you for a long moment, then—he smirked.

It was barely there, but it was enough to send a shiver down your spine. “Seokjin talks about you, you know.”

Your heart stopped.

Seokjin immediately tensed beside you. “Jungwon—”

Jungwon ignored him. His eyes stayed on you, his expression unreadable, “Says you’re a good fighter.”

You didn’t know what to say. You didn’t know what this meant.

So you did the only thing you could: You smiled, “Seokjin flatters me.”

Jungwon let out a small chuckle, but there was something else behind it—something deeper, something lingering.

You eventually had dinner at their house, consequently leading to stay over in their guest room due to horrid weather conditions.

It happened late at night. Jungwon had a nightmare. You knew he had them when you would walk past his hospital room late at night. But you didn’t think he still had them. Going down the hallway for a glass of water in the middle of the night was when you heard him murmuring in his sleep—murmuring your name.

You froze. For a moment, you thought you had imagined it. But then—

“No… don’t go…”

Your stomach twisted.

You stepped inside, careful not to wake him. His brows were furrowed, his body tense, beads of sweat forming at his temple.

You hesitated, then, before you could stop yourself, you reached out.

Your fingers brushed against his softly. He tightly gripped onto your arm, startling you. And then, it got worse. His mumbles became more incoherent and loud. You needed to wake him up before it escalated.

You flinched in pain as his grip became tighter. You shook him, “Jungwon. Wake up, it’s just a dream.”

He didn’t budge the first time. You shook him harder, cupping his cheek tenderly. You called out to him, softly.

“Jungwon, Hey, it’s me, Y/n. I’m here. It’s okay, sh,” you comforted him.

And then, his stir stopped, his breathing steadied, and his grip became loose.

His eyes flicker open as you brush off his beaded sweat on his forehead with your soft hands.

“Y/n?” he asked, his voice raspy.

“Hey, you were having a nightmare,” you explained, softly.

His face relaxed at the sight of you, he pulled you onto him, embracing you.

You stiffen, unsure of what to do. You try to pull away but his grip became tighter.

“Don’t. Just…let me stay like this for a little,” he whispers.

You don’t fight it. This night, this moment, you let yourself succumb to all the hopes and dreams you had.

“Y/n,” he breathes out.

“yes?” you replied softly.

“Can i kiss you?” he asked.

You look up from his chest to face him, shocked.

“W-What?”

“Can I kiss you?” he repeated, his gaze unwavering.

You don’t say anything, you don’t know what to say.

You swallow, hard. Then you nod.

His eyes glance down at your lips before leaning in. His lips on yours fills the void inside your heart in an instant.

You sigh against the kiss, his arm slithers around your waist pulling you closer to him. He pulls the covers over both of you, trapping you. You break away, slowly. Your eyes look into his, searching for a sign of regret or confusion.

“Don’t stop,” he whispers, chasing your lips to kiss you again.

Before you knew it, he flips you onto your back, towering over you under the covers. Your eyes widen.

“Jungwon?”

“You’re driving me crazy. And I don’t even know why,” he said, kissing your neck.

your breath hitched, your mind melting under his body.

“We shouldn’t do this, why are you being like this…?”

“Tell me to stop,” he replied, pausing to wait for your response.

He caresses your cheek, tenderly. Your eyes flickered in pain at his familiar gaze.

A glimpse of what you both used to be. Of him.

“Tell me,” he repeated, more insistently. As if it was taking all of him to restrain himself.

Was it selfish to want to do this? To just pretend for a moment, that he was back to who he was? That he recognized you for the you he met?

You shook your head, “Don’t stop.”

He immediately smashed his lips onto yours, leaving a trail of wet kisses all over your neck. His hands travelled around your body, as if memorizing it.

Ironically, anyway.

Your hands found his hair, griping onto it slightly as he attacked your neck. He kissed back up from your neck, your jawline, to your lips once again. His touch was sweet, desperate, and frustrated.

What was it about you? What is it that draws him undoubtedly to you?

For a moment, you both lay in silence, gazing into each other’s eyes.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers.

<He unclasped your bra, tossing it aside. He kissed you once more, “You’re so beautiful, it’s driving me insane.”>

Jungwon shuts his eyes in pain, briefly. He drops his head against your neck.

He mumbles, “Have we done this before?”

Your eyes flicker, caught by surprise. You hesitated.

“I should go…” You attempted to get out of his grip, yet he held you down.

His nose brushed against your temple, his lips hovering dangerously close to your jaw.

He wasn’t even kissing you anymore, but it was worse.

Because this wasn’t just physical. This was torture.

The kind that burned slow. The kind that left you aching. The kind that made you crave something you weren’t sure you could have anymore.

“Tell me,” Jungwon whispered.

Your hands shot up to push him away, but—

He caught them.

His fingers tangled with yours, gripping, holding, keeping you exactly where he wanted you.

You inhaled sharply, “Jungwon—”

“Tell me the truth,” he murmured, lips just barely grazing your cheek.

“I…”

His grip on your hands tightened slightly, “Say it.”

You closed your eyes, trying to wriggle yourself out from under him, but it was impossible.

Because Jungwon was everywhere.

His warmth. His scent. His breath against your skin.

And then, his lips—just barely brushing the corner of your mouth, too light to be a kiss, but enough to send your pulse into chaos.

Your chest rose and fell rapidly, “Jungwon, please…”

He hummed, lips still agonizingly close, “Please what?”

You knew exactly what he wanted to hear.

I love you.

And worst of all?

You wanted to say it. But you couldn’t. Not yet.

So instead, you did the only thing you could do.

You whipped your head from him—just enough to break the moment, just enough to breathe—and forced yourself to avoid his piercing eyes.

Jungwon searched your face, his own unreadable.

You needed to get away. Why was he doing this to you? When you’ve worked so hard to stay away and let him have his chance.

“You win,” you whispered, voice barely audible. A tear slipped from your eye.

His brow furrowed slightly,“What?”

You exhaled shakily, pressing a hand against his chest—feeling his heartbeat pound under your palm. You push him away, again.

“You win,” you repeated, softer this time, “I can’t fight this anymore.”

This time, Jungwon allowed you to push him off. He dropped next to you.

Then, ever so slowly—

His fingers released yours.

And just before you sprung from his bed and walked away, his voice—low and rough—sent a shiver through you.

“Then stop trying.”

After that night, you left early in the morning. You didn’t know how to face him, nor if you even wanted to. You told yourself to keep a distance. You needed to.

You weren’t sure why you went to the gym. Maybe habit, maybe restlessness. Maybe because the weight of the past few months was suffocating you, and fighting was the only way you knew how to breathe again.

But when you stepped inside—he was there.

Jungwon stood in the center of the ring, his hands wrapped in tape, his face set in quiet concentration. He was focused, but the second he saw you, he froze.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. You turned on your heel, ready to leave.

Then—

“You avoiding me?” he asked, voice laced with something unreadable.

You stopped in your tracks, looking behind your shoulder, “No.”

Liar.

Jungwon’s eyes narrowed slightly, studying you the way he always had—like you were a puzzle he wanted to solve.

And then, he did something unexpected.

He lifted his hand, gesturing toward the ring, “Spar with me.”

You stiffened, “What?”

He smirked, “You said you fight. Show me.”

You should have walked away. You should have told him no.

But then, he tilted his head, eyes dark with a challenge—and just like that, you were his again.

Even if he didn’t know it. Even if he never would.

“You’re crazy,” you muttered, moving toward the door.

But in an instant, he was there. Right behind you.

“Am I?” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper.

You clenched your fists, “Jungwon—”

“I remember the way you laugh,” he cut you off. His tone was calm, too calm, but the weight of his words slammed into you like a force you weren’t prepared for.

“I remember how your eyes light up when you talk about something you love,” he continued, and this time, his fingers ghosted over your wrist—so soft, yet so deliberate, “I remember the way you fidget when you’re trying to hide something.”

You pulled away as if burned, “Stop it.”

Jungwon exhaled a sharp breath, tilting his head slightly, “Why?”

“Because you don’t remember,” you snapped, spinning to face him, “You’re just—just guessing.”

His gaze darkened, “Am I?”

He took a step closer. Then another.

Until there was barely any space between you.

And then, his hand lifted—fingers brushing along your cheek, down to your jaw, before his thumb dragged ever so lightly across your lips.

“You know what’s funny?” His voice was softer now, but impossibly firm, “Every time I look at you… it feels like I already know exactly how you’ll react. As if I’ve touched you like this before.”

Your entire body tensed.

Jungwon’s thumb traced a slow, burning path along your bottom lip, his eyes flickering with something devastatingly familiar.

Something that made your heart scream he knows.

“I remember a feeling,” he murmured, tilting his head slightly, gaze locked onto yours, “Like something I lost… but never really let go of.”

“It’s just a meaningless feeling—”

“We kissed,” he leaned closer, frustrated, “Or are you also going to say that was meaningless?”

A shiver ran through you.

You had to get out of here. Fast.

Your hands shot up to push him away, but before you could, his fingers curled around your wrist—gently, but unyielding.

His grip wasn’t forceful. But it was intentional.

Your breath came uneven, “Let go—”

“Tell me,” he whispered, “Tell me why you look at me like you’re afraid I’ll remember everything.”

Your pulse thundered in your ears. Because he was right.

Afraid that if he truly remembered everything, you would have to face the truth. That you had chosen to let him go. That you had decided to keep your love buried, thinking it would protect him.

That you would have ruined his second shot at being truly happy. All because of you. But now?

Now, he was standing before you, undoing everything.

His fingers tightened ever so slightly around your wrist, his body impossibly close.

“Tell me,” he repeated, voice hushed, raw, desperate.

“Jungwon…” Your voice wavered.

His eyes dropped to your lips.

For a split second, you thought he would kiss you.

For a split second, you wanted him to.

But then, just as quickly as the moment had come, Jungwon let go.

He stepped back, exhaling sharply as if grounding himself.

“I’ll remember everything soon,” he murmured, “And once I do I want to hear the truth from you.”

He turned away, as if giving you a chance to escape.

And you did.

But not before hearing the quiet, almost broken whisper he thought you wouldn’t catch.

“I already know I loved you once.”

As if things couldn’t get worse after that encounter, Seokjin betrayed you.

You should have known he would find you. Jungwon.

After bothering Seokjin endlessly about where to find you, he gave up your whereabouts.

‘Would you have preferred me to have given him your number instead?’ he told you, earning a frustrated sigh from you. He was right, that would’ve been worse.

You didn’t understand why Jungwon was chasing this idea with no stop. Provoking you, leading you, acting out.

You were in Seokjin’s office, scanning through old case files you were here to give him, when the air suddenly changed.

A shift. A weight. A presence that sent every nerve in your body into high alert.

You didn’t need to look up to know who it was.

“Running away won’t stop it, you know.”

His voice was deep, smooth—too calm for the chaos he was stirring inside you.

You swallowed hard, keeping your eyes on the files, “Didn’t realize I had to check in with you before going to meet your brother.”

A scoff, low, amused, “You don’t. But considering the way you bolted that night, I figured I should check if you still knew how to breathe.”

You sighed, unamused.

“But no, you’re here to meet my brother instead of the man you kissed…” he mumbled, an obvious sulk in his expression.

You turned to him, glaring.

Is he seriously being petty, right now?

Your fingers tensed around the paper in your hand,“Why do you want?”

Jungwon exhaled, slow and measured. And then—

He closed the distance, causing you to stumble against Seokjins work desk. You grip onto the desk.

You felt him before you saw him—his warmth at your front, his presence consuming. Your breath hitched as he leaned down, caging you with his arms beside the sides of your body.

“You.”

Your entire body went rigid.

A slow smirk curled at his lips, “See? I knew it. You still react the same way.”

Your fingers twitched, your jaw clenching, “Jungwon—”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Tell you what?”

He exhaled sharply.

“That we—” He stopped, correcting himself, “That I—” Another pause.

Then, finally, a quiet, almost fragile, “That I loved you.”

Your breath came uneven, “You don’t know that.”

Jungwon let out a humorless laugh, “No? Then why does my heart ache every time I look at you?”

Silence.

He leaner closer, your faces only mere inches apart. His voice dropped lower.

“Why do I feel you in my bones?”

Your chest heaved, “can you stop doing th—”

“Why does my entire body know what it’s like to touch you, even though I can’t remember when I last did?”

You squeezed your eyes shut, “Please—”

Then, softly, almost broken—

“Why do you look at me like you remember too?”

Your breath hitched.

Jungwon reached out, fingers brushing along your wrist—light, testing, almost hesitant.

“Tell me the truth,” he murmured.

Your eyes burned. You couldn’t.

Because the truth was dangerous. The truth meant giving in. The truth meant letting yourself hope again.

And you weren’t sure if you could survive losing him twice.

So, you did the only thing you knew how to do.

You pulled away.

You stepped away, breaking the contact, breaking him.

Jungwon’s expression flickered—just for a second. Just long enough for you to see the hurt.

Anger surged through him.

His jaw clenched, his posture stiffening as he straightened, “I see.”

His voice was cool now, distant.

He took a slow step back. Then another.

And just when you thought he would walk away, he stopped. His gaze locked onto yours one last time, dark and unreadable.

Then—

“I will remember, you know.”

The promise sent a shiver down your spine. It didn’t sound like a sweet promise, but a threat.

Jungwon tilted his head slightly, a ghost of something unreadable in his gaze, “And when I do… I wonder what will hurt more—the memories, or the fact that you were the one who hid them from me.”

And then he left.

Leaving you standing there—shaken, breathless, and breaking all over again.

But things didn’t stop there. The rest of the month was a disaster.

Because everywhere you went, Jungwon was there.

Too close. Too intense. Too much.

It wasn’t just the stolen glances or the casual touches that sent fire racing through your veins. It was the way he watched you—like he remembered. Like his body knew even if his mind was still piecing the puzzle together.

By the time the sun began to set, you were seconds away from losing your grip entirely.

And then—

“Drinks. After work.”

You blinked, glancing up from your desk to see Jungwon standing there, hands in his pockets, looking far too casual for what he was suggesting.

You narrowed your eyes, “I don’t drink with people who annoy me.”

He smirked, “Good thing you like me, then.”

You rolled your eyes, sighing, “Fine. One drink.”

Jungwon’s smirk deepened, “One drink,” he repeated. “Sure.”

You didn’t trust him for a second.

And later that night, when you found yourself pressed against the wall of his apartment, breathless and aching for more, you realized—

You never should have trusted yourself either.

The kiss was sloppy and passionate, your body so hot you feel you could burn up. You blame the alcohol, the way you can’t rationally think. Or maybe you just choose not to.

Jungwon’s hands rest on your hips, pressing you up against him. He picked you up, heading towards his bedroom. Once onto the bed, he hovered over you, capturing your lips once again.

He uses one hand to slowly unbutton your pants, lips still on yours, pulling them down. He tosses them aside, breaking the kiss to take off his own shirt.

You lay there, breathless and without any pants. He pulls up your shirt, kissing the bare skin that laid under it. He cups your breasts, fondling with them. He unclasps your bra, wrapping his lips onto your sensitive buds. Your back arched into him, lacing your fingers into his hair.

His wet tongue circled around your nipples, sucking softly. A few soft moans escaped your tipsy lips.

He kissed all the way down to your lower belly. He stopped, looking up at you.

“Can i?” he asked.

You nodded, feeling your core pooling in your panties. You didn’t want to think anymore, you just wanted him. To feel all of him. Just like before.

He took off his pants before pulling down your panties, tossing it aside with the rest of your clothes.

Your eyes flickered down to his cock, hard and flushed against his abdomen.

“Spread those gorgeous legs for me,” he instructed.

He hovers right over you, eyeing you like prey. He gazes into your eyes, searching for any signs of regret. You wrap your arms around his neck. He aligns himself between your wet folds, slowly rubbing against your core but not enough to go in. He leaves soft pepper kisses around your cheek, a response to your whimper in impatience.

He plants a kiss onto your lips before pushing himself inside. You both sigh against the kiss in response. He slowly pulls out and pushes back in, helping you adjust to him.

Your moans become more insistent, giving him the signal to move. His pace quickens, causing a line of soft curses under your breath. You tighten your arms around his neck, feeling as his hips snap against yours.

Lewd sounds of skin and groans fill the bedroom. Your breath is rigid, broken moans escaping your lips. Your eyes fell to a half-lid, the pleasure becoming overwhelming.

You wrapped your arms around his torso, deepening the missionary position.

You yelped, feeling the new position hit your spot. He bit your neck, leaving love bites and other marks onto your skin.

“Fuck, don’t stop,” you whined, tears filling your eyes at the knot in your stomach.

“You feel so good, baby,” he mumbles against your skin.

He grunts, feeling his cock twitch inside you in desperation to cum. Your velvet walls clenched around him, feeling your own release approach.

He sat up, dragging your legs closer to him, pounding into you against the creaking mattress.

You moaned, your mouth falling agape at his relentless pace.

“You’re gonna cum for me? yeah?” he cooed, his cock deep within you.

“mhm, please,” you whined, gripping onto the sheets.

Hot tears fell from your eyes, your head melting from the pleasure and the alcohol.

This was your ecstasy. You swore you could see the stars.

With one last moan, your orgasm crashes hard onto you. Jungwon grunts, thrusting his hips against your core, riding out his orgasm.

“Fuck,” thrust.

“wanna make you,” thrust, “cum like this everyday.”

Thrust.

By the time you had realized what happened, on sober thoughts, it was already the next morning. Your memories of the previous night came crashing down. You looked beside you, to find a peacefully sleeping Jungwon. You both laid under the covers, still naked from last night. You cursed at yourself, feeling the red crimson tint of embarrassment creep onto your cheeks. You slowly made it out of his warm grip, rushing to put on your clothes. You left his house immediately, not before leaving a sticky note on his bed stand.

‘We’re never drinking again. Forget it ever happened. I left a hang-over remedy in your fridge. Take it when you wake up. - Y/n.’

The next day at work, Jungwon didn’t let up.

“Good morning, pretty,” His voice was teasing as he dropped a cup of coffee onto your desk.

You frowned at the drink, “I didn’t ask for this. Why are you here?”

He shrugged, propping a hip against your desk, “I know.”

You glanced at him suspiciously before taking a sip—only to freeze.

It was your exact order.

Your complicated, annoyingly specific order. The one he ordered for you many times before in the past.

You narrowed your eyes, “How do you know how I take my coffee?”

Jungwon smirked, arms crossing over his broad chest, “I pay attention.”

You hated how much those words affected you.

And you hated even more that your heart stuttered when he reached out, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Careful, detective,” he murmured, eyes flickering to your lips for just a second too long. “You’re starting to look at me like you don’t actually hate me.”

You shoved the coffee back into his hands, “I take it back. I do hate you.”

Jungwon only grinned, like he knew. Like he could see the cracks forming in your walls.

And worse?

Like he planned to break them down completely.

Days turned into weeks, and no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t stop the shift happening between you.

Jungwon was shameless in his pursuit.

It became clear when he found you late one night, still working at your desk, exhaustion weighing on your shoulders.

Without a word, he dropped a takeout container in front of you and sat down across from you, his own meal in hand.

You raised an eyebrow, “What’s this? Why do you always show up at my workplace unannounced?”

“Dinner,” he said simply, already digging into his food.

You stared at the container, “…You got me food?”

Jungwon didn’t even glance up, “You don’t take care of yourself, so someone has to.”

Your heart squeezed in your chest.

You swallowed hard, ignoring the way warmth crept up your spine, “I could’ve bought my own food.”

“Yeah, but you didn’t,” he said, finally meeting your gaze, “So eat, or I’ll feed you myself.”

You huffed, grabbing your chopsticks, “You’re annoying.”

Jungwon grinned, “And yet, here we are.”

You took a bite of your food, trying to ignore the fact that your chest felt way too full.

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

You weren’t supposed to let him in.

But when you glanced up and caught him watching you—soft, teasing, something else—you realized...

Maybe you already had.

“Stay still.”

You huffed, shifting in your seat, “You’re not a nurse, Jungwon.”

“And yet, I’m the one patching you up,” His voice was laced with amusement as he carefully dabbed a cotton ball against the cut on your cheek.

You sucked in a sharp breath, your fingers gripping the edge of the kitchen counter, “That stings.”

He tilted his head, eyes twinkling, “Maybe if you weren’t so stubborn, you wouldn’t keep getting hurt.”

You scowled, “Maybe if you weren’t so annoying, I wouldn’t be stuck here with you.”

Jungwon smirked, setting the first-aid supplies aside, “Right. Because you hate spending time with me.”

You opened your mouth—only to shut it when he leaned in, placing a soft kiss onto your lips.

His voice dropped, soft and teasing, “All done.”

You hated how fast your heart was racing.

And you hated that you didn’t pull away.

It was late—too late—when you stumbled into your apartment, exhaustion dragging at your limbs. You had spent the entire day chasing leads, and the last thing you expected was to find Jungwon already there, lounging on your couch like he belonged there.

You blinked, “How did you get in?”

He lifted his phone, “You texted me earlier, remember? Said you forgot to eat.”

You frowned, “That didn’t answer my question.”

Jungwon grinned, “I don’t know. I just…knew?”

your eyes flickered. Could it be that he…is starting to regain his memories?

Before you could protest, he held up a plate with pancakes, “Figured you’d need this.”

You sighed, dropping onto the couch beside him. “I really could’ve taken care of myself.”

Jungwon hummed, “Sure.”

Jungwon sprawled beside you, looking entirely too comfortable.

You stabbed at your food with unnecessary aggression, “If you wanted pancakes, you could’ve just gone to a diner.”

Jungwon hummed, taking a bite of his own, “Yeah, but then I wouldn’t have been able to see you in those.”

You froze mid-chew before glancing down at yourself.

Shit.

You were still in your sleep shorts and an oversized sweater—hardly the kind of thing you wanted to be wearing around him, especially when you were trying to keep your distance.

You scowled, “Pervert.”

Jungwon grinned, unbothered, “Nothing I haven’t already seen.”

You threw a pillow at him.

He caught it effortlessly, laughing, “Admit it, you like having me here.”

You turned your focus back to your pancakes, “You’re delusional.”

He wrapped his hands around your waist, tugging you closer.

You yelp in surprise, placing your plate onto the coffee table. He pulled you into his lap by your waist, straddling him. Your hands gripped onto his shoulders, blinking at him in confusion.

“What are you doing?”

“Take these off,” he demanded, tugging at your shorts.

Before you could protest, he smashes his lips against yours, his hands gripping onto your waist. He pressed you down against his bulge, gaining a soft gasp in pleasure from you. He rocked your hips against his aching boner, small grunts escaping his lips. He slumped against the couch, spreading his legs in a lazy manner. You take your shorts off, forgetting what you were going to protest about in the first place.

It didn’t matter, not anymore.

Your soaked panties made his cock grow harder, already anticipating to be inside you.

He lifted his hips, sliding off all that restrained his angry cock. His cock sprung onto his abdomen, a soft slapping sound from the release. Pre-cum leaked from his angry tip, his cock hard.

You wrapped your hands around his cock, causing him to curse under his breath, cocking his head back onto the couch.

You gave it a few strokes before aligning it to your dripping cunt. He gripped onto your waist as you slowly lowered yourself onto him.

A groan escaped his mouth, a soft whimper from yours. You slowly rock your hips on his cock, with broken breaths. You cupped Jungwon’s face, gazing into his eyes. He held a sexy, lewd expression.

He leans in to kiss you, your hips still rocking on his twitching cock. You moan against his lips, his strong hands gripping onto your ass.

He helps you rock your hips faster on his dick from his grip onto your ass. He leaves a harsh smack onto your ass, causing you to quicken your pace.

“you’re sucking me right in, baby,” he grunted.

“mhm, feel so full,” you whined, panting.

He notices your fatigue, his hands sliding up to your waist. He stops you, lifting you up slightly to thrust his cock into you.

You yelp, gripping onto him, your fingernails digging into his skin.

He pounds mercilessly into your dripping cunt, a strong grip onto your waist. You’re so loud, you’re sure you’ll get complaints the next day.

“Just like that, baby,” he groaned, “take my cock.”

It became a routine after that.

Jungwon found little ways to worm himself into your life—into you—and you let him.

You turned to put your glass in the sink, desperate for a distraction, “You should go home."

Jungwon hummed, the sound low, thoughtful, "Do you want me to?"

Your grip tightened around the edge of the counter.

You didn’t answer.

Because you didn’t want him to leave.

But you also weren’t ready to admit that.

Jungwon knew. He always knew.

He stepped forward, slow and deliberate, his presence consuming. You could feel the warmth radiating off of him before he even touched you.

And then—His hands found your waist.

Soft. Firm. Unshakable. Your breath stilled.

"Tell me to stop," he murmured, voice barely above a whisper.

Your heart hammered against your ribs.

You should have told him to stop. You should have.

But then he leaned in, his lips brushing just barely against your temple, lingering—waiting.

And suddenly, you couldn’t.

You didn’t remember who moved first.

All you knew was that one second, you were standing there, barely breathing, and the next, you were crashing into him.

His hands tightened around your waist, pulling you flush against him, and your fingers fisted in his shirt, anchoring yourself in the warmth of his body.

Your lips met, tentative at first—like testing uncharted waters.

But then, Jungwon made a sound. A quiet, desperate groan that sent a shiver down your spine.

And just like that, restraint was gone.

His hands slid up, fingers threading through your hair as he tilted your head back, deepening the kiss. His mouth was hot, insistent, like he’d been waiting for this, craving this as much as you had.

You gasped when he pressed you against the counter, his body molding perfectly against yours. Every inch of you burned where he touched, his hands sliding down your sides, tracing every curve, every dip, like he was memorizing you.

You felt powerless against him.

And yet, somehow, you’d never felt stronger.

Your fingers found his jaw, nails lightly scraping against his skin as you pulled him even closer. He groaned into your mouth, his grip tightening on your hips, his breathing ragged as he broke the kiss just long enough to murmur—

"Tell me you don’t want this."

You couldn’t.

Instead, you tangled your fingers in his hair and dragged him back down to you.

His laughter was husky against your lips, dark and full of something dangerous.

And as he lifted you effortlessly onto the counter, settling between your legs with a heat that threatened to consume you, you realized—

You had never stood a chance.

Moments later, you found yourself tugging at Jungwon’s hair as he devoured your cunt. Still on the kitchen counter, he sucked and swirled his tongue on your core. Moans filled the house, your legs quivering in pleasure.

He used his arms to push your legs from closing in, a trail of bite marks and dark hickeys on the inside of your thighs from earlier.

“Fuck,” you whined, “m’cumming.”

he went torturously slow, your eyes rolling back into your head as you gripped onto the counter with force. One hand still gripped tightly onto his hair. You pushed him deeper, earning a soft groan in satisfaction from him. Your juices dripped from his chin.

It was moments like those, that you realized Jungwon had you, body and soul, belonging to him.

And it was far too late to change it.

It had been building for weeks.

The tension. The near-misses. The way Jungwon would look at you, eyes narrowed like he was trying to remember something—something just out of reach.

And you had felt it. It was only a matter of time before the truth caught up to you.

And now—now you were here.

The night air was thick with the scent of rain. The city streets were slick beneath the glow of streetlights, casting ghostly reflections against the pavement.

Jungwon walked beside you, hands in his pockets, his expression unreadable.

You had been avoiding this conversation all night.

But he wasn’t letting you escape this time.

"You knew, didn’t you?" His voice was quiet.

“Knew what?"

Jungwon came to a sudden stop, forcing you to halt as well. The street was empty, the world around you silent except for the distant hum of traffic.

He turned to face you, eyes burning with something dangerous.

"That we knew each other before."

Your stomach dropped.

Your lips parted, but no sound came out.

Jungwon exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his hair, "I’ve been having these… flashes. Dreams. Whatever the hell they are." His jaw clenched.

"At first, I thought I was going crazy. But then I realized—they all have one thing in common."

His gaze locked onto yours, sharp and unrelenting.

"You."

"You’re imagining things," you forced out.

Jungwon laughed. A bitter, humorless sound.

"Am I?" He took a step forward, invading your space. "Then why do I feel like I know you? Why do I remember the way you smile, the way you touch me, when I shouldn’t?" His voice dropped, rough with frustration.

"Why does every memory feel like it’s been ripped out of my head, except for you?"

You had been so careful.

You had spent months trying to avoid this, making sure he never knew the truth. But he was too smart.

And now, everything was unraveling.

You forced yourself to hold his gaze, “Jungwon, it’s not—"

"Don’t lie to me."

His voice was low, almost pleading.

Even when he was angry, even when he was broken, there was always something soft beneath it all.

Something that made your heart ache.

And that was exactly why you had to end this.

You took a step back.

"I don’t know what you’re talking about."

His entire body tensed.

You could see it—the moment the hurt set in, the second the doubt began creeping into his expression.

But then—He reached for you.

His fingers brushed against yours, just for a fleeting second.

And suddenly—A memory flickered through his mind.

The feeling of your hands tangled in his hair, your laughter against his skin, your voice whispering his name like it was the only thing that mattered in the world.

His breath caught.

He stumbled back, hand shooting up to his temple, a sharp pain blooming behind his eyes.

"Jungwon?" Panic seized you as he doubled over slightly, eyes squeezing shut.

Then, all at once—His head snapped up.

His pupils were blown wide, his chest rising and falling in harsh, uneven breaths.

And when he spoke—His voice was haunted.

"I remember."

His eyes—dark, unreadable—bore into you with something raw. Something you couldn’t name.

You hated the way he looked at you like you were the one who had done something wrong. Like you were the one keeping secrets, when all you had done was try to protect him.

But now—now it didn’t matter. Because it was over.

Everything you had been running from, everything you had tried to bury—it had all come crashing down around you.

"You lied to me,” His voice was low. Dangerous.

You sucked in a sharp breath, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. "Jungwon—"

"You lied to me," he repeated, his tone more forceful this time, his hands balling into fists at his sides.

And for the first time, you saw it. The anger.

The betrayal.

But underneath it all—The hurt.

You swallowed past the lump in your throat, the weight of your own decisions suffocating you, "I did what I had to do. I’m not the woman you think you know. So, please, forget it.”

Jungwon let out a sharp, humorless laugh, running a hand through his rain-soaked hair. "What you had to do? Not the woman I know? How can you say this?" His voice rose, thick with frustration.

"You let me think I didn’t know you. That we were strangers. Do you realize what you have asked me? any idea what that did to me?"

Your heart twisted violently in your chest.

Of course, you did. You had watched it happen.

Watched as he tried to piece his life back together, watched as he struggled with missing pieces he didn’t even realize were missing.

And worst of all—You had watched as he tried to move on. But fate wouldn’t let you stay away.

"You were better off not knowing,” you whispered.

"Better off?" His voice was quiet now, but there was fire in it, “So, what? You decided for me? You chose to erase yourself from my life?"

Tears burned behind your eyes, but you refused to let them fall.

"I thought I was doing the right thing," you murmured.

Jungwon’s eyebrows furrowed.

“I will fall in love with you, over and over again, with or without memories, no matter how long it’s been,” his voice became louder, “So don’t tell me you’re not the same person!”

Because the version of you he had fallen for—the woman who had fought beside him, laughed with him, loved him—had let him go.

The silence stretched between you, thick with words left unsaid.

Then, suddenly—A memory.

It struck him like lightning, sharp and searing.

Your voice—soft and teasing—whispering his name in the dead of night.

The warmth of your bare skin pressed against his, your laughter echoing in his ears.

The way you had looked at him, once upon a time, like he was your whole world.

And then—Gunshots. Pain. Blood. The hospital.

And you.

Sitting beside him, fingers trembling as you brushed a hand through his hair.

< ‘I love you. Did you hear? I said I love you! Please. Wake up. I forgive you, okay? You can’t leave me. You said you’d never leave…’>

The words hit him, shattering every lie, every missing piece in his head.

He stumbled back a step, his face pale, his hands shaking.

"I—" He choked on the words, his vision swimming. "I remember."

Your eyes widened, panic flashing across your face.

But it was too late.

Because now—He knew everything.

His voice was barely a murmur, "I remember the way you touched me... the way I kissed you. The way you..." His breath hitched, and his voice cracked under the weight of the unspoken.

"You were everything to me," Jungwon continued, his voice thick with emotion, "But I couldn’t remember. I couldn’t even feel you. And that killed me. I’m so sorry.”

His words cut through you like a blade, sharp and unrelenting. You wanted to reach out, to tell him that you hadn’t meant to take that from him, that you had only been trying to protect him, that he had no reason to apologize.

His hand lifted slowly, hesitating for just a second before gently cupping your cheek. The touch was tentative, but it sent a jolt through your body, igniting everything you had buried deep within yourself.

And then he said it—just barely above a whisper, but with such sincerity that it shattered whatever fragile resolve you had left.

"I remember loving you, Y/n."

A sob caught in your throat, but you bit it back, shaking your head as your heart raced.

"You can’t," you gasped, your voice trembling with the weight of it all, “You can’t remember me. Not like this. Not after everything I—"

But before you could finish, his lips pressed against yours, soft but desperate. A quiet reassurance in the midst of the chaos.

"I don’t care," he murmured, “I just need you by my side. I can’t be without you, Not again."

The days after that were filled with laughter, with quiet moments and passionate kisses. Jungwon was more than just the man you loved. He had become the person you needed—your partner, your equal.

“I love you, Jungwon,” you cried through a bittersweet laugh.

And, slowly, you realized something that you hadn’t allowed yourself to believe before.

“I love you, too. Always,” he smiled, wiping your tears away with his thumb.

You didn’t have to be perfect.

You didn’t have to have it all figured out.

You just had to be willing to love, to trust, and to walk forward together.

And as you stood beside Jungwon, looking out over the city that had once felt so cold and empty, you realized that this was only the beginning.

Because together, you could face anything.

No more running. No more hiding.

Just love and the complexities of it,

There, in all her cheating glory, lay Gia, Jungwon's girlfriend of four years, and Park Sunghoon, Jungwon's arch nemesis from high school, tangled up together on his couch completely naked. He felt his heart stop for a minute, going tense as he stared down his girlfriend.

She shrieked when she saw him, popping up from her position on Sunghoon’s chest to cover herself with one of the throw blankets. “Fuck, Jungwon, it’s not what it looks like!” Sunghoon was only stunned for a mere moment, before yawning like situations like these were normal to him. He was smug, always had been, and it had driven Jungwon insane all his childhood. When he found out that Sunghoon was moving overseas for college he felt as if he’d won the damn world cup, but he never stopped to think about what he’d do if he saw him again.

Tears immediately stung Jungwon's eyes, vision growing blurry as he scoffed. “You… cheated?” Gia spluttered, trying to find a way to explain why she was in bed—or couch— with another man without sounding like a villain. “Jungwon, we— it was just a one-time thing!”

“No it wasn’t! Don't lie to me!” He shot an arm to the right, where your apartment stood. “The neighbor said this happens all the time! That you cheat on me all the time!”

Gia scoffed, “What does the fucking neighbor know, Jungwon!” She seemed to avoid the true question of the night, throwing the fire onto you instead, but Jungwon knew what she was playing at. “Jesus, Gia, I’ve never seen the neighbor leave her apartment to do anything but throw out her damn trash!” He laughed bitterly, “Are you seriously not going to own up to cheating on me? Are you that scared?”

“Alright, you wanna know? Fine! I cheated on you! It’s not my fault you’re always ignoring me!”

His heart dropped. It hurt more to hear it come out of her mouth than his own. “I… ignored you?” It took everything in him not to break down, his voice coming out soft. Gia sighed, picking up her clothes to put back on. “Jungwon, you’re always too tired from work to do anything with me, and you only ever talk about the senior center.” Jungwon spluttered, but she cut him off. “I just wanted to be heard too, and then Sunghoon came home from overseas, and I couldn’t help myself.” Her voice had lowered, quiet and raspy as she looked down. “I’m sorry.”

For a moment there was silence. And then–

“I need you to leave my house.” Jungwon’s voice had lost all its edge, a reflection of acceptance and defeat. Gia’s brows furrowed. “Wait, babe–”

“Please. Get out of my house.” He couldn’t even look at her, his eyes to the floor as he stood there, waiting as Sunghoon and Gia got their things. They left together, Sunghoon’s hand in Gia’s, and closed the door behind them.

Next door, Y/N had been listening to the whole thing play out, your sleep now made impossible with the sounds of arguing.

A knock came from the door, and Y/N froze. you knew it was Jungwon, but her mind traveled to two different places as you walked up to the door. One, is he going to blow up at me for ruining his relationship? Or two, is he going to suggest some kind of revenge plot to get back at me? Y/N’s imagination ran wild, but your mind came to a sharp halt when you opened the door to a disheveled Jungwon.

“Oh dear.” The words came out before you could stop them, immediately throwing a hand over your mouth, surprised at yourself. You stammered, “Holy shit, I’m so–” “It’s alright,” He laughed at your terrified expression, though there wasn’t much happiness on his face. “I look rough, don’t I?”

“Okay, listen–”

“I just wanted to say thank you,” he paused, his lips quivering for a moment. “Thank you for telling me about Gia, even if you didn’t mean to.” He had a hand on his hip, fumbling with the belt loops of his jeans as he figured out what to say next. “I know it must’ve been a surprise, the whole…thing.” You didn’t want to point it out, but you could see him unraveling in front of you– his eyes glossy with tears, blinking rapidly as he covered sniffles with coughs. You ignored it to the best of your abilities anyways.

“It’s…I just hope that you’re doing okay.” You heard how stupid it sounded directly after you said it, facepalming yourself with a sigh. You didn’t realize that Jungwon was crying until a choked sob filled the silence of the empty hallway. Your head shot up, only to find him a complete mess, his hand swiping across his nose as he let himself go. On instinct you pulled him inside, wrapping your arms around his waist as you closed the door behind him.

Jungwon broke down, making no effort to hide his sobs as he leaned into your touch, his head dug into your neck as he cried. “It– it hurt so much…” He whispered into your collar as you patted his back, rubbing gentle circles against it as you guided him to the couch.

He didn’t stop crying, not for a while, but you stuck with him throughout all of it, though you couldn’t stop the feeling that had been blooming in your chest. 

You really tried to ignore it, the way you tensed up at the sound of his cries, the way he whimpered against your neck, the way his bloodshot eyes looked up at you.

Jesus Christ, this was not happening right now.

You froze, eyes squeezed shut as you gasped. Were you seriously attracted to Jungwon right now? You nearly laughed before you remembered the situation, but guilt filled your body immediately. You looked away from Jungwon as you mouthed to yourself, “I’m going to hell.”

PREVIOUS - NEXT

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The voice was pleasant—a warm baritone with just the slightest hint of an accent.

You turned to find a man in an impeccably tailored charcoal suit studying the same photograph with thinly veiled amusement. He was handsome in that polished, untouchable way of the extremely wealthy—perfect hair, perfect posture, everything about him screaming old money.

Under normal circumstances, you might have nodded politely and moved on. Men who looked like him rarely engaged in genuine conversation at events like these.

But something in his expression—a hint of genuine mischief beneath the polished exterior—made you respond honestly.

"I wouldn't say that," you replied diplomatically. "Art is subjective."

"So is food poisoning, but we can still recognize it when we experience it." He gestured toward the photograph with his champagne flute. "This is visual food poisoning."

A startled laugh escaped you, drawing disapproving glances from a nearby couple examining the same piece with exaggerated intensity.

"That's my friend's work you're insulting," you said, lowering your voice.

"Ah." He didn't look remotely embarrassed. If anything, his smile widened, creating a small dimple in his left cheek. "Then I assume you're here out of obligation rather than appreciation."

You studied him more carefully. There was no malice in his expression, only genuine amusement and refreshing honesty.

"Isn't everyone at these things?" You glanced around the gallery. "Half the people here couldn't distinguish between a masterpiece and a child's finger painting, but they'll all have very strong opinions."

"Touché." His smile reached his eyes, transforming his face from merely handsome to genuinely compelling. "I'm Jay."

"Just Jay?" You raised an eyebrow. "No family name? No title or position that should impress me?"

"Tonight, just Jay." He seemed to appreciate that you didn't immediately offer your name in return. "And you are?"

"Just someone who defends her friends' artistic endeavors, no matter how questionable."

"Loyalty," he nodded, as if noting something important. "An underrated quality in rooms like this, where allegiances change with the season's trends."

There was something wistful in his observation, a flash of genuineness beneath the practiced charm. Before you could respond, a commotion near the entrance drew your attention.

A group had arrived, their entrance causing a ripple effect through the crowd—backs straightening, conversations pausing, attention shifting.

"Duty calls," Jay murmured, his expression cooling. The playful stranger who had joked with you was vanishing, replaced by someone more controlled. "It was refreshing to meet you, Just Someone."

And then he was gone, moving toward the new arrivals. You watched as he transformed with each step—shoulders squaring, chin lifting, smile shifting from genuine to practiced.

He bowed respectfully to an older couple at the center of the group, clearly his family. The woman—elegant, with silver-streaked black hair—examined the gallery with the cool assessment of someone accustomed to making judgments that mattered.

It was only when Priya rushed over that you realized who you'd been talking to.

"Do you know who that was?" she hissed, gripping your arm. "The Jay Park. Park Industries! The Korean conglomerate that's expanding into American markets. Did you get his number?"

"We just talked about your photographs," you said, suddenly feeling out of place in your carefully selected but obviously off-the-rack dress. "He called them visual food poisoning."

Priya's expression didn't even flicker. "Jay Park insulted my work? That's practically a career highlight!" She snapped a discreet photo. "Wait until I tell my parents—they'll finally believe this wasn't a waste of my education."

You watched as Jay circulated through the room with practiced ease, his charisma deployed with strategic precision. The man who had stood beside you making irreverent comments might as well have been a different person entirely.

As you left the gallery hours later, you glanced back once to find Jay watching you from across the room. For just a moment, his public mask slipped, and he gave you a small, conspiratorial smile.

You never saw him again. Not in person, anyway.

Three Years Ago

"PARK HEIR ENGAGEMENT ANNOUNCED: JAY PARK TO WED ITALIAN HEIRESS"

The headline splashed across your phone screen during your morning subway commute. Normally, you'd have skipped past such celebrity gossip, but the name caught your attention—that brief memory of champagne and honesty in a New York gallery.

Curious, you tapped the article.

"Jay Park, 29, heir to the Park Industries empire, announced his engagement yesterday to Seraphina Visconti, 26, daughter of Italian shipping magnate Giorgio Visconti. The match unites two of the most influential business families across continents after a whirlwind romance of six months.

"'Seraphina represents everything the Parks value—business acumen, family loyalty, and global vision,' said Chairwoman Soo-min Park in a statement.

"The couple met during Park Industries' expansion into European markets. Sources suggest the marriage will cement a strategic partnership potentially worth billions."

Below the text was a photograph of Jay with his arm around a stunning woman with olive skin and a camera-ready smile. He looked exactly as you remembered—handsome, composed, untouchable. But something about his eyes seemed different. Harder, perhaps. The smile that had crinkled their corners in the gallery was nowhere to be seen.

You stared at the image longer than was reasonable for someone who had spoken to the man exactly once. There was something almost theatrical about the pose, the smiles, the carefully framed opulence.

"Good for him," you muttered, closing the article as the subway reached your stop. "Hope they're very happy together."

You found yourself wondering if he'd made that woman laugh genuinely, or if their relationship was built on the kind of performance you'd witnessed when his family arrived at the gallery.

You didn't think about Jay Park again for a long time.

Last Year

"PARK INDUSTRIES HEIR DISGRACED: JAY PARK REMOVED FROM FAMILY COMPANY AMID SCANDAL"

This headline caught your eye during lunch break. The photograph showed Jay leaving a building, face partially obscured, expression hidden behind dark sunglasses. Even in disgrace, he wore an impeccably tailored suit, though his tie was loosened and his normally perfect hair disheveled.

Something tightened in your chest at the image. You tapped on the article, pushing your salad aside.

"Jay Park has been removed from his position following allegations of corporate espionage and fraud. The Seoul Economic Prosecutor's Office confirmed yesterday that Park is under investigation for his role in the controversial merger between Park Industries and Hanjin Global.

"'Evidence suggests Mr. Park orchestrated the theft of proprietary information to facilitate the merger on terms exceptionally favorable to Park Industries,' stated Chief Prosecutor Kim. 'This represents a serious breach of corporate ethics and possibly criminal misconduct.'

"Sources revealed that Chairwoman Soo-min Park, Jay's mother, personally signed the termination papers. 'It was like watching an execution,' said one executive. 'The family cut him off completely. No defense, no second chances.'

"Adding personal tragedy to professional disgrace, Park's engagement to Italian heiress Seraphina Visconti was terminated shortly before the scandal broke."

You frowned at your screen. Something about the story felt wrong—the swiftness of his family's abandonment, the convenient timing of the broken engagement, the way everyone seemed to distance themselves simultaneously, as if following a coordinated script.

But what did you know? You'd met the man once, years ago. That brief interaction hardly qualified you to judge the situation or the complex dynamics of global corporate politics.

Still, you couldn't shake the memory of his genuine smile, so different from the corporate mask he'd worn for his family. The way he'd spoken about loyalty as an underrated quality.

"Rough fall from grace," your coworker commented, noticing the article on your screen. "Guess even the mighty Parks can't escape karma."

"I guess not," you agreed absently. But privately you wondered what karma had to do with it. From what little you knew of chaebol families, they created their own destinies—and occasionally, their own destruction.

Over the following months, you occasionally saw follow-up articles. The investigation seemed to drag on without clear resolution. Some outlets questioned aspects of the evidence. Others suggested political motivations behind the prosecution.

But as the story faded from headlines, you found yourself wondering sometimes what had happened to the man who had once made you laugh in an art gallery—the man who, for a brief moment, had seemed genuinely human beneath the wealth and privilege.

Four Months Ago - Jay's Perspective

Jay Park stood at the window of his empty apartment, watching Seoul's lights glitter below. The city looked exactly the same as it had before his life imploded—indifferent to his disgrace. Photographers still camped outside his building, hoping to catch a glimpse of the fallen heir.

The penthouse that had once been featured in architectural magazines now echoed with emptiness. Most of the art and furnishings were gone—some seized in the investigation, others reclaimed by his family when they'd cut him off.

His phone—a new one, with a number known to fewer than five people—vibrated on the counter. He ignored it. The nearly empty bottle of scotch beside it held more appeal. He poured another measure into a glass that didn't match the crystal tumblers he'd once collected.

Jay took a long sip, noting with detached interest that his hand no longer shook. Progress, of a sort. The first few months after his downfall, he could barely hold a glass steady.

The evidence against him had been impeccable. Each document, each testimony, each transaction record forming a perfect constellation of guilt. So perfect that, had he not known with absolute certainty he was innocent, he might have believed it himself.

That was the elegant brutality of it—the case was built not on crude forgeries, but on actual actions he had taken, actual meetings he had attended, all recontextualized to tell a story of corruption rather than innovation.

By the time he understood what was happening, the narrative had solidified. His former fiancée had disappeared back to Italy. His family had closed ranks against him. His so-called friends had vanished overnight.

"You always were too trusting, Jongseong."

His mother's words, delivered as she personally collected his company credentials. Not in private—she had ensured there were witnesses. The perfect chairwoman, putting corporate ethics above family loyalty.

He'd spent his entire life trying to prove himself worthy of the Park name, only to be discarded the moment it became expedient.

His phone vibrated again. A text from his attorney: "Prosecutor offering deal. Meet tomorrow."

Jay didn't bother responding. There would be no deal. Not because he was noble, but because accepting a deal meant accepting guilt. And while the world might believe him guilty, he refused to validate the lie.

He returned to the window, scotch in hand. Somewhere in that landscape were the people who had orchestrated his downfall. Were they celebrating still? Or had they already moved on to their next target, his destruction just another successful transaction?

One photograph lay face-down on the counter—Seraphina smiling beside him at their engagement party, her eyes fixed on the camera with practiced warmth. The perfect couple. The perfect alliance. The perfect lie.

"I never saw it coming," he murmured. "Not from you."

That was the truly unforgivable part—not the betrayal itself, but his blind failure to anticipate it. All the signs had been there: her sudden interest when the Hanjin merger was first discussed, her questions about his meetings, her friendship with his cousin.

But he'd been too enthralled with the idea of her—the perfect partner who fit the plan he'd constructed for his life.

Jay drained his glass. He should sleep. Tomorrow would bring more meetings, more denials, more evidence of his spectacular fall.

He was turning from the window when it happened—a sharp, stabbing pain behind his eyes, so intense he dropped his glass. It shattered as he clutched his head, the pain expanding outward like a supernova.

The room tilted sideways. His hand passed through the wall as though it were mist. The familiar contours of his apartment seemed to dissolve, replaced by swirling darkness.

His last conscious thought was strangely clear, cutting through the pain:

I would do it all differently.

Jay opened his eyes to sunlight streaming through unfamiliar curtains.

No—not unfamiliar. His old curtains, from his suite in the family compound. The heavy navy drapes his mother had replaced three years ago.

He sat up with a jolt, banging his head against the headboard with an undignified thud.

"What the—" he muttered, rubbing his forehead while blinking at his surroundings.

This room had been redecorated after he moved out. The traditional furniture, the blue walls, the precise arrangement of his diplomas—all of it had been erased when his mother decided the space needed to "reflect the modern sensibilities of Park Industries' future."

Jay scrambled out of bed, tangling himself in sheets he hadn't slept in for years—1,000 thread count Egyptian cotton in navy blue, not the minimalist white linens of his apartment.

He stumbled to the bathroom. The face that stared back from the mirror made him grip the countertop until his knuckles went white.

"Impossible," he whispered.

The face was his, but not the one he'd seen yesterday. No dark circles. No stress lines. No gray hairs at his temples. This was him from... before.

"I've lost my mind," he announced to the empty bathroom. "This is what a psychotic break feels like."

He splashed cold water on his face, half expecting the hallucination to dissolve.

Back in the bedroom, his phone chimed. Not the anonymous device he'd been using since his disgrace, but his old phone—the one with the Park Industries logo, the one seized by prosecutors.

He approached it like it might explode, picking it up between two fingers.

The calendar notification made him drop the phone directly onto his foot.

"Son of a—" he yelped, hopping awkwardly.

He snatched up the phone again and stared at the date.

Five years in the past.

Another notification: "Meeting with Chairman Kang's team at 11. Merger exploration talks. Confidential."

Kang. The first domino in what would become his downfall. The meeting that would eventually lead him to Seraphina Visconti.

"This can't be happening," he said, running his hands through his hair until it stood in a manner his perfectly-coiffed future self would find horrifying.

The bedroom door suddenly swung open. Jay yelped and grabbed a decorative pillow to cover his chest.

His mother's executive assistant, Mrs. Joseph, stood in the doorway, her expression somehow even more judgmental as she took in his disheveled state.

"Mr. Park," she said with glacial formality, "your mother wishes to remind you that the board meeting begins in forty-five minutes."

"Mrs. Joseph," Jay managed, clutching the tasseled pillow, "what day is it today?"

One perfectly plucked eyebrow rose a millimeter.

"It is Tuesday, Mr. Park. The 17th of October, 2018."

Five years in the past. Confirmed by the human calendar that was Mrs. Joseph, who had never been wrong about a date in twenty years.

"Thank you. Please tell my mother I'll be there."

Mrs. Joseph nodded and closed the door.

Jay stood frozen before bursting into motion, pacing and gesturing wildly.

"Time travel isn't real," he informed his empty room. "This is a complete psychological break."

He stopped in front of the mirror, pointing an accusatory finger at his reflection.

"You are having a nervous breakdown."

His phone chimed again. A text from his cousin Danny: "You look like hell on the security feed. Board meeting in 44 minutes. Pull yourself together."

Jay glanced at the discreet camera in the corner, then back at his phone.

Other people could see him. Other people were interacting with him. This wasn't just in his head.

"I've gone back in time," he whispered, testing the words. "I've gone back in time!"

A hysterical laugh bubbled up from his chest. He had a second chance. A chance to avoid Seraphina. A chance to prevent the merger catastrophe. A chance to protect himself from betrayal before it began.

Then he froze, composing himself. If this was real, he needed to be strategic.

"Park Jongseong," he told his reflection sternly, "pull yourself together. You have a board meeting in forty-three minutes. And then you have a life to completely rebuild."

As he headed for the bathroom, he caught himself whistling. Park Jongseong didn't whistle. Park Jongseong was dignified, serious, and focused at all times.

But then again, Park Jongseong also didn't time travel. So perhaps some new rules were in order.

Forty-two minutes later, Jay found himself seated in the most uncomfortable chair in Seoul—not because of its design, but because of who surrounded it.

The Park Industries boardroom was exactly as he remembered it from before its renovation. Twenty-four seats around a massive mahogany table, each position equipped with a recessed screen and an elegant portfolio. The room smelled of sandalwood and concentrated power.

And around him sat the very people who would one day abandon him without hesitation.

His mother, Chairwoman Soomin Park, presided at the head, her silver-streaked hair in a severe chignon. His father sat opposite, expression fixed in the distant contemplation that had always characterized their relationship. Next to him was Uncle Jiho, whose vote would be first to condemn Jay when the time came. Beside his mother sat Aunt Mina, who would publicly declare his actions "disappointing but not surprising."

They were all watching him. Or perhaps he was just paranoid. Hard to tell which was more reasonable when you'd time-traveled into your younger body.

"The Q3 projections for the semiconductor division," droned CFO Yun. "As you can see, we're exceeding targets by 4.3% despite supply chain challenges..."

Jay nodded mechanically, trying to appear engaged while his mind raced. He kept catching himself staring at people who shouldn't be noteworthy—like Director Kang, who would later introduce him to Seraphina Visconti.

"Jongseong."

He jerked upright, realizing his mother had addressed him directly.

"I—" he began, having no idea what had been asked. "Could you repeat the question?"

A flicker of annoyance crossed his mother's face. "I said, do you have the projections for the European market expansion? The ones you insisted were ready for board review?"

Right. The European expansion. The document that would eventually lead to the Visconti partnership. The first step in his downfall.

"I've been reconsidering those projections," he said, his voice sounding strange in his ears. "I believe we should focus on domestic consolidation before extending into Europe."

A heavy silence fell over the room. In the original timeline, he'd aggressively championed European expansion for months.

"You've been... reconsidering," his mother repeated, each syllable precisely weighted. "Since last night's strategy meeting, where you presented a seventy-page report detailing exactly why European expansion cannot wait?"

Jay cleared his throat, tugging at his suddenly tight collar. "I've had some... insights."

"Insights," she echoed flatly.

"Yes. About... market volatility." Jay caught sight of his reflection in the darkened screen—he looked like someone trying to defuse a bomb while wearing oven mitts. "And geopolitical considerations. Brexit currency fluctuations. You know. Business... things."

Director Kang frowned. "But your analysis specifically addressed Brexit concerns, concluding they presented opportunity rather than obstacle."

"Well, people can change their minds," Jay said, a bit too forcefully.

His mother set down her pen—never a good sign. "Are you feeling well, Jongseong?"

"Perfectly well. Never better."

"You look flushed. And you're sweating."

Jay reached up, mortified to find his forehead damp. Park Jongseong did not sweat in board meetings.

"It's rather warm in here."

"It's sixty-eight degrees, as always," his mother replied. "Your grandfather had similar symptoms before his stroke. The disorientation. The contradictory statements."

"I'm not having a stroke," Jay said, horrified that this conversation was happening in front of the entire board.

"He said the same thing," contributed his aunt helpfully. "Right before he tried to sign a merger agreement with a potted plant."

"I know what day it is," Jay offered as proof of his mental faculties. "It's Tuesday, October 17, 2018."

This did not have the intended effect. If anything, his mother's concern deepened.

"Yes," she said slowly. "Most people with calendars know the date. More relevant is your explanation for this sudden policy reversal."

Jay scrambled for a plausible explanation that wouldn't sound like 'I've seen the future and it ends with all of you betraying me.'

"I received some... intelligence," he said finally. "About certain European partners. It requires verification before we proceed."

This, at least, was the language of business his mother understood. Her expression shifted from concern to calculation.

"What intelligence, and from whom?"

"I'd prefer to discuss that privately," he said, finding his footing. "After I've confirmed some details."

His mother studied him, then gave a slight nod. "Very well. We'll revisit the European strategy next week."

As the presentation resumed, Jay exhaled slowly, only to catch his father watching him with an evaluative expression he couldn't quite interpret.

His phone vibrated. Grateful for the distraction, he discreetly checked the message.

From Jake: Dude, what was THAT? Your mom thinks you're having a stroke, and Danny says you were talking to yourself this morning. Also, Priya's exhibition is Friday, don't forget you promised to come. Her parents are visiting from Mumbai and she's freaking out.

Jay blinked, momentarily confused. Priya? Jake's girlfriend. The photographer. The exhibition.

A distant memory stirred—something about an art gallery in New York, some terrible photographs, and...

He frowned, trying to recall. There had been someone there, hadn't there? Someone he'd spoken to briefly. He couldn't remember a face or name, just a vague impression of a genuine laugh and an honest conversation.

He typed back: Not having a stroke. Just reconsidering some strategies. What time Friday?

Jake's reply came instantly: 8PM, Klein Gallery in Chelsea. Wear something that makes you look less corporate robot, more human person.

Jay tucked his phone away, the half-formed memory already fading as more pressing concerns demanded his attention.

"Jongseong, do you have anything to add to Director Park's assessment?"

Jay looked up to find the entire board staring at him again. He hadn't heard a word of what Director Park had said.

"I think Director Park's assessment is... comprehensive," he managed, having no idea what he was endorsing.

"He asked for your input on canceling the Daewon acquisition."

"Right." Jay straightened. The Daewon acquisition—a company they had purchased and later sold at a significant profit in his original timeline. "I believe we should proceed with the acquisition. Their patent portfolio alone justifies the investment."

Director Park nodded approvingly. "Exactly my point."

Jay relaxed marginally, only to tense again when his mother spoke.

"That's interesting, considering Director Park just recommended we cancel the acquisition due to their overvalued patents."

The room fell silent. Jay felt heat creeping up his neck.

"I was... testing to see if anyone was paying attention?"

His mother's sigh could have withered steel. "We'll take a ten minute recess. Jongseong, my office. Now."

As the board members filed out, his father paused briefly beside him.

"Whatever's going on with you, fix it before your mother decides you need medical intervention. Or worse, reassignment."

With that less-than-comforting advice, Jay followed his mother to what would undoubtedly be the most awkward conversation of his newly-regained past life.

"Close the door," his mother instructed as they entered her office, a minimalist sanctuary of glass and steel.

Jay obeyed, steeling himself for the dissection that was about to occur.

"Sit," she commanded, taking her place behind a desk large enough to land a small aircraft.

He complied, automatically adjusting his posture to the rigid formality expected. Twenty-nine years of conditioning didn't disappear even with temporal displacement.

"What is happening with you?"

"Nothing serious, I assure you. Just a temporary—"

"That was not a board performance worthy of a Park," she interrupted. "You contradicted yourself, failed to pay attention, and gave the impression of someone who is either incompetent or unwell. Neither is acceptable."

"I apologize, Mom. It won't happen again."

The moment the word left his mouth, Jay was surprised at his own casualness. Mom. Not "Mother" or "Chairwoman" as he'd taken to calling her in professional settings.

His mother's expression softened almost imperceptibly—visible only to someone who had spent a lifetime learning to read her minute facial cues.

"It's been a while since you've called me that in this office," she noted, neither disapproving nor sentimental. The Parks might be ruthless in business, but family was family. "Though it doesn't exempt you from explaining your behavior this morning."

"I'm simply... reconsidering certain aspects of my approach."

"Your approach," she echoed skeptically.

"Yes. I've been thinking that perhaps I've been too rigid. Too focused on following a preset path without questioning whether it's the optimal route."

Her expression shifted subtly. "And this revelation came to you when, exactly?"

"Recently," he hedged.

"I see." She tapped one nail against her desk. "And does this 'reconsideration' include your personal life as well?"

Jay tensed. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that you've spent five years claiming to be too focused on your career for serious relationships, despite my repeated reminders that a suitable marriage is an essential component of your position. If you're reconsidering 'preset paths,' perhaps this is an area you might prioritize."

And there it was. In the original timeline, this conversation had led to his first introduction to the Visconti family.

"I don't believe my focus should be on marriage at this time," he said carefully.

"And yet you're now suggesting we delay European expansion, which leaves you with considerably more bandwidth." She opened a drawer and removed a slim folder. "I've taken the liberty of updating your candidate dossiers."

Of course she had. In his mother's world, suitable marriage partners were assessed with the same due diligence as potential acquisitions.

"I appreciate your thoroughness, but I'll handle this aspect of my life myself."

The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees. "You've been 'handling it yourself' since graduation, with no results. The Kang family has been quite direct about their interest in an alliance through their daughter."

Jay suppressed a grimace. Se-yeon Kang. The woman who had introduced him to Seraphina at her father's request.

"The Kangs are not a suitable match," he said sharply.

"On what basis?"

On the basis that they were integral to his destruction, he thought bitterly.

"I have concerns about their long-term business ethics," he said instead.

"Interesting." She made a note on her tablet. "I wasn't aware you had investigated the Kang operations."

"I make it my business to be thorough."

"Perhaps you're not as distracted as you appeared in the boardroom, then."

Jay recognized the familiar pattern—his mother testing him, probing for weaknesses. In his first life, he'd been so desperate for her approval that he'd missed the manipulation.

"I should prepare for the Kang meeting," he said, rising. "I'll need to review the materials given my reconsideration of our European strategy."

She nodded, dismissing him with a wave. "Don't embarrass yourself again. The board already thinks you're following in your grandfather's neurological footsteps."

At the door, he paused. In his previous life, he'd walked out of this office and directly into the trap being laid for him.

"One more thing," he said. "Who originally suggested the Visconti Group as a potential European partner?"

If the question surprised her, she didn't show it. "I believe Chairman Kang mentioned them at the economic forum in Davos. Why?"

"Just mapping connections. It helps me visualize the relationship web."

Her eyes narrowed slightly—the look she gave when recalculating her assessment. "Your grandfather used to say something similar. Before the stroke, of course."

With that parting barb, she dismissed him.

As Jay left, his phone vibrated again. Another text from Jake:

Almost forgot—Priya says to bring that friend of yours from the investment firm if he's still in town. She needs all the connections she can get.

Jay frowned. What friend from what investment firm? He didn't recall...

And then it clicked. The half-remembered interaction from the gallery. There had been someone else there that night—not just the person he'd spoken to, but someone he'd been introduced to later.

If he attended this exhibition, he might run into that person again—the one whose laugh he vaguely remembered. Not that it mattered particularly. Just a curious coincidence in his reshuffled timeline.

He pocketed his phone, mind already turning to more immediate concerns. The Kang meeting. The European strategy. The trap he needed to dismantle piece by piece.

A random stranger he'd once met at a gallery was hardly worth dwelling on when he had an entire future to reconstruct.

Autumn in New York welcomed Jay with crisp air and streets still gleaming from an afternoon shower. He stood outside the Klein Gallery in Chelsea, straightening cuffs that needed no adjustment.

The city felt different now—full of possibility rather than the shame and failure it would represent in his original timeline. Here, five years before his downfall, no photographers lurked hoping to catch the disgraced Park heir. He was just another wealthy visitor, anonymous in a city that specialized in ignoring the important.

The past three days had been a calculated offensive against his future ruin. Altered procurement strategies. Reassigned personnel. Extensive documentation that couldn't be manipulated later. He'd even faced down Kang himself, politely declining the European expansion that would eventually lead to his destruction.

All while maintaining the perfect Park Jongseong façade.

This trip to New York offered both strategic cover and unexpected relief. For a few precious hours, he could breathe without the weight of his name.

He checked his watch. He was early, deliberately so. Jake and Priya would arrive in twenty minutes, giving him time to assess the gallery and determine if his half-remembered encounter would repeat itself.

But the vagueness didn't matter. What mattered was the opportunity to alter one small variable in the equation of his life.

Since his mother had mentioned marriage in her office, a strategy had been forming in his mind. In the original timeline, the months following this trip had seen increasing pressure about his relationship status. His mother had begun introducing him to eligible candidates—all with their own agendas, all connected to the world that would eventually close ranks against him.

And then came Seraphina. Perfect, beautiful, accomplished Seraphina. The woman who would eventually help orchestrate his destruction.

But what if he removed that variable entirely? What if he preempted the whole process? Elementary business strategy: block your opponent's best move before they make it.

Inside, the gallery was minimalist—white walls, polished concrete floors, strategic lighting. Jay moved through the space with practiced ease, accepting champagne from a passing server.

Priya's work was exactly as he remembered—technically proficient but emotionally distant. Black and white urban landscapes hinting at decay and renewal. He paused before one he remembered discussing in the original timeline—the one he'd compared to food poisoning.

"Considering an acquisition?" a voice asked. Not yours. The gallery owner—Klein himself.

"Just appreciating the composition," Jay replied smoothly.

He scanned the room peripherally. The space was filling with the expected crowd—moneyed New Yorkers performing interest in emerging artists, critics with studied expressions of judgment.

But no sign of you.

A flicker of concern crossed his mind. Had his earlier manipulations altered the timeline so significantly that you wouldn't attend?

"Mr. Park!" Priya approached with nervous energy

"The exhibition looks excellent," Jay said, offering Priya a polite air-kiss. "Your work has evolved considerably."

A kind lie. Her work was exactly as he remembered it.

"That means so much coming from you," Priya gushed. "Jake said you've been impossibly busy with the European expansion plans."

Jay shot Jake a warning look, but his friend merely shrugged.

"Sorry, forgot it was all very hush-hush and corporate espionage-y." Jake clapped Jay's shoulder. "You look terrible, by the way. In an expensive, tailored way, but still terrible. Are you sleeping these days?"

In his first life, Jay would have bristled at such criticism. Now, after everything, he felt unexpected gratitude for Jake's honesty. He'd forgotten this about their friendship—how Jake treated him as a person, not the Park heir.

"Sleep is for those without quarterly projections," Jay replied dryly.

"You're not fine, you're just good at faking fine. The Park family specialty." Jake surveyed the crowd. "Speaking of fake, look at all these people pretending to understand Priya's art when half couldn't tell profound commentary from pictures of garbage."

Priya elbowed him. "My parents will be here any minute. Please pretend to be cultured."

"Fine. I'll practice my 'this speaks to me spiritually' face." Jake grinned and headed for the bar.

"He's impossible," Priya sighed affectionately. "But he's been amazing with my parents. Even learned Hindi phrases for my father."

Jay nodded, remembering with a pang how Jake and Priya's engagement had been "postponed" after his disgrace. No one wanted ties to a pariah, not even his oldest friend.

"Jay?" Priya studied him. "Are you okay? You seem... different somehow."

Before he could answer, the gallery's atmosphere shifted—the crowd parting for Priya's parents. She excused herself, leaving Jay alone.

His mind returned to his strategy. He needed someone who could occupy the space Seraphina would fill, disrupting the timeline ending in his ruin. Someone far removed from his world.

You—if you showed up—would be perfect. Not for any particular quality, but for what you weren't. You weren't connected to his family's web of alliances. You had no ties to competing conglomerates. You carried no hidden agenda.

Your ignorance of his world wasn't a liability—it was your greatest asset. You couldn't be manipulated by the forces that orchestrated his destruction because you existed outside their sphere.

It wasn't personal. He didn't need a soulmate; he needed a shield. The fact that he remembered your laugh was merely incidental. A convenient connection point for his strategy.

The gallery door opened, admitting a gust of cool air and a latecomer—you.

Recognition hit immediately. How had he forgotten so many details? Your self-conscious movements. Your genuine curiosity instead of affected boredom.

Jay moved toward you before consciously deciding to, drawn by the chance to rewrite this small piece of his past. He intercepted you at the photograph he knew you'd examine—the one you'd defended despite its quality.

He reminded himself: this was strategy, not sentiment. Business, not emotion. This was about survival.

"It's quite terrible, isn't it?" Jay said, repeating his original words.

You turned, and he was struck by your direct gaze—no calculation, just human curiosity.

"I wouldn't say that," you replied, amusement tugging at your mouth. "Art is subjective."

"So is food poisoning, but we recognize it when we experience it." He gestured with his champagne. "This is visual food poisoning."

A startled laugh escaped you—genuine, unguarded. The sound hit Jay with unexpected force. For a moment, his calculated facade cracked, replaced by a genuine impulse to connect.

He pushed the feeling aside. Focus on the objective.

"That's my friend's work you're insulting," you said quietly.

"Ah. Then you're here from obligation rather than appreciation?"

"Isn't everyone?" You glanced around. "Half these people couldn't distinguish masterpieces from finger paintings, but they'll have strong opinions borrowed from the last opening."

The conversation unfolded exactly as before—eerie yet comforting.

"I'm Jay," he said, memorizing your face.

"Just Jay? No impressive title?"

"Park. Jay Park. But I'd prefer to be just Jay tonight."

You assessed him with refreshing directness. "And what does Just Jay do when not critiquing photography?"

Another deviation from the original timeline. A small ripple that could grow into a wave.

"Corporate strategy," he replied vaguely. "Nothing as interesting as defending questionable art. And you are...?"

The gallery door opened, and Jay felt a cold jolt as his family entered, causing the usual ripple through the crowd. His mother, father, relatives—all unaware they would eventually abandon him when convenient.

This was the moment. Originally, he'd left without your name, swept back into the path leading to Seraphina and his destruction.

Not this time.

"I should warn you," he said conspiratorially, "I'm about to transform into someone less honest and more boring. Corporate obligation." He nodded toward his family. "But before I do—your name? In case our paths cross again."

Behind this casual request lay his entire strategy. Your name would be the first stone in his new foundation.

As he waited, his gaze intensified slightly. To you, it might seem like normal interest. To him, it was the focus of someone placing extraordinary significance on an ordinary exchange.

This wasn't just about a name—it was about architecture. The careful redesign of his future. And you, unknowingly, were about to become a cornerstone.

"Y/N"

-

The syllables hung in the air between them for a moment. Jay's smile shifted—genuine now, not the practiced expression he deployed at corporate functions.

"It's been a pleasure meeting you, Y/N." He reached for your hand, a brief, professional clasp. "Unfortunately, duty calls."

He slipped you his card—not the formal Park Industries one, but a sleeker personal version with just his name and private number. A deliberate choice. The first move in his new game.

"Perhaps we'll cross paths again," he said. His tone casual, but his gaze wasn't. It held yours a moment longer than social convention dictated.

Then he was gone, transforming with each step toward his family. Shoulders squaring. Expression cooling. The brief glimpse of honest humanity tucked away beneath the polished exterior of Park Jongseong, corporate heir.

You watched him bow to his mother, exchange handshakes with other family members, fluidly inserting himself into their formal orbit. The man who had made irreverent comments about art seemed to evaporate entirely.

"The exhibition demonstrates impressive technical skill," Jay's mother observed an hour later, champagne flute held at a precise angle. "Though the subject matter is rather... conventional."

This assessment came after a methodical circuit of the gallery, during which the Park family had drawn considerable attention without seeming to notice it.

"Priya has potential," Jay replied diplomatically. "Her composition exhibits strong understanding of negative space."

Art criticism wasn't the point of this conversation, and they both knew it. His mother was watching him carefully, calculating something behind her perfect smile.

"I spotted you speaking with someone earlier," she mentioned with practiced casualness. "Before we arrived."

And there it was. Nothing escaped her notice.

"A friend of the artist," Jay said, matching her casual tone. "We were discussing the merits of contemporary photography."

"I see." His mother's gaze swept the room, locating you within seconds where you stood chatting with Priya near the bar. "Not the usual social circle you frequent."

"Perhaps that's refreshing." Jay sipped his champagne, strategic in his mild defiance. "One tires of the same conversations."

His mother's eyebrow arched slightly—the equivalent of open surprise from anyone else.

"Interesting," she said, recalculating variables in her mental dossier. "Does this relate to your sudden disinterest in the European expansion?"

"Not directly," Jay replied. "Though both reflect a broader reassessment of paths worth pursuing."

She studied him with the penetrating gaze that had intimidated business rivals for decades. "You've changed, Jongseong. Since when, I'm not certain. But something is different."

"Growth isn't change, Mother. It's evolution." He'd never spoken to her this way in his first timeline—confident but not confrontational. "The core remains the same."

His father approached, ending their private exchange. "The Visconti Group's representative just arrived," he informed his wife. "The one you wanted to meet."

Jay's pulse quickened. In the original timeline, this casual introduction had been the first seed planted. The beginning of his eventual destruction.

"Another time, perhaps," Jay interjected smoothly before his mother could respond. "I promised Jake I'd speak with some potential collectors. His girlfriend would be devastated if the night wasn't successful."

His father's expression registered mild surprise at this unusual prioritization of friendship over business.

"Of course," his mother said, analyzing this new data point. "Family supports family's associates. That's the Park way."

The subtle reminder of obligation came with her practiced smile. Not a reprimand, but a note being filed away for future reference.

Jay inclined his head respectfully and moved away, circulating through the crowd with practiced ease. He exchanged pleasantries with critics, complimented the gallery owner, and strategically positioned himself near a group of potential collectors, laying groundwork for a purchase that would help Priya's career.

All while remaining acutely aware of your location in the room.

-

Two hours later, Jay found himself in a strategic position near the coat check as you prepared to leave. The gallery had begun to empty, the initial excitement of the opening fading into the routine pattern of a Thursday night in Chelsea.

"Leaving so soon?" he asked, timing his approach to appear coincidental.

You looked up, surprise flickering across your face. "Just Jay. I thought you'd be trapped in corporate obligation all night."

"A temporary reprieve." He smiled. "The family business discussions have moved to dinner at Le Bernardin."

"Very fancy," you commented. "I'm headed for much humbler fare—the subway and takeout."

Jay glanced at his watch. "Actually, I find myself with an unexpected hour before I need to join them. Perhaps you'd allow me to buy you a proper dinner? There's an excellent place just around the corner." He kept his tone casual, the invitation seemingly spontaneous.

You hesitated, studying him with that direct gaze he found so refreshing. "Why would you want to have dinner with a complete stranger when you clearly have more important places to be?"

The directness of the question caught him slightly off-guard. In his world, people rarely questioned Park Jongseong's motivations to his face.

"Because you're the only interesting conversation I've had all evening," he replied, allowing a hint of genuine feeling to color his words. "Everyone else is either trying to sell me something, impress me, or secure an introduction to my mother."

You considered this, head tilted slightly. "And what makes you think I'm not doing the same?"

Jay laughed—a real laugh, not his polished social chuckle. "The fact that you just asked that question, for starters."

Something in your expression softened. "One hour. And it had better be good food."

"I never compromise on quality," Jay assured you, suppressing the satisfaction of a well-executed strategic move. "The restaurant is just three blocks from here."

As you walked together into the crisp autumn evening, Jay maintained the perfect balance of professional distance and personal interest. He asked about your work (freelance journalism), your history with Priya (college roommates), your thoughts on New York's cultural scene (overpriced but occasionally transcendent).

Each piece of information carefully filed away. Each response analyzed for potential complications or advantages to his developing strategy.

The restaurant—an upscale Italian place with discreet lighting and well-spaced tables—provided the ideal setting for his purposes. Impressive without being intimidating. Exclusive enough to require his name for a last-minute table, but not so ostentatious that it would make you uncomfortable.

"So," you said once you were seated and had ordered, "are you going to tell me what Park Industries actually does? Or am I supposed to pretend I don't know you're practically royalty in South Korea?"

Again, that directness. Jay found himself genuinely smiling.

"Technically, we do everything from semiconductors to shipping," he replied. "But that's hardly dinner conversation. I'd rather hear more about your work. Journalism must give you a unique perspective."

"Nice deflection," you noted, but allowed the conversation to shift.

For fifty-three minutes, Jay executed a perfect performance of genuine connection. He asked thoughtful questions. Shared carefully selected personal anecdotes. Displayed just enough vulnerability to seem authentic without revealing anything truly significant.

He studied your reactions, adjusting his approach subtly based on what resonated. When you responded to his dry humor, he offered more. When certain topics sparked genuine interest in your eyes, he explored them further.

A strategic seduction—but not a romantic one. He was securing an ally. Establishing a connection outside the corrupted network that had eventually destroyed him.

When his phone vibrated with a text from his mother, he allowed himself a calculated show of reluctance.

"Duty calls," he said, echoing his words from earlier in the gallery. "I've enjoyed this conversation more than you know."

"It was surprisingly pleasant," you agreed with a hint of amusement. "Despite the suspicious circumstances."

He signaled for the check. "Suspicious?"

"Wealthy heir suddenly interested in random gallery-goer? That's either the beginning of a romance novel or a cautionary tale." You smiled to soften the words. "I'm still deciding which."

Jay laughed again, caught between strategic calculation and genuine appreciation of your perception.

"Perhaps neither," he suggested. "Perhaps just two people enjoying conversation without agenda."

"Everyone has an agenda," you replied, gathering your things. "Even if they don't recognize it themselves."

How right you were. If only you knew the elaborate mental chess game he was playing, with you as a central piece.

Outside the restaurant, he made his final move of the evening—perfectly calibrated for maximum effect without seeming too eager.

"I'll be in New York for another two days," he said casually. "If you're free tomorrow evening, perhaps you could show me a part of the city tourists don't usually see. Something authentic."

The invitation was designed to appeal to your evident independence and local knowledge. To position you as the expert rather than the pursued. A subtle flattery that didn't register as manipulation.

"I might be available," you said, considering. "Depends on my deadline."

"Of course." He nodded respectfully. "You have my number. No pressure either way."

As he hailed a taxi for you, he allowed his hand to brush yours briefly—a manufactured moment of connection carefully designed to seem accidental.

"Goodnight, Y/N," he said as you stepped into the cab. "I hope to hear from you tomorrow."

You smiled through the window, giving a small wave as the taxi pulled away.

Jay watched until the taillights disappeared into Manhattan traffic, then straightened his tie and hailed his own car. His expression shifted seamlessly from warm interest to cool calculation.

Phase one: complete. You had been introduced into the equation. A new variable with the potential to disrupt the entire sequence leading to his downfall.

As his driver navigated toward Le Bernardin, Jay mentally mapped the next steps. He would need to provide his mother with enough information to satisfy her curiosity without triggering her strategic instincts. Plant seeds with his father about potential advantages of connections outside their usual network. Begin building documentation that would position you as a completely independent connection, not part of any competing corporate interest.

His phone buzzed with a message from his cousin Danny: Mom says you're acting strange. She wants intel on whoever you were talking to at the gallery.

Jay smiled tightly. The family machine was already turning its attention to this unexpected development. Exactly as he'd anticipated.

He typed back: Just making connections. Nothing significant.

Let them underestimate this move. Let them dismiss you as a casual interest, a temporary distraction.

By the time they recognized the strategic importance of what he was building, it would be too late. The timeline would be irreversibly altered.

And Jay Park would never again find himself standing alone in an empty apartment, betrayed by everyone he had trusted.

Another message appeared on his screen—this one from an unknown number.

Tomorrow, 7pm. Wear comfortable shoes and nothing that screams "I'm worth kidnapping for ransom." – Y/N

Jay allowed himself a moment of genuine satisfaction. The pieces were moving exactly as he'd calculated.

Tomorrow, the real work would begin.

-

The next evening proved Jay's instincts correct. You were indeed the perfect variable to introduce into his equation.

You arrived at the designated meeting spot in Washington Square Park wearing jeans, a well-worn leather jacket, and boots that suggested you actually walked places rather than being chauffeured. Jay had followed your instructions, trading his usual bespoke suit for dark jeans, a cashmere sweater, and shoes that would survive more than a board meeting.

"You clean up nicely," you said, appraising his attempt at casual attire. "Almost pass for a normal person."

"My greatest performance yet," he replied with a self-deprecating smile. "Where to first?"

"That depends. What's your tolerance for authenticity? Real New York isn't exactly five-star accommodations."

Jay's smile widened. "Test me."

And you did. For the next three hours, you led him through a New York he'd never seen despite countless business trips. Hidden speakeasies accessed through fake phone booths. A Ukrainian diner where the servers scowled and the food defied description but somehow tasted like memory. A rooftop garden secretly maintained by an elderly couple who'd been cultivating it since the 1970s.

Throughout the evening, Jay maintained his careful balance—genuinely enjoying himself while strategically gathering information. Your job prospects (promising but unstable). Your family situation (supportive but financially modest). Your relationship status (refreshingly unattached).

Each piece of data confirmed what he'd hoped: you were the perfect candidate. Independent enough to make your own decisions, stable enough to be reliable, ambitious enough to appreciate opportunity, and disconnected enough from his world to be safe from manipulation.

"Admit it," you said as you sat on rusty chairs atop the secret garden, city lights spread before you. "This is better than whatever fancy restaurant your family's at tonight."

"Infinitely," Jay agreed, and meant it. The evening had been unexpectedly liberating. Here, he wasn't Park Jongseong, heir and corporate prince. He was just Jay, a guy experiencing New York's hidden corners with an interesting woman. "Though my mother would need smelling salts if she saw these chairs."

You laughed, the sound still as honest as he remembered. "Why do I get the feeling you're not often allowed to just... exist? Without expectations or performance metrics?"

The observation was so accurate it momentarily disrupted his careful strategy. For a second, he considered telling you everything—the time travel, his disgrace, his desperate plan to rewrite his future.

But of course, that was impossible. Who would believe such madness?

"The privileges of my position come with corresponding obligations," he said instead, allowing a rare glimpse of genuine feeling. "My path was charted before I was born."

You studied him in the dim rooftop lighting. "And you've never considered drawing your own map?"

Jay looked out over the city, contemplating how to answer. The strategic response would be something vague but intriguing. But something about this night—about you—made him unexpectedly honest.

"I'm attempting to redraw certain sections now," he said quietly. "It's... complicated."

"Family complications or business complications? Or are they the same thing for you?"

"Inextricably intertwined," Jay confirmed. "The Parks don't separate business from family or family from business. It's all one ecosystem."

"Sounds suffocating."

"It can be," he admitted, surprising himself again with his candor. "But it's also... secure. Structured. There's comfort in knowing your role."

"Until the role becomes a cage," you observed.

The conversation was veering dangerously close to truth. Jay redirected gently.

"What about you? No family business directing your path?"

You shook your head. "Just student loans and rent directing my career choices. Not exactly the same scale of problems."

"Different cages," Jay said. "Different gilding."

A comfortable silence fell between you. Below, the city pulsed with energy—millions of lives intersecting, diverging, each on their own trajectory.

"I should probably get you back to civilization," you said eventually. "Before your security detail reports you missing."

Jay checked his watch, surprised to find it was nearly midnight. The evening had passed with unexpected swiftness.

"I've dismissed security for the night," he said, rising from the rusty chair. "But you're right, it's late. Let me walk you home."

You shook your head. "That defeats the purpose of me showing you hidden New York. I'll walk myself home like a proper New Yorker."

"At least let me get you a car."

"The subway is faster this time of night."

Jay smiled at your stubbornness. Another quality that made you ideal for his purposes. "Then I'll accompany you to the subway."

As you descended from the rooftop, Jay made his decision. The evening had confirmed everything he needed to know. You were perfect—self-sufficient, perceptive, and most importantly, unconnected to the web that would eventually try to destroy him.

It was time to set his actual plan in motion. Earlier than he'd originally calculated, but the opportunity was too perfect to ignore.

Outside the subway entrance, you turned to say goodbye. "This was surprisingly enjoyable, Just Jay. You're not at all what I expected."

"Is that a compliment?"

"An observation." Your smile took any sting from the words. "Maybe I'll see you next time you're in New York."

It was the opening he needed. Jay took a calculated breath.

"What if it were sooner than that?" he asked, carefully casual. "What if I had a proposition for you?"

Your eyebrows rose slightly. "A proposition sounds suspiciously like business."

"Perhaps a merger of interests," Jay said, watching your reaction closely.

"I'm not qualified to consult for Park Industries, if that's where this is going."

"Nothing to do with the company. This is personal." Jay paused, choosing his next words carefully. "Would you have dinner with me tomorrow? There's something I'd like to discuss that could be mutually beneficial."

Wariness crept into your expression. "That sounds ominous."

"It's not illegal or immoral," he assured you. "Just... unusual. But I think you might be the perfect person for it."

"Now I'm definitely concerned."

Jay smiled, allowing genuine warmth to show. "Trust me enough for one more dinner? If you hate the proposal, we part as friends with an interesting story about the time a Korean businessman made you a strange offer."

You studied him for a long moment. "Fine. But a public place, and I reserve the right to walk out if things get weird."

"Perfectly reasonable terms," Jay agreed. "I'll text you the details."

After you disappeared down the subway steps, Jay hailed a car back to his hotel. His mind was already composing the proposal, weighing phrases and possibilities. The timing was delicate. Too direct, and you'd be justifiably alarmed. Too vague, and you'd dismiss it as absurd.

But if presented correctly, with the right incentives and assurances...

It could work. It had to work.

-

The restaurant Jay selected for their final evening was elegant without being ostentatious. Private enough for serious conversation but public enough to meet your safety requirements. He arrived early, ensuring the perfect table—secluded but visible, with clear sightlines to exits.

You arrived precisely on time, wearing a dress that suggested you'd taken this meeting more seriously than yesterday's casual exploration. Good. It indicated you were intrigued enough to make an effort.

"I half-expected to be stood up," Jay said as you sat down.

"I considered it," you admitted. "But curiosity won out. I spent all day trying to imagine what this mysterious proposition could be."

"And your theories?"

"Either you're recruiting me for corporate espionage, or this is an elaborate setup for asking me on a real date."

Jay smiled. "Neither, though the second option is less absurd than the first."

The waiter brought menus and wine recommendations. Jay ordered for both of you—not to control, but to expedite. The sooner pleasantries were addressed, the sooner he could present his case.

Once the preliminary course was served and privacy assured, Jay leaned forward slightly.

"Before I explain, I want to establish context," he began. "My family situation is... complicated. As the heir to Park Industries, certain expectations exist regarding my personal life."

You nodded, waiting for him to continue.

"Among these is the expectation that I'll marry strategically. Someone who enhances the company's position, preferably from a compatible business family."

"Arranged marriage in the 21st century?" You raised an eyebrow. "That seems archaic."

"It's framed as 'guided choice,'" Jay explained. "But the outcome is essentially predetermined. The candidates all fit a specific profile, vetted extensively by my mother."

"And you don't want that," you guessed.

"I've seen where that path leads," Jay said carefully. "It's not favorable."

"So what does this have to do with me?"

Here was the critical moment. Jay took a measured breath.

"I'm proposing an alternative arrangement. A marriage of convenience, with clearly defined parameters and mutual benefits."

Your expression froze. "Excuse me?"

"I know how this sounds," Jay said quickly. "But please hear me out before deciding."

You sat back, arms crossed. "I'm listening, but this better be good."

"What I need is someone outside my world. Someone my mother can't manipulate or compromise. Someone with no hidden corporate agenda or family ambitions." Jay held your gaze steadily. "Someone like you."

"And what exactly would I get from this arrangement, besides the obvious headache?"

"Financial security," Jay said simply. "Complete financial independence. A generous settlement that would eliminate your student loans, housing concerns, and career pressures. You'd be free to pursue your writing without worrying about making rent."

He could see the calculation happening behind your eyes. The journalist weighing an unbelievable story.

"This would be a temporary arrangement," he continued. "Two years maximum. After which we would part amicably, with your financial future secured and my family obligations satisfied."

"You're serious," you said, realization dawning.

"Completely."

"But why me? You could find countless women willing to make this deal."

"Because you don't want anything from me except what we explicitly agree to," Jay explained. "You don't care about the Park name or legacy. You have no connection to our business rivals. You're honest, independent, and most importantly, you see me as a person, not a position."

You were silent for a long moment, processing.

"What would this arrangement involve... practically speaking?"

"A legal marriage. A public relationship that appears genuine. Attendance at certain family and business functions. Cohabitation in Seoul, though with separate living spaces." Jay outlined each point precisely. "No romantic or physical obligations whatsoever."

"And after two years?"

"A quiet divorce with a generous settlement. You return to your life with complete financial freedom. I gain time to secure my position without my mother's interference."

You studied him intently. "What aren't you telling me? This seems too... calculated."

Jay hesitated. How much could he safely reveal without sounding deranged?

"My mother is pushing me toward a specific alliance that would be disastrous," he said finally. "I need to block that move decisively. Your presence provides that blockade."

"Corporate chess using marriage pieces," you murmured.

"An apt metaphor."

The waiter arrived with the main course, forcing a pause in the conversation. Jay waited patiently as you considered his proposal.

"I'd have to move to Korea," you said finally. "Learn a new language, navigate a completely foreign business world, pretend to be in love with someone I barely know."

"All significant challenges," Jay acknowledged. "Hence the substantial compensation."

"How substantial?"

He named a figure that made your eyes widen slightly.

"Plus all living expenses, travel, and a housing allowance upon our separation," he added. "Financial security for the foreseeable future."

You took a sip of wine, buying time to think. Jay remained silent, giving you space to process.

"Why should I trust you?" you asked finally. "No offense, but this sounds like the beginning of a thriller where the protagonist never returns from Seoul."

"A valid concern." Jay reached into his jacket and removed a USB drive. "This contains a draft contract outlining everything we've discussed, plus insurance clauses to protect you. Have your own lawyer review it. Make any reasonable amendments."

He placed the drive on the table between you.

"I don't expect an answer tonight," he continued. "Take time to consider. Research me, the company, the arrangement. I'll be in New York three more days."

You didn't touch the drive. "Are you always this prepared?"

"I don't propose convenient marriages on a whim," Jay said with a hint of humor. "This is a strategic decision for both of us."

"And if I say no?"

"Then we enjoy this excellent meal, I thank you for considering it, and we part as friends with an unusual story."

You finally reached for the drive, turning it in your fingers thoughtfully.

"Two years of my life," you mused. "Pretending to be someone I'm not."

"Or two years experiencing a world few ever see from the inside," Jay countered. "With material for the book you mentioned wanting to write. And afterwards, complete freedom to pursue whatever you wish."

He could see the writer in you considering the possibilities. The practical side weighing the financial security. The cautious part still suspicious of his motives.

"I'll think about it," you said finally, slipping the drive into your purse. "That's all I can promise right now."

"That's all I ask." Jay raised his glass slightly. "To unusual propositions and careful consideration."

You hesitantly clinked your glass against his. "To whatever the hell this is."

The rest of dinner passed in lighter conversation, Jay deliberately steering away from the proposal to give you mental space. As they finished dessert, he sensed you had more questions brewing.

"Just ask," he said gently. "Whatever you're thinking."

"Why marriage?" you asked bluntly. "Why not just date someone your mother doesn't approve of until this mysterious alliance threat passes?"

A perceptive question. Jay had prepared for it.

"Because dating is easily dismissed as temporary infatuation. Marriage is definitive. It removes me completely from the candidate pool and blocks the specific alliance my mother is orchestrating."

You nodded slowly. "And there's really no romantic component to this? No hidden agenda where you're hoping for more?"

"None whatsoever," Jay assured you. "This is a business arrangement with clearly defined boundaries. Any personal friendship that develops would be separate from our agreement."

Outside the restaurant, you paused before parting ways.

"This is insane," you said, shaking your head slightly. "Completely insane."

"From a conventional perspective, yes," Jay agreed. "But sometimes unconventional solutions are necessary for unusual problems."

"I'll call you," you said. "After I've thought about it. And possibly had my head examined."

Jay smiled. "I look forward to hearing from you, whatever your decision."

As you walked away, Jay allowed himself a moment of cautious optimism. You hadn't immediately rejected the idea. You'd taken the contract. You were considering it.

Phase two: initiated.

The path to avoiding his destruction was unconventional, certainly. But with each step, each calculated move, he was redrawing the map of his future.

And for the first time since waking up five years in his past, Jay felt something akin to hope.

-

"He asked you to what?"

Priya's voice carried across the café, drawing glances from nearby tables. You winced, motioning for her to lower her volume. Two days had passed since Jay's proposal, and you'd finally broken down and called Priya. Some things were too bizarre to process alone.

"Keep it down," you hissed. "I haven't decided anything."

"Sorry," Priya whispered dramatically, leaning across the table. "But you can't drop 'Korean billionaire wants me as his contract wife' and expect normal volume control."

You stirred your coffee absently. The USB drive sat heavy in your bag, untouched since the dinner. Every time you considered plugging it in, reality reasserted itself. People didn't just get propositioned for fake marriages by corporate heirs. Not in real life.

"Maybe I imagined it," you said. "Stress-induced hallucination."

"Honey, you don't hallucinate trust fund provisions and prenuptial terms." Priya tapped the table emphatically. "And Park Industries is the real deal. My cousin works in finance and says they're basically royalty in Korea."

You sighed, glancing at your phone. Three missed calls from your editor about a deadline. Two emails from your landlord about the rent increase. A notification about your student loan payment.

Normal life, insistently demanding attention while some alternate universe beckoned from a USB drive.

"What would you do?" you asked.

Priya considered this, stirring her chai thoughtfully. "I'd wonder why me. Of all the women in New York—hell, in the world—why pick someone he met at my mediocre exhibition?"

"He said I don't want anything from him. That I see him as a person, not a position." You shrugged. "And apparently I'm not connected to any rival companies."

"That's... oddly specific." Priya frowned. "Like he's running from something."

A memory flashed—Jay on the rooftop garden, talking about redrawing sections of his path. The wistfulness in his voice when he mentioned roles becoming cages.

"Maybe he is," you murmured.

"Look, Y/N, this is either the strangest fantasy or the most interesting opportunity of your life." Priya grabbed your hand. "But either way, you should at least read the contract. Writer curiosity, if nothing else."

You nodded slowly. She was right. Whatever this was—elaborate joke, midlife crisis, legitimate offer—you couldn't make a decision without information.

"What about Seoul?" you asked, voicing one of the hundred practical concerns cycling through your mind. "My life is here."

"Your life is a studio apartment with questionable plumbing and editor who underpays you," Priya said bluntly. "Seoul has universal healthcare and a subway system that actually works."

"And a language I don't speak."

"And a completely fresh start, financial security, and material for that book you've been talking about writing since college." Priya squeezed your hand. "I'm not saying do it. I'm saying don't dismiss it without considering the insane possibility that this fever dream might actually be real."

Your phone pinged—a text from Jay:

No pressure on your decision. But if you'd like to discuss further, I'll be at the same restaurant tonight at 8. Whether you come or not, I enjoyed our time together.

Priya peered at the message. "Polite. Not pushy. Gives you space." She raised an eyebrow. "For a corporate shark offering a fake marriage, he's surprisingly... decent?"

"That's what makes this so confusing," you admitted. "He seems genuine, even when discussing something completely manufactured."

"Maybe that's why he thinks you'd be good at this. You're both honest about the dishonesty." Priya sat back. "So, are you going tonight?"

You stared at your phone, the mundane world of deadlines and bills momentarily suspended as you considered stepping further into whatever alternate reality Jay Park occupied.

"I guess I'll start by reading the contract," you said finally.

Priya grinned. "That's my practical journalist. Verify, then trust."

"I didn't say I trust him," you protested.

"Honey, you wouldn't have called me if you weren't already halfway to saying yes."

You opened your mouth to argue, then closed it again. She wasn't entirely wrong.

Whatever this was—fever dream or opportunity—you couldn't shake the feeling that Jay Park had seen something in you that even you hadn't recognized. Something valuable enough to upend both your worlds.

And despite every rational objection, part of you wanted to find out what it was.

-

After accepting Jay's proposal, everything moved quickly, but not without moments that made you question the purely contractual nature of your arrangement.

The first time you caught yourself actually looking at Jay—not as your contractual fiancé but as a man—was during a video call about logistics. He'd just finished a workout, answering your call in a fitted t-shirt damp with sweat, hair disheveled in a way you'd never seen before.

"Sorry for my appearance," he'd said, seemingly unaware of how the thin fabric clung to his chest and shoulders, revealing a physique usually hidden beneath perfect tailoring.

"It's fine," you'd replied, fighting to keep your eyes on his face rather than the defined muscles visible through his shirt. "We were just discussing flight details, right?"

You'd blamed your distraction on the strangeness of the situation. Just a natural reaction to an objectively attractive man. Nothing more.

-

Your Korean lessons began three weeks after you'd accepted his proposal. The language was challenging, but Jay insisted on joining occasionally, his pronunciation impeccable as he demonstrated sounds your English-trained mouth struggled to form.

"Fuck," you muttered one evening, dropping your head to the table after another failed attempt at a particularly difficult honorific. "I'm never going to get this right."

Jay looked up from his laptop, eyebrows raised. "I've never heard you swear before."

"I'm usually more professional," you admitted. "But this language is kicking my ass."

He closed his computer and moved to the chair beside you. "Try again. It's all in the tongue placement."

You made another attempt, mangling the syllables spectacularly.

"No, like this." Jay demonstrated slowly, exaggerating the mouth movement. You found yourself staring at his lips, noticing their perfect shape, the way the bottom one was slightly fuller than the top.

After your third failure, he sighed. "May I?" he asked, gesturing toward your face.

You nodded, not entirely sure what he was asking permission for.

He reached out, placing his thumb gently against your lower lip. "You need to press your tongue here, behind your teeth, not against your palate."

Heat surged through you at the unexpected contact. His thumb lingered, moving slightly against your lip as he demonstrated the position. Your eyes locked, and something shifted in his expression.

"Try again," he said softly, his voice lower than before.

You attempted the word, hyperaware of his fingers still resting lightly against your jaw.

"Better," he murmured, his eyes dropping to your mouth. "Almost there."

The air between you thickened. His hand should have moved away by now. It hadn't.

"Jay," you said, barely audible. Not a question, just an acknowledgment of whatever was happening.

For a moment, you thought he might lean in. Instead, he blinked and withdrew his hand, clearing his throat.

"That's enough for today," he said briskly, returning to his original seat. "You're making progress."

But that night, alone in your room, you caught yourself touching your own lip where his thumb had been, replaying the moment when his professional demeanor had briefly cracked.

-

Three weeks in, during dinner at a restaurant in Tribeca, Jay brought up the public aspects of your arrangement.

"We need to discuss how we'll appear as a couple," he said, his tone practical but not cold. "Physical boundaries. Forms of address."

"Like pet names?" you asked, taking a sip of wine.

"Exactly." He seemed relieved you understood. "In Korea, especially in my position, excessive public displays would seem inappropriate. But certain... intimacies are expected between engaged couples."

"So hand-holding, yes. Making out in boardrooms, no." Your joke earned a genuine smile from him.

"Precisely." He hesitated, then added with uncharacteristic uncertainty, "And regarding names..."

"What do people usually call you? Besides Jay or Mr. Park?"

His expression shifted subtly. "My mother calls me Jongseong. Business associates use Mr. Park. No one has ever used anything... affectionate."

The admission felt strangely vulnerable coming from him.

"What would you be comfortable with?" you asked.

His eyes met yours directly. "I've always thought 'babe' or 'baby' seemed... nice. Natural." The words seemed difficult for him to say, as if admitting to a secret preference. "But only if it feels comfortable for you."

The request surprised you – this controlled, strategic man wanting something so ordinary, so human.

"I can try that," you said, watching as relief softened his features. "Might take practice to say it without feeling weird, though."

"We have time to practice," he replied, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly.

-

Shopping for your new wardrobe didn't happen in a fairy tale montage. Instead, it involved practical discussions of events you'd attend, climate considerations, and cultural norms.

"These social signifiers matter to my family," Jay explained as you examined a designer dress that cost more than your rent. "But your comfort matters to me."

"To our arrangement," you corrected gently.

He paused, meeting your eyes. "Yes. And to me personally."

The statement hung between you, neither acknowledged nor dismissed as you continued through the high-end boutique. The personal shopper brought Jay a selection of suits to try as well, and despite your best intentions, you found yourself watching as he emerged from the fitting room in each new outfit.

The last one—a charcoal gray suit cut to perfection—made you momentarily forget the contract entirely. The tailor knelt, making adjustments to the trousers while Jay stood in front of a three-way mirror. The jacket emphasized the breadth of his shoulders, the tailored pants fitting perfectly across his ass.

You didn't realize you were staring until Jay's eyes met yours in the mirror, one eyebrow raising slightly. You quickly looked away, heat rising to your cheeks at being caught.

When you glanced back, the corner of his mouth had lifted in a small, satisfied smile.

-

Your parents were understandably shocked by the engagement announcement. The video call with them and Jay could have been disastrous, but he navigated it with surprising warmth.

"I understand this seems sudden," he told them, his formal demeanor softened. "I value your daughter's independence and perspective. Those qualities are rare in my world."

Later, alone, your mother had texted: "He's careful with his words around you. Watches how you react. Not sure if that's good or concerning."

"Still deciding," you'd replied honestly.

Six weeks after your agreement, you found yourself helping Jay pack for Seoul in his hotel suite, the reality of what you'd committed to finally sinking in.

"Second thoughts?" he asked, noticing your silence.

"Seventh or eighth, at least," you admitted.

You expected a strategic reassurance. Instead, he sat beside you on the edge of the bed, not touching but close.

"I have them too," he said quietly. "This arrangement... it's unusual for both of us."

"You seem so certain about everything."

"I'm certain about what I'm avoiding," he clarified. "Less certain about what we're building."

The honesty was refreshing. Not romance, but genuine transparency.

"Let's try something," you suggested. "Just to see how it feels."

He raised an eyebrow, waiting.

You cleared your throat, feeling slightly ridiculous. "Could you pass me that folder... babe?"

The pet name hung awkwardly between you. Jay blinked, then a small, genuine smile formed.

"Here you go," he replied, handing you the folder, then hesitating before adding a tentative, "...babe."

You both laughed at the strangeness of it, the tension breaking.

"That was terrible," you admitted.

"Catastrophic," he agreed, his eyes crinkling with genuine amusement. "But it will get easier."

It was the first time you'd seen him truly laugh. Something shifted subtly between you – not love or even attraction necessarily, but the foundation of something human and real beneath the contractual arrangement.

Eight weeks after the proposal, you boarded his family's private jet bound for Seoul.

As the plane leveled off, Jay handed you a thin folder. "Key family members and dynamics. Not a test, just preparation."

You nodded, grateful for his understanding that you wanted to succeed at this, whatever "this" was becoming.

"Thank you," you said. Then, after a moment's hesitation, added, "...baby."

It still felt strange, but less forced. Jay's expression softened in response.

"You're welcome," he replied, his voice warm in a way it hadn't been during those first calculated conversations weeks ago.

Neither of you were in love. That wasn't part of the contract. But as the plane carried you toward Seoul, there was a growing sense that whatever performance awaited might be built on something more substantial than just legal terms.

Not romance, not yet. But a partnership forming its own unique shape – part strategy, part genuine connection, and all uncharted territory.

-

Arriving in Seoul felt like stepping into another dimension. A fleet of black SUVs with tinted windows. Security personnel with earpieces. Photographers kept at a careful distance by a team of efficient PR staff.

"Ready?" Jay asked quietly, his hand finding yours as the plane door opened.

You nodded, though "ready" seemed an absurd concept for what awaited.

The moment you stepped onto Korean soil, Jay transformed—his posture impeccable, his smile exactly the right blend of pride and discretion. His arm slid around your waist, protective but not possessive.

"Perfect," he murmured, his lips close to your ear. "Just like that."

The performance had begun.

to be continued.

-