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Part One: Boston Isn't Where It Started

To your family and the Koos, the engagement was a strategic triumph—a high-stakes deal sealed to secure their empire. Two dynasties, formidable and wealthy, merging into one. Soon, they wouldn’t just reach the top—they’d claim it. And the rest would fall in line. No rivals would remain.

But for Junhoe, this was something else entirely. This was the moment he’d longed for. You—his bride, his soon-to-be wife. And him—your groom, your future husband. 

He kept returning to that night. Maybe it was his favorite memory of you—your head on his shoulder as the quartet played a slower piece, your feet moving in sync across the glinting floor, dancing like the rest of the world had fallen away.

It felt perfect. Untouchable. Why did it all have to fall apart?

Junhoe’s face was the last thing you saw before darkness took you. You were eight.

You were in a sterile hospital room—white sheets, blinding light. Your mother stood near the bed, arms crossed, listening as the doctor said, “Food poisoning.”

You’d thrown up on the floor just as you woke, but she merely glanced down, composed as ever yet clearly annoyed. “Not on my Prada heels,” she muttered, as if you’d spilled juice on her favorite rug.

After a week, you came home to your bedroom blooming with color—balloons, bouquets, and cards from classmates and teachers. One read, Get well soon. It was from Yejin. Another, scrawled in messy handwriting, read, I thought you died.

It could only have come from no one but Yejin’s little brother, Junhoe.

You were too young to understand why you were arranged to marry someone like him. But despite your naivety, you could sense when someone disliked you—and he certainly did.

Yejin never visited you again after that incident. 

At school, Junhoe ignored you—except on the days he chose not to. His shoulder brushed past you once, knocking your books loose without an apology. One time in the canteen, he made you trip. Your tray hit the floor, food splattering everywhere as laughter broke out. You’d never felt more humiliated.

You began eating alone after that, beneath a tree outside the school grounds—away from everyone, away from him. 

You were afraid of him. Everyone was.

You’d seen it happen—Junhoe rising from his seat, pen in hand, and driving it into your classmate’s ear. The boy had been kicking his chair. That was all. 

The room erupted in screams. No one moved. No one did anything to help. No one dared.

Junhoe was never expelled, no matter how many times the school called his parents. When your family name is etched into the building’s foundation, rules are for everyone else. Not for him. Not for someone like Junhoe.

It was your tenth birthday and no one came.

The balloons sagged. The food went cold. The decorations—meticulously arranged—meant nothing. Even the mascot, paid to stay, danced for no one.

Your parents were somewhere in Europe. Another business trip. Another absence.

Junhoe was your only guest.

He handed you a box covered in cartoon stickers and tied with a shiny ribbon. You opened it, expecting something kind. Inside lay a dead bird. Its feathers stiff. Its eyes glassy.

You ran to your room and locked yourself inside, sobbing. When your parents finally returned, you told your father you would never marry him.

You were twelve when a fire broke out at the Koo family’s mansion.

You pleaded with your parents not to send you to Junhoe’s house while they were away on another month-long business trip. You said you could take care of yourself. But they didn’t listen. They never did.

Your father kissed your cheek, told you to be a good girl, and to try to get close to him. Then he left with your mother.

You stayed in the guest room the whole time, avoiding Junhoe completely, careful not to cross paths. The maids brought meals to your door.

Like your parents, Junhoe’s were also away. Yejin had left for Singapore to begin university.

It was only the two of you in that big, hollow house.

You didn’t know what time it was when the smell of smoke woke you. Your throat burned. Your eyes were heavy-lidded as you tried to locate the source.

Smells like fire, was all you could think before the coughing started. The air grew thick and hot. You scrambled out of bed, still in your pajamas, and opened your bedroom door—only to find flames creeping along the first-floor hallway.

I need to get out of here, flashed through your mind, a primal instinct kicking in. You ran toward the staircase, but stopped at the doorway across from yours.

Junhoe’s room.

“Has he gotten out?” you whispered, just as chaos erupted downstairs—panicked voices, someone calling you and Junhoe’s name.

“They’re still upstairs!”

“How can we get through? The stairs are now on fire!”

“Someone save them!”

“The firefighters are coming!”

Without thinking twice, you ran straight into Junhoe’s room, where he sat on the bed—unmoving, staring into nothingness.

You grabbed his arm, pulling him toward the window. Flames were already licking the walls. He didn’t hesitate—he took your hand as you both climbed out onto the roof.

The firefighters arrived just in time, lowering you down with a ladder.

You didn’t say a word to each other afterward. Even as the medics treated you, only your eyes spoke—watching the mansion burn into the night.

That fire was the last time you saw Junhoe.

Your parents told you the Koos had moved elsewhere while the mansion underwent renovation. It hadn’t been completely destroyed, but the damage would keep them away for months—long enough for scaffolding to rise over the charred hallways and for workers to restore everything to its former glory.

You wondered why Junhoe stopped attending school altogether. Days blurred into weeks and weeks into months.

As life returned to normal, you tried not to dwell on his absence—and what you might have shared with him that night of the fire.

Or so you thought.

You didn’t notice how long the Koos had been gone, even though the mansion had been finished for months. It looked exactly as it had before the fire—as if nothing had ever happened.

With their return came Junhoe’s reappearance at school, much to everyone’s surprise.

What startled you most was how different he seemed—like he’d undergone some kind of transformation.

His eyes were brighter. He smiled often, laughed easily, and always seemed to find ways to be near you—watching, waiting, wanting your attention.

You weren’t sure what to make of this new Junhoe.

You used to be scared of him—used to stay out of his way. But he never stopped showing up.

The new seating arrangement made him your seatmate. He greeted you every morning at the lockers, waved in the hallways, and joined you for lunch. Since you lived close to each other, he’d carry your books and ride home with you after every class.

Slowly, without you even realizing it, the walls you’d built around him began to crumble. 

By the time you reached high school, the two of you were inseparable.

One of you always saved a seat for the other whenever someone was late to class. Junhoe would tease you about your notes during lessons and steal your snacks during breaks. In P.E., he made a habit of turning every activity into a personal contest. He’d block your path during relay drills, toss the ball just out of reach, or lift you off the ground mid-play until you swatted at him to stop.

Weekends meant shopping trips in Apgujeong or flights with your families to Jeju, Tokyo, or Paris—always first class, at times private jets. Junhoe trailed behind you through boutiques, arms full of your bags, teasing you for taking too long to decide. But he never complained. He was always patient when it came to you.

You spent hours at the Koos’ mansion, studying side by side in the library or watching movies in their private theater—the screen glow soft against his face as he leaned in to whisper something that made you laugh.

Sometimes, you stayed the night. Sometimes, he did at yours. You slept in separate rooms, at least at first. But later, when you couldn’t sleep, you’d text him. He’d sneak in with earphones in, watching movies on his laptop while you lay next to him. Once you drifted off, he’d crash on the sofa to sleep.

There were days when neither of you wanted to go home. Junhoe would ask the chauffeur to drive with no destination in mind, the city rolling by unnoticed.

The car sometimes stopped by the deserted river, and the two of you would sneak out with cans of soda that weren’t always soda. One night, Junhoe handed you a cigarette, daring you to try it. You coughed on the first inhale, and he laughed so hard he nearly dropped his lighter.

Junhoe spoiled you without reason. 

During late-night study sessions, he’d stand behind your chair, rubbing your shoulders whenever you complained about exams. He bought you things you didn’t need—perfume, jewelry, the newest gadgets—just to see you smile.

Both your parents couldn’t have been more pleased with the progress of your relationship. There was no label—could be friendship, could be something more. But in their world, labels were irrelevant. What mattered was the future. And in that future, marriage between their children wasn’t a choice—it was an expectation.

You were both still young, but you’d always known Junhoe’s reserved devotion was yours alone. Reliable, thoughtful—he could be the sweetest boy to you. Yet it was his protectiveness that made you ask if he’d only learned to hide that part of himself better—the part of him that once filled you with fear.

As an only child from the kind of family you had, you learned early how to stay out of trouble. You studied hard, treated your teachers and classmates with respect, and made sure never to bring shame to your parents’ name. You never really had the chance to form a circle of friends—Junhoe was the only one who ever came close. That was how your parents raised you.

“Never get attached to those beneath you,” your mother once said before your very first day of school. “Your destiny is different from theirs. They will never be part of your world.”

That was the day you learned to rely only on yourself.

There were times when students at school made fun of you or picked fights, but you always brushed it off. You knew they’d stop once they realized who you were—who your family was. You could’ve used that power if you wanted to: have someone expelled, blacklisted, fired, even evicted. But you never did. You didn’t want anyone thinking you were weak—or that you needed to hide behind your family’s wealth.

So when you heard someone was spreading a rumor about you, you dismissed it. You didn’t even bother to find out what it was about.

But when the rumor reached Junhoe, he didn’t let it slide.

You thought Junhoe was just late that day. It was math class. The teacher had just started his lesson when the class began to stir. Phones lit up. Everyone was distracted. You frowned. The teacher tried to get the class to settle, but the chatter continued—for a moment, all eyes seemed to land on you, until the classroom door swung open and Junhoe stepped in.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said, sliding into the seat beside you, wearing his usual gummy smile.

Your classmates turned back to the board. The teacher carried on, pretending nothing had happened. But you knew better. He’d done something before walking in.

He looked perfect, as always—uniform neat, hair tidy—but his hands gave him away. Tense shoulders, knuckles slightly red.

“Did you hurt him?” The question slipped out before you could stop it.

Pen hovering over paper, Junhoe’s gaze met yours. He answered slowly, “Would it matter if I did?” 

You said nothing. Maybe you were afraid of the answer. Or maybe, deep down, you didn’t want to stop him.

The rumor was gone by the next day. No one spoke of it again. Even the boy who started it was gone. He transferred schools the following week.

Junhoe didn’t just protect you anymore—after that, he controlled the air around you. And you let him. 

It felt good, being the one he’d go that far for.

Everyone at school knew what happened to that boy. No one wanted to be next.

The teachers gave you both too much freedom. Whatever Junhoe wanted, Junhoe got. A seat. A grade changed. A schedule rearranged. A complaint that was never put on record.

He only had to ask—his name did most of the work.

But being the center of his world could also feel like being trapped in a cage.

Junhoe noticed everything—who talked to you, who stared too long. You were beautiful, so it was inevitable that someone would try to hit on you—whether it was a senior from another class, the barista at the café near campus, or a stranger on the street when you were out together. He’d handled them with polite hostility—an unspoken threat behind a glare that could pierce anyone.

Junhoe told you which parties to skip, which people to avoid. When you stayed late for group projects, you never asked him to go home first—you knew he wouldn’t.

He’d wait for you, every time, and make sure you got home safely. All the way to your doorstep.

People adjusted themselves around him.

Conversations dulled when he entered the room. Teachers paused before addressing him. Boys stopped messaging you. People didn’t look at you with envy anymore, but with caution. In their eyes, you were something both fragile and dangerous.

No matter where you went, Junhoe always had to come along. But there were times when you’d lie—just to be alone. You’d say you were with your father or mother. He never questioned it; your family was sacred ground, off-limits. You knew he wouldn’t ask them, not even to confirm a suspicion. So you escaped—to places Junhoe never touched: a small spa, a secluded park, a café where you could read and disappear.

It was the birthday celebration of Junhoe’s close friend, Joowan, held in Gangnam—at one of those high-end spots where upper-class sons and daughters liked to hang out: Club Echelon. Joowan had rented out the entire venue for the night. Loud, thumping techno pulsed from the center floor, spun by a famous DJ flown in from Berlin, surrounded by dancers and flashing lights.

The place was swarming with youth, all having a good time. Waitresses glided between tables, serving endless rounds of drinks and lavish food. The air reeked of smoke, perfume, and expensive liquor. It didn’t matter that most of them were underage—as long as they had money. The staff knew better than to look too closely.

In the VIP lounge, Joowan had his arm around his girlfriend, laughing at something only they understood. The group was loud—snapping selfies, shouting over the music, clinking glasses. A few were smoking. You and Junhoe sat with them. He was in it—raising his glass, tossing jokes across the table. You stayed close, sipping your drink, nodding along, laughing when he did.

But after a while, the noise became too much. It made your head hurt. You set your glass down.

“I’ll be right back,” you said, your voice barely audible over the bass.

Junhoe looked at you—the kind of look that always asked where.

You smiled, reassuring. “Just need a minute,” you mouthed.

He didn’t reply, only nodded once before turning his attention back to the conversation at the table.

You slipped out of the lounge, past the velvet ropes, into the hallway. The bass softened behind you, replaced by the muffled thud of music. You followed the pale light seeping from the balcony exit and pushed the door open.

The city stretched wide below you—Gangnam’s skyline glittered under the night.

The air was cool, cleaner than the smoke-filled lounge you’d left behind. You exhaled, finally able to breathe again. For a while, you just stood there, fingers brushing the glass railing, watching headlights snake along the streets.

Back at the lounge, Junhoe was half-listening to Joowan talk. His gaze kept returning to your empty seat.

Minutes passed. Then a few more.

Joowan nudged him. “She ditched you already?”

Junhoe said nothing, checking his watch.

“Where are you going?” Joowan asked as Junhoe stood up.

“Outside,” was all he said, walking away before Joowan could ask again.

You were still alone on the balcony, arms folded against the cold. Somewhere below, laughter rose from the crowd spilling onto the street. You were content with the silence—until the door creaked open behind you.

You didn’t turn right away.

You heard the faint flick of a lighter. Smoke drifted through the air.

From the corner of your eye, you saw a boy—probably your age. Dark hair fell messily over his forehead, his designer jacket half unzipped, a cigarette dangling from his lips. He looked drunk, his movements slow and careless.

He exhaled toward the sky before glancing sideways, his eyes meeting yours for the first time. He seemed to search his memory, trying to place you—someone he might have known, someone he ought to greet. It didn’t come to him right away, but then it hit him. You noticed it too—the way his gaze lingered a little too long.

“You’re her,” he said finally, almost to himself.

You frowned. “Sorry?”

He smirked. The world was indeed small. He had only seen you in photos, heard about you from relatives and schoolmates—the only daughter from the _____ family, arranged to marry the Koos’ second son since you were seven.

“The Koo girl… so you’re the real thing, huh?” 

You raised an eyebrow. “Do I know you?”

He shrugged, taking another drag. “Not really. I’m Choi San. Hanyoung Academy. Heard stories.”

“What stories?” you asked, not really expecting an answer worth hearing.

“About you and your boyfriend.”

You didn’t react. He laughed quietly to himself, flicking ash into the night. “Don’t worry, nothing scary.”

“I’m not worried,” you told him.

“You two are kind of famous, you know? Perfect pair, everyone says.” There was mockery in his tone, thinly veiled. “Always together. Always been that way.”

“You’re drunk,” you said flatly.

He grinned, not denying it. “Why are you here by yourself anyway?”

You turned away, ready to leave, when the balcony door opened again.

Junhoe.

He stopped at the threshold, scanning the space. His eyes went from you to the stranger beside you. His jaw tightened immediately.

“You’ve been gone a while,” he said, voice low.

You opened your mouth, but San spoke first. “The boyfriend?” he asked, though the question was rhetorical. He already knew.

Junhoe didn’t respond. He just stared coldly.

San was nothing but amused. He wasn’t threatened. “Relax. We were just talking.”

You could feel the tension constricting the space on the balcony.

“Let’s go,” Junhoe said to you quietly, not breaking eye contact with him.

San tipped his cigarette toward you in a half-salute. “Nice meeting you.”

Junhoe tried to mask his displeasure as he turned you toward the door, his hand clutching yours, squeezing tighter the farther you went inside. 

The noise of the party faded into a dull throb behind you as Junhoe walked fast, his hand clamped firmly around your wrist. You stumbled to match his long strides, your heels scraping against the marble as he dragged you past the VIP lounge without looking back.

“Junhoe, stop,” you hissed under your breath, glancing at the people you passed. Some of them looked away quickly, others whispered—but Junhoe didn’t seem to care.

“Junhoe, you’re hurting me.”

Still nothing. The veins in his forearm stood out beneath his sleeve, his hold unrelenting.

“I need to use the restroom,” you blurted, trying to twist your wrist free. He didn’t react. “Junhoe, please—I said I need to use the restroom!”

Junhoe stopped in his tracks, causing you to bump into him. He turned toward the corridor leading to the restrooms, breathing sharply through his nose, and without a word, pulled you along again.

When you reached the door marked Ladies, you froze. “Junhoe—”

He shoved the door open. The soft chatter inside died instantly. A few girls near the mirrors blinked in confusion before realizing who it was. Koo Junhoe.

Every inch of his posture radiated authority.

“Out,” he said, calm but cutting.

They hesitated only for a second before obeying, mumbling excuses as they brushed past you. One of the staff tried to follow, but Junhoe’s voice came again, firm. “No one comes in. Understand?”

“Yes, sir.” 

The door shut behind you both. Only silence remained in the restroom.

You stepped back slowly, moving toward the sinks, your back nearly grazing the counter. Your heart hammered so hard it felt like it might echo. Junhoe reached behind him and turned the lock. The click sounded final.

“What are you doing?” you asked, your voice brittle, almost a whisper.

He said nothing at first, hand still on the lock, shoulders rigid beneath the dark fabric of his suit. When he turned, you braced for fury. But it didn’t come—at least, not yet. The muscles in his face were drawn tight. You felt it—one wrong move, and he might snap.

“You think I wouldn’t notice?” he said, voice strained. “You disappear for ten minutes, and I find you with some guy I don’t even know.”

You started to protest, but it came out jagged. “I wasn’t—he just—”

Junhoe stepped closer, his cologne mixing with the sterile scent of the restroom. “Do you have any idea what that looks like?”

Your throat tightened. “It’s not what you think.”

He laughed once under his breath—humorless. “Then tell me what I’m supposed to think.”

“You’re being crazy, Junhoe,” you said, voice breaking.

“Crazy?” he repeated. “You think I’m crazy? You… you make me crazy.”

His gaze bore into you. “I bet you like the attention,” he continued, the words almost accusing.

Without thinking, the answer came out of your throat. “What if I do?”

He grabbed your wrist, yanking you close, his breath sharp against your skin. “Say that again.”

Adrenaline flared. You tore your arm free. Your palm struck his face once. Twice. Harder. Then your fists pounded his chest, again and again, each blow raw and clumsy with the sobs tearing out of you.

Junhoe didn’t shove you back or grab your hands. He stayed right there as the hits kept coming—until your arms quivered and you finally stopped.

Junhoe took the chance to pull you in by the shoulders, easing you down and letting your forehead rest against his chest.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his hands settling lightly on your back. He felt your sobs shake your body against his. Slowly, he lifted a hand, sliding it under your chin to tilt your face toward him. His fingers brushed the damp strands of hair from your cheeks, catching the streaks of mascara left by your tears.

You avoided his gaze, but his words drew you in. 

“You’re the only one who can do this to me.”

You couldn’t tell if it was his lips or yours that moved first. What began soft and searching quickly became urgent, hungry. The tension between you igniting in every touch. You let him lift you, setting you swiftly on the edge of the cold sink. You gasped when his tongue traced the edges of your mouth before colliding with yours. Your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist, pulling him closer as he let out a low groan. His kisses grew rougher, trailing from your lips down to your neck. A moan escaped you as your fingers tangled in his hair, holding on like it was the only thing keeping you steady.

The air in the restroom felt stifling—heavy with heat.

His mouth was inches from your chest when you moved—reaching for his belt. But he caught your hands before you could.

“You’re all I care about right now,” he said, breath ragged. You watched his hands disappear beneath your dress, his fingers subtly shaking as he pulled your lingerie down, careful not to rush. He drank in the sight of you before sliding the fabric into his pocket. He couldn’t afford to look away.

Junhoe dropped to his knees and lifted the hem of your dress. A soft gust of air brushed along your legs, rising toward your cunt. He started with your thighs, kissing his way down before burying his face between them. You felt exposed, yet strangely safe—your heartbeat loud in your ears, your pulse quickening. You covered your mouth as he began to lick your clit, but he could still hear every hitch of your breath. One of your hands gripped the porcelain sink, grounding yourself as Junhoe’s mouth switched from licking to sucking. Your body shivered, almost tipping off the edge, but he kept you pressed close in his arms. You could feel your pussy drenched as Junhoe inserted a finger with careful precision, adjusting to your every little reaction. It stung at first, but your body adjusted naturally, responding without thought. The intensity built as he increased his pace inside you, his finger and tongue moving in harmony until your body gave in completely, trembling hard against him as you climaxed.

Junhoe cleaned your juices from his finger, licking his lips as you tried to catch your breath.

“I’m gonna buy you the most beautiful ring. Let’s get engaged,” he said, his fervent look melting into excitement, sweat beading on his forehead.

You couldn’t help the small, messy smile tugging at your lips, your hair tousled, cheeks pink.

“I’d love that,” you murmured, reaching up to thread your hands behind his neck, drawing him closer.

Junhoe held back the urge to kiss you once more.

Your engagement with Junhoe was held at a private estate turned event hall, reserved only for Seoul’s elite. You’d heard that even foreign dignitaries had to wait months to book it. The hall had floor-to-ceiling glass windows overlooking the Han River and chandeliers that glittered like falling stars, while a string quartet played classical pieces—not just for the two of you, but for the exclusive guests: chaebol families, CEOs, heirs, and heiresses.

You wore Dior—silk white and custom. Junhoe stood beside you in Armani, black on black, his hand resting lightly on your waist as both of you smiled for the flashing cameras. You flaunted the diamond on your ring finger at the photographers’ request—an oval-cut, flawless stone set in platinum, encircled by a halo of smaller diamonds that drew gasps and envious stares from the crowd. Even the Koos’ matriarch had leaned in to whisper, “He chose well.”

Across the hall, you could hear bursts of laughter. Families mingled. The Koos’ executives tapped glasses with your father, while your mother accepted a glass of champagne from a passing server and nodded as Yejin and Junhoe’s mother spoke. To anyone watching, it looked like happiness—like everyone was thrilled their children were getting married. But really, it was all for show. A business contract.

Not for Junhoe—or you. It was never about business, especially not for him.

Later, when the flashes faded and the crowd dispersed, both families gathered around you both.

“You’ll start living together after graduation,” Junhoe’s mother said smoothly, as if discussing business logistics. “The penthouse in Seocho is ready. You’ll find it comfortable.”

“I actually thought we’d do that right after the engagement,” Junhoe said, trying not to sound too excited.

The parents exchanged knowing looks, a few chuckles slipping out.

“There’s no need to rush,” your mother said. “The wedding will follow once you’re both of age.” 

The others nodded in agreement.

Junhoe’s father smiled, a practiced thing. “Junhoe will spend the summer in London for a preparatory program. He’s been accepted into King’s College—Business Management. As the next heir, he needs to understand global markets.”

You glanced at Junhoe. He didn’t look surprised. His parents had planned it years ago. Every step of his future was mapped out.

His father added, “Even if he leaves for London, the penthouse will stay under your care.”

“And you?” Yejin asked, her gaze shifting to you. “Have you decided where to study?”

You only smiled, unsure what to say. Your father spoke for you.

“She’s still deciding,” he said, placing a hand on your shoulder. “But she’s been looking into programs abroad—communications, literature, things like that.”

Junhoe’s hand held yours, his thumb brushing against your ring. You knew what he wanted you to say. He wanted you near him. And that meant going to London.

But you stayed silent.

“While Junhoe’s in London, she’ll start scouting universities—maybe in the States first,” your mother said.

Junhoe smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“That’s good,” his mother nodded. “There’s plenty of time, darling. I’m sure you two will find ways to see each other.”

Junhoe didn’t let go of your hand, but he didn’t look at you either. You could feel his frustration, held in check. You knew he couldn’t do anything about it. Not this time

Junhoe brushed his lips against yours the moment his boarding was announced. You stood together by the gate, suitcases ready. His flight to London would leave first—yours to Boston a few hours later.

“Text me when you land,” he reminded you. “And every day after that. Don’t make me worry.”

You laughed under your breath. “You sound like my father.”

“I’m worse,” he said with a grin. “I’ll come see you as soon as I get a break. Promise.”

He took your hand and kissed the back of it, like he didn’t want to leave you yet.

“Why can’t you just come to London with me?” he said softly. “I need to see you every day.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” you replied, offering him a reassuring smile.

It didn’t surprise you when you saw the bouquet of ivory roses waiting on the bedside table. Junhoe had planned it—of course he had.

You checked in at the Fairmont a little past four. It would be your home for the next six weeks, just enough time to tour the universities on your list and attend short programs arranged by your school. The schedule matched Junhoe’s prep course in London, something your parents had clearly coordinated, though his stay would be longer—eight weeks.

Your room was on the twelfth floor. Bright and spacious, with cream-colored walls and gold accents. A velvet armchair sat near the tall windows, beside a writing desk stocked with stationery you’d never use. Outside, the city was bathed in golden sun.

The roses were elegant—long-stemmed, fresh, and arranged in a crystal vase. A small card rested beside them.

For your first night in Boston. Eight weeks is too long, so don’t forget me. — J

You read his note once more before leaning in to smell the roses, when a quick wave of dizziness passed through you. Jet lag hit you all at once. The flight had been long, and your body felt heavy. You debated whether to order dinner or just crawl into bed and sleep—until you remembered you hadn’t updated Junhoe since landing.

You reached for your phone and saw one missed call, along with three texts from Junhoe—each sent at different times, each carrying his voice in your head.

I’m here. I miss you already.

I’ve checked the flight status, looks like you arrived on time. Tell me you’re safe.

Call me when you get to the hotel.

You dialed Junhoe’s number after reading his texts, half-lying on the bed—your back against the mattress, legs dangling off the edge. The phone rang in your hand, the screen glowing on your cheek.

No answer.

You peeked at the ceiling, waiting. The roses sat on the bedside table, their scent barely reaching you.

The ringing continued, but you didn’t notice when your eyes began to close. You started to doze off, still holding the phone as you waited for him to pick up.

Boston air in summer was warm and breezy, carrying the scent of brick, fresh coffee, and engine smoke. The streets were lined with brownstones and trees thick with green leaves, as students, tourists, and locals moved through the city that morning.

All of it passed through your view from the car window. You liked how it felt—lively, but not overwhelming.

As the car made its way to your first campus stop, Junhoe came to mind. You’d spoken to him earlier that morning, just after waking from a long sleep and seeing his text:

Sorry I couldn’t pick up. Got held up at a dinner with some of the faculty and other guests. You should’ve eaten something before falling asleep. Hope you’re resting well.

Junhoe answered your call during his London campus tour, with footsteps and distant voices reverberating around him. It was only his first day, and his schedule was already packed—orientation, lectures, dinners. He told you how summer there felt colder than back home. He’d expected a roommate, but his parents had arranged a single room for him, with a clear view of the Thames.

He hadn’t forgotten to ask about you, of course—your flight, your hotel, and what your first day in Boston would look like.

“I know you like tea more than coffee,” he said, breath slightly uneven as he walked. “Near the campus you’re checking out, there’s a place called Tatte Bakery. They have great tea and macarons—you’d love it. Grab a bite there between tours. But don’t just snack on sweets. Make sure you eat something more filling too.”

You could picture him saying it, half-distracted by the guide ahead of him, still making time to worry about you. Typical Junhoe. Always watching, even from across the world.

It felt like some kind of normalcy in your relationship with Junhoe. For once, you didn’t need to use your parents as an excuse to be on your own. You liked this side of him—caring for you without being overbearing.

But this could only be temporary. If it weren’t for the distance, for the time apart while preparing for college, you might never have had this space.

So you decided to just enjoy it—six weeks in Boston, all for yourself. Six weeks without Junhoe.

In the weeks that followed, you spent most of your time moving from one campus to another—Harvard, MIT, Boston University. The tours all blended together: ivy walls, quiet libraries, the hum of summer classes. You pictured yourself in each school—wandering hallways, studying, reading—though none of it felt entirely real yet. You asked questions, gathered brochures, and took photos.

Between stops, you scrolled through Junhoe’s messages—quick check-ins, simple updates. The two of you were still adjusting to the time difference, but you still managed to keep each other in the loop.

By late afternoon, you were walking through the busy streets near Cambridge, drawn by the smell of food from a corner stall. You bought a paper cup of clam chowder and a grilled chicken skewer. For someone who grew up with a personal chef and fine dining, the street food tasted surprisingly good.

After eating, you went into a thrift store just around the corner, where the smell of old fabric and wood polish clung to everything. You browsed through faded coats, silk scarves, and chipped ceramics—until a blush-pink jewelry box caught your eye. Its edges were worn, but it felt perfect for your earrings and rings. You bought it. 

Then you started craving something sweet—macarons. Junhoe’s suggestion came to mind. Tatte Bakery was nearby. When you arrived, it was bustling with students and tourists, the chatter mixing with the hiss of coffee machines. You were only planning to grab something to go.

Just as you reached the entrance, someone bumped into you—coffee spilling across your dress.

“Shit—sorry!”

You both looked up and froze.

He spoke first. “The Koo girl?” he asked, blinking as he tilted his head.

You recognized him instantly—the guy from the balcony at Club Echelon. You remembered the face, but not the name.

You exhaled sharply and reached into your bag, searching for something to clean the mess. He offered you the napkins in his hand.

“Didn’t see you,” he said, voice casual.

You ignored the gesture, pulling out your own handkerchief and dabbing at the coffee stain. Thankfully, your dress was dark.

“I didn’t expect to run into you here. You checking out schools too?”

“Leave me alone,” was all you said before walking inside, not bothering to glance back.

Behind you, he only smirked and walked off.

Junhoe’s days in London were measured, mechanical—almost. Weekdays began with lectures at the university, followed by strategy workshops and business simulations that ran into the afternoon. Evenings were usually spent in study groups, huddled over laptops and case analyses in the dorm lounge or the nearby café. Some nights, the discussions stretched so late he would skip dinner entirely and settle for black coffee or a granola bar from the vending machine.

Junhoe kept up—for the most part. Prep school was nothing like high school. He couldn’t bend the rules, couldn’t talk his way into better grades or rely on teachers to look the other way. Everything here ran on order and merit. It frustrated him at first, but he adapted. He was still sharp, still capable, and he studied harder than anyone else—if only to maintain appearances. The future heir couldn’t afford to falter. 

He got along with people easily, almost effortlessly, but he never let his guard down. There was no need for dominance here, no one to impress with power or reputation.

Still, his focus was divided. Half of him sat in that classroom. The other half was with you, somewhere across the Atlantic.

When his classmates went out for drinks to escape the grind, he would join them occasionally—but even then, his mind was elsewhere. He’d check his phone between talks, between sips—reading your texts, looking at the photos you’d sent, and stepping out just to listen to your voice notes. You two spoke on the phone every day—usually short calls, but on certain days, the conversations ran longer, and even if Junhoe was exhausted or running on little sleep, he still wanted to hear your voice.

Weekends weren’t much different for Junhoe either. He spent most of them reviewing case studies, attending guest lectures, and showing up at networking events his father arranged—trading polite smiles with people he couldn’t care less about. Sometimes he went for brunch with classmates at The Black Penny near Covent Garden, but afterward, he’d walk along the Thames to be alone and have a moment of quiet. Calls from home were brief, nothing like yours. You were his only true breather, and the gym was the other place where he could fully let go.

And yet, despite it all—your regular check-ins and his packed calendar—Junhoe was restless. He couldn’t see you, couldn’t know for certain what you were doing or where you were. So he found another way. 

Through someone else. Someone he hired.

The distance left too much room for uncertainty. And Junhoe never did well with uncertainty.

It was one evening during your second week in Boston. Junhoe sat at his desk, textbooks open, notes spread across the table, preparing for his first test the next day—a short assessment on the week’s lectures. His pen moved methodically across the page when his phone buzzed. The screen lit up with a familiar name: “M. Lee.”

“Report,” he said, answering without hesitation.

“Yes, sir,” came the reply. “She left the hotel in the morning and continued visiting campuses around the city.”

Junhoe nodded. “And after that?”

“She had lunch at a street food stall near Cambridge, then stopped by a thrift store. She went to Tatte Bakery after to order takeout—nothing unusual. No one interacted with her in a concerning way.”

“Anything else?”

There was a pause. The reporter considered mentioning the boy who’d bumped into you at the bakery but decided it seemed inconsequential. “No, sir. Nothing else.”

Junhoe ended the call and returned to his studies, forcing his attention back to the page.

It was your fourth week in Boston. Two more to go.

Time dragged during campus visits and program sessions, but flew when you were out exploring—dining, shopping, chasing views. You’d grown used to it—the updates, the routine calls, being apart from Junhoe. The way you both fell into the cadence of a long-distance relationship. 

But all these wouldn’t last. 

The program’s second phase began that Monday—a joint workshop bringing together students from different tracks. You arrived early, a paper cup of tea in hand, scanning the room for a seat near the back. Every face was new—until one wasn’t.

He sauntered in, looking completely unbothered, dressed in black from head to toe—slacks, shirt, and rimmed eyeglasses.

You blinked, unsure if it was really him—the balcony guy who had spilled coffee on your dress weeks ago. He didn’t notice you at first, but as the instructor began assigning seats, he stepped through the rows, taking in each tag and face before stopping where you sat.

He didn’t approach. He just snickered, as if he’d clocked your presence and was saving it for later.

The workshop began: icebreakers, group tasks, a few awkward laughs. You stayed fixed on the worksheet in front of you, refusing to glance his way. But during the break, he made his move.

“Well, hello there,” he greeted, leaning against the table beside you. “Koo girl’s in Boston. Have you decided what you’re majoring in?”

You looked up, unimpressed. “Stop calling me that. I have a name.”

He raised his hands in mock surrender. “Yeah, I know. Just thought I’d say hi.”

You didn’t respond—just took a sip of your tea.

“I might take Political Science at Tufts,” he said, like you’d asked. He leaned forward a fraction, watching you with keen interest. “Congrats, by the way.”

“On what?”

“Your engagement,” he remarked, glancing at your diamond ring. “Word travels fast.”

Your grip tightened around the cup. “Right.”

He let it drop with a quiet smile, the mischief gone from his face. “Well… see you around, _____.”

He called you by your name for the first time before leaving. And suddenly, his name surfaced in your mind: San. Choi San.

Turned out, he was right. You would be seeing him around. 

The joint workshop ran daily, and San was always there—always arriving just before the session began.

You tried to steer clear of him.

His presence grated more than you cared to admit. He didn’t hover or push, but he’d always turn up beside you during breaks—dropping sly comments about the lecture, asking questions he clearly didn’t need answers to. Sometimes, he’d tease you about how serious you looked during one of the discussions, and you could tell he was only trying to gauge your reaction.

You kept your responses short. Curt. Neutral. You were cautious—not just because of who San was, but because of who might be watching. So far, Junhoe hadn’t said anything during your check-ins that might make you uneasy, and you made sure it stayed that way.

You started seeing San in places beyond the workshop: by the admin building, at Tatte Bakery, even at optional lectures you hadn’t expected him to attend. It was becoming harder to avoid him.

One afternoon, you spotted him again—outside Tatte, at a table near the edge of the patio. He was smoking, coffee cooling beside him, eyes on the laptop screen propped in front of him. He didn’t look surprised to see you when you took the vacant table across from him. If anything, he barely looked up.

“Are you following me?” you asked, straight to the point.

San glanced over, eyebrows raised. “Me?” he said, laughing. “I’m not the type.”

“You’ve been here every time I come.”

“Or maybe it’s just a good café,” he said dryly.

You were about to leave your seat, already thinking of ordering food back at the hotel, when San commented.

“You need to lose a little, you know? I don’t bite,” he muttered, smiling—but not kindly. “Doesn’t hurt to talk to someone who isn’t your fiancé.”

He didn’t wait for your reply. He stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray and left his coffee untouched before heading off.

San didn’t pester you after that. No joking around, no glances your way, no offhand comments during workshops. He showed up, did the work, and left. It was almost clinical. And somehow, that made it worse.

You hadn’t expected to feel bad. But you did. It was the way he left you at Tatte—like he’d already decided something about you. That you were someone uptight. Someone who let herself be steered by her fiancé. And maybe he wasn’t wrong.

You were leaving the studio late that day, arms full of prints and notes, when the door swung open ahead of you. San stood there, holding it without a word.

“T-thanks,” you managed, stepping through.

He was supposed to head in the opposite direction, but you called out, stopping him mid-step.

“I’m sorry about the other day—I didn’t mean to accuse you. I just… I wasn’t sure.”

He paused. “No, you’re cool.”

“Honestly, I get it,” San said, turning fully toward you. “It must be exhausting for you.”

As the days passed, you started talking to him more freely. San made the space feel lighter—he didn’t pry, didn’t ask about Junhoe or your families. Instead, he talked about Boston, the program, and his chosen college major.

During the break after a group presentation, you found yourselves walking out of the building together. The hallway still buzzed with leftover chatter as you headed toward the glass doors.

“I wanted to go straight into law,” San admitted. “But my parents thought political science might open doors to politics.”

“Public service?” you asked.

“And that,” he said with a shrug, like it was a compromise he’d already made peace with.

San paused at the echo of footsteps on your heels, followed by a small group of students laughing as they exited the building.

“What about you?” he asked. “Still undecided?”

You hesitated. “I’m thinking—journalism.”

He glanced at you, his expression only curious. “You don’t sound convinced.”

“I’m not,” you sighed. “It’s just… I don’t know. I wanted to go out there and explore. But I don’t know if that’s enough.”

San didn’t answer right away. He pushed the glass doors open, letting the afternoon light spill in. “Sometimes it’s not about being sure,” he stated. “It’s about seeing what sticks.”

You nodded, unsure if he was talking about careers or something else entirely.

You couldn’t quite say you could call San a friend, but in your last few days in Boston, he somehow became one. Someone you could talk to—someone you’d grown comfortable with in a place far from home, far from Junhoe.

You hadn’t gotten this close or spoken to anyone this way in your entire life. Only Junhoe. And that thought alone made you pause.

San didn’t taunt you anymore. He spoke differently now—mindful and kinder. He still had moments of playfulness, pointing out tweaks in your notes or explaining how to shape an essay, but he never crossed the line.

You listened, took mental notes, even though you never filled out a single form. San built his own kind of boundary, one that neither of you ever talked about, focusing on the program, the research deadlines, and the mock interviews.

But in the middle of it all, you felt it—that knot in your stomach. Every time you laughed at something San said or replied with more than a sentence, you thought about Junhoe—no matter how many miles away he was. You couldn’t shake the feeling he’d somehow know, and that the next call would sound different. Colder.

You weren’t doing anything wrong—but the feeling of guilt stayed with you regardless.

Junhoe hadn’t changed much—at least not on the surface. His texts were still warm, and his tone on calls sounded just like it did when you first arrived in Boston. He didn’t ask much about you anymore, though. He mentioned how tired he was, how prep school was eating up his days now that the final weeks were closing in. You told yourself he was probably just busy. If something was wrong—if he knew about San—he’d be on the next flight to Boston already. You couldn’t imagine what he would say or do if he found out.

One evening, just to be sure, you video called him. It was early dawn in London, but he still picked up. His hair was messy, eyes heavy with sleep on the other screen.

“Hey,” he said, voice hoarse. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you lied. “Sorry I called so late, just wanted to see you.”

Junhoe rubbed his eyes, before leaning back against the headboard. “You working on your applications?”

You nodded. “The instructor’s been giving me tips. I’m still figuring things out.”

“I can have someone help you,” he offered. “Just to make sure everything’s solid.”

“No, it’s okay,” you said quickly. “I’ve got it.”

He was silent for a beat—long enough to make your stomach twist. 

You felt relieved once you saw him smile.

“I can’t wait to see you.”

“Me too,” you replied, smiling back.

The first time Junhoe heard San’s name, he was deep in another study group, surrounded by spreadsheets, pitch decks, and half-empty coffee cups. His team was preparing for a mock consultancy pitch—tight deadlines and rotating team leads had him running on adrenaline and little sleep.

His phone buzzed, M. Lee’s name lighting up on the caller ID. Junhoe paused briefly, glancing at the screen—it was an odd hour for his reporter to call. He excused himself without a word, picked up the phone, and stepped into the hallway, the door clicking shut behind him.

The call connected before the second ring. 

“Sir,” M. Lee said, voice clipped. “There’s someone you should be aware of.”

Junhoe’s posture straightened. “Go on.”

“My contact from the workshop sent a report. He saw her interacting with someone today—a boy. Name’s San.”

Junhoe let him continue.

“He approached her after the breakout session. He tried to make a conversation. Nothing inappropriate. She kept it short, no prolonged eye contact.”

Junhoe’s jaw clenched. “Send me everything.”

“I already have. Photos are in your inbox. I’ll start pulling his background—school records, family, affiliations. Full report will be ready by tomorrow.”

Junhoe lowered his voice, stepping further down the dimly lit empty hallway. “I want to know who he is. What he wants. And why he’s near her.”

“Yes, sir.”

As soon as Junhoe ended the call, he went straight to his inbox. The email from M. Lee was marked with a discreet symbol—encrypted, as always. He tapped the link, entered the passcode only he and M. Lee knew, and waited as the files decrypted.

Three photos loaded: you frowning, San leaning on the table next to you.

Junhoe’s grip on his phone tightened. He zoomed in on San’s face, dragging two fingers across the screen until the image sharpened. Something about him tugged at Junhoe’s memory—something familiar, off.

He inspected it more intently.

The balcony. Club Echelon. Gangnam.

The night came back clearly—you stepping out of the VIP lounge for some air, the boy smoking, the one who had approached you.

It was him.

San.

Junhoe’s pulse thudded in his ears, and for a long moment, he didn’t move, eyes still locked on the screen.

He dragged his feet back to the room, everything around him barely registering.

His teammates were still discussing market entry strategies when he returned. Someone gestured toward him.

“Junhoe, thoughts on the pricing model?”

He blinked. “Sorry?”

They repeated the question. He nodded, feigning attention, but his thoughts were already elsewhere—Boston, San, and you.

Choi San. Seventeen. Senior at Hanyoung Academy. Parents: Choi Jong Cheol and Kim Nam Ji. One older sister, Choi Haneul.

Family operates under the mid-tier chaebol umbrella, controlling stake in Jungmin Holdings (logistics, retail, real estate); discreet, low public profile.

San was currently in Boston, scouting universities. Tufts University was his preferred choice, aiming for political science. He was attending preparatory programs and staying alone at the Boston Marriott Copley.

Single; no known romantic involvement. 

No criminal record.

One flagged incident: a bullying case in middle school. San had been the victim. The matter was settled privately between families. No disciplinary action recorded on permanent file.

“It looks like a coincidence,” M. Lee said on the other end of the line, as Junhoe read through the file on San displayed on his laptop.

He was sitting alone at a corner table in The Black Penny. A half-eaten sandwich lay beside an untouched glass of orange juice and a nearly finished black coffee. The afternoon crowd was slow, the clatter of cutlery and low conversation fading into the background as he listened to his reporter on the phone.

“The program pulls students from different schools. San’s just one of them. Nothing unusual.” M. Lee continued.

Junhoe rubbed his chin slowly, studying the name on the screen—Jungmin Holdings. He was certain he’d heard it before. And as if M. Lee could read his thoughts, he spoke.

“I also found something else,” M. Lee added. “You and your fiancée’s families both hold minor stakes in Jungmin Holdings—San’s family owns the group.”

“Could be nothing,” M. Lee said. “But I’ll keep watching. If anything shifts, you’ll know first.”

The call ended, and Junhoe drank the last of his coffee. His eyes remained on the screen—on San’s file, on the student photo. A sneer tugged at his lips.

Junhoe couldn’t name the feeling exactly—but he knew it was raw anger the moment he saw the photos: you and San, standing close, laughing together, walking side by side.

This was exactly why he’d wanted you in London—to keep you close.

He’d trusted you too much—believed you could handle the distance, believed you’d stay away from people like San.

He was wrong.

His first instinct was to call and arrange a private flight to Boston that very night—to go to you, to see San’s face in person.

But just as he was about to dial, he stopped.

This wasn’t the moment to act on impulse.

So instead of leaving London and abandoning everything, he went to the gym. Staying in his dorm felt unbearable—like he might explode if he didn’t move.

The weights felt heavier than usual, but Junhoe didn’t stop. He welcomed the burn in his arms, the ache in his shoulders—anything to drown out the thoughts clawing at him.

You’d kept San a secret. Like he was some fool.

He gritted his teeth, exhaling sharply as he pushed through another rep. You should hide it well. He wouldn’t give you the satisfaction of knowing he’d seen the photos—not yet. He was waiting. Planning. He wanted to catch you in the act, to see it with his own eyes. Let you think he was still in the dark. Let you believe you were careful.

What he couldn’t understand—what made his chest tighten—was why you couldn’t just ask him for help. Why you’d choose to do it with someone you barely knew? Someone whose family doesn’t even come close to yours. Someone who didn’t know you the way he did.

He hated how much he loved you.

Loved you too much to stay rational. Too much to let go. You’d been with him since you were kids, and still, you couldn’t love him the same way.

He would do anything for you.

Even if it meant ruining everything. Even if it meant tearing it all down just to have you for himself.

He dropped the weights, chest heaving, sweat dripping down his back. He might’ve been alone in the gym, but his head was anything but silent.

You blow-dried your hair until it fell smooth, the scent of your shower still clinging to your skin. On the vanity of your hotel room, the ticket caught your eye again—The Lehman Trilogy, Citizens Bank Opera House.

San had invited you earlier that week, saying you deserved a night off after all the scouting and programs. He’d already bought the tickets.

You’d almost declined, but this was your last night in Boston. Tomorrow, you’d fly back to Seoul.

You slipped into your black Chanel dress, added a touch of gloss and a spritz of perfume, then grabbed your coat and purse before stepping out of the hotel that evening—hoping to enjoy the night, even if a part of you knew you shouldn’t.

You’d told Junhoe a while ago that you were going to see a play. You didn’t say with whom—only that you planned to watch alone. He hadn’t asked questions, just told you to have fun and to let him know once it was over, or when you were back at the hotel.

You said you would.

You arrived fifteen minutes early. Most of the crowd had already gone in, leaving only a few stragglers outside the Opera House—couples checking their tickets, a group of friends taking photos beneath the marquee, a handful of latecomers hurrying toward the entrance.

San stood near the steps, wearing a cream-colored knit polo and charcoal dress pants, his hands in his pockets.

“Have you been waiting long?” you asked as you approached. “We still have time, don’t we?”

“I’ve been here for over an hour,” he said, deadpan.

“Really?”

He laughed. “I’m kidding. I just got here too—and yes, we still have time before the show starts.”

You rolled your eyes. San joined you in the flow of people heading inside. You sat close to the stage, where the orchestra played beneath the looming velvet curtains.

A few minutes later, the lights dimmed. The audience hushed. The show began.

Halfway through the play, Junhoe lowered the binoculars from the stage and turned them toward the audience below.

There you were.

Seated beside San.

He didn’t need to see your face to know it was you.

He’d landed in Boston that afternoon, stepping off a private jet with barely two hours of sleep and a fury that hadn’t cooled. The play was the last straw. He couldn’t stomach your lies anymore.

M. Lee had sent him the confirmation—San had bought two tickets. One for himself. One for you.

So Junhoe bought one too. Balcony seat. Last-minute. Didn’t matter.

You’d texted him earlier, saying you were going to see a play alone. He’d replied casually, told you to have fun and to message him once it was over.

He was lying.

He already knew.

He was already in Boston.

He left everything behind—deadlines, exams, the final stretch of prep school—because of you.

Because you needed to be reminded who you belonged to.

He adjusted the focus, watching as San bent close to whisper something. You tilted your head, lips parting in awe.

Junhoe’s knuckles whitened around the binoculars.

You thought he wouldn’t know.

You thought you could lie to his face and get away with it.

But he was here now.

And you wouldn’t see him coming.

The applause was still echoing in your chest as the curtain fell. You stood with the rest of the audience, clapping until your palms tingled, heart still racing from the final monologue.

“That was insane,” you gushed as you and San made your way down the aisle. 

San chuckled, holding the door open for you. “Told you it was good. You looked like you forgot to breathe half the time.”

“I did,” you laughed. “I think I actually forgot I was in a theater.”

Outside, the night air was cool. You kept talking, still riding the high of what you’d just watched.

“Thank you,” you said, turning to him. “For bringing me. I really needed this.”

San threw you a wink. “You’re welcome. Knew you’d like it.”

Before your foot hit the pavement, a black car came into view, idling at the curb.

A cold prickle crept down your back.

Two men flanked the car—one Korean, one American—both in dark suits and earpieces, broad and stoic. Between them stood Junhoe, arms folded, leaning against the car—a grimace crossing his face as he took in the sight of you with San, the kind that said: I knew it. I saw everything.

Your breath caught.

“Junhoe…”

The smile on San’s face faded.

You opened your mouth to speak, but Junhoe cut you off.

“Get in the car.”

You tried again. “Junhoe—”

“It’s not a request.”

You shot San a final look, heart pounding with worry.

“I’ll be fine,” he said, smiling faintly as if to soothe you.

Junhoe swallowed hard at that. 

You did what he said. The Korean bodyguard stepped forward and opened the car door for you. You slid inside, pulse hammering.

Junhoe turned to San, voice sharp. “Let’s talk.”

He jerked his head toward an empty side street tucked between two buildings.

Junhoe walked first.

San didn’t move.

The American bodyguard closed in on him, his posture stiff, eyes locked with warning.

San let out a dry chuckle. “Well, isn’t this dramatic?”

Then he followed, the American trailing behind.

The alley was quiet. A flickering streetlamp cast long shadows across the pavement, and trash bins lined the wall. Words could turn cutting here—and no one would hear.

When they came face to face, Junhoe still wore the same grimace. He skipped the small talk and wasted no time.

“I don’t know what your intentions are,” he started. “But I don’t want you near her. You won’t talk to her. You won’t look at her. You won’t even breathe near her.”

San held his ground. “We’re not doing anything wrong.”

Junhoe stepped in, close enough to erase space. San didn’t flinch.

“Keep pushing,” Junhoe dared, “and one call is all it takes. Your family’s grip on Jungmin Holdings? Gone. Every deal you’ve been circling, every ounce of leverage—wiped clean.”

San’s jaw tensed, the threat hit, but he refused to give Junhoe the satisfaction.

Junhoe turned to go, but San wasn’t done. “One day, she’ll realize she has to leave you.”

Junhoe halted. The look he gave San said everything—speak again, and I’ll end you.

“Don’t test me. You don’t know what I’m capable of.” His tone made it clear—this was final.

Then he walked away, leaving San alone in the alley.

The car moved in silence, the engine’s low rumble filling the void between you.

Junhoe sat beside you, elbow on the door, palm pressed to his cheek, staring out the window. He hadn’t said a word since you left. Neither had you.

Your hands were clasped together, unease gnawing at you. Your thoughts kept circling on San—what Junhoe might’ve done. The silence only made it worse.

You swallowed hard and gathered yourself. “What did you do to him?”

Junhoe raised a finger without facing you. 

“Don’t,” he hissed. The single gesture was enough to keep your mouth shut. 

Your throat tightened, eyes stinging as you forced back the tears.

You burst into the hotel room and went straight for your suitcase. Clothes, toiletries, chargers—everything was thrown in one by one, your hands shaking. Junhoe followed behind, tracing your every move as you packed like he had all the time in the world.

You were already crying, but quietly—just the sound of sniffling and the zip of fabric. Then your frustration cracked. You started slamming things into the suitcase, fists clenched, movements erratic.

“Stop.”

You ignored him.

His tone dropped. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”

That made you freeze. You dropped the shirt in your hand and sat on the edge of the bed, sobbing now. Your things lay scattered across the floor, half-packed, half-forgotten.

Junhoe dragged a chair in front of you and sat down. He reached for your hand and brushed the back of your palm—gentle, though his expression wasn’t. He placed a kiss on your engagement ring, his words cutting through your sobs.

“What were you thinking?” he said evenly. “You thought I wouldn’t know what you’ve been doing behind my back?”

You gaped at him, stunned. “How can you do this to me, Junhoe?”

“Do what?”

You pulled his hand away. “This! Following my every move!”

“Why?” he snapped. “So you can flirt and sneak around with another guy?”

“He’s just a friend.”

“A friend? I am your friend!” His laugh was bitter. He jabbed a finger at his chest. “Your fiancé!”

You ran your fingers through your hair. “You’re suffocating me.”

Junhoe gritted his teeth. “And you’re hurting me.”

You stood from the bed and began to pace. The pressure in your chest was unbearable. You spun back toward him.

“You’re not right in the head!” you spat. 

Junhoe’s expression twisted into something lethal, cruel—as he pushed himself to his feet. “Maybe if you weren’t such a slut, I wouldn’t have left London for this.”

That did it.

You scanned the room and grabbed the nearest thing—a heavy glass paperweight, throwing it into the air without thinking.

It hit him just below the left eye.

The paperweight hit the floor with a sickening crack, shards scattering across the room. Neither of you moved.

Junhoe’s hand flew to his face. A bruise was already blooming beneath the skin.

You clasped your hands over your mouth, stunned by what you’d done. The bruise beneath Junhoe’s eye was already darkening, a thin line of blood tracing the edge.

You drew closer, reaching out instinctively. “Let me see—”

Junhoe caught your wrist mid-motion.

“No.”

His grip on you was iron-tight.

Without warning, Junhoe shoved you backward. You fell onto the bed, stomach-first, the air leaving your lungs. You didn’t fight it. You lay there, heart racing fast, dress rumpled.

Junhoe moved behind you. You felt the fabric of your dress being pulled up, your lace underwear stripped away.

Something in him snapped. His palm came down hard against your ass, again and again.

You cried out, every breath caught between resistance and surrender. Your body flinched with each strike, oddly stimulated as you let him take over.

Junhoe’s hand froze mid-strike, like he’d just woken from a trance.

His gaze swept over the aftermath of what he’d done—your skin, red and swollen.

You twisted around fast, wincing, and slapped him—hard.

The sound rang out. His head whipped to the side. Blood welled at the corner of his mouth.

Junhoe touched it—two fingers to the split skin.

You grabbed him by the collar, fists gripping tightly, the movement abrupt. You kissed him hard, tasting the blood on his lips. He grunted as your tongues met, breath tangled and hot between you. 

He pinned you down, devouring your mouth. But before he could strip you, you acted—quick and forceful, flipping him despite the strength difference.

He let you.

You straddled him with your dress still on.

Junhoe let you take control. His hands held your waist, groaning as you reached for his belt. You did it swiftly. The sound of the buckle unfastening nearly sent him over the edge. You didn’t remove it off completely—only what you needed.

Junhoe let out a low growl as you guided his dick toward your entrance. You were already wet from his spanking earlier, and the kissing had only made you want more. A croak escaped your throat as you felt the hardness of his tip. It always hurt like the first time, whenever it had been a while. But despite the ache, you began rolling your hips deliberately. Junhoe placed his hands on your knees, trying not to stray anywhere else. He knew exactly what you needed—to feel something by feeling him. To pour all your pent-up emotion onto him. He matched your rhythm, savoring the way your pussy throbbed around him.

The pain dissolved into pleasure. You quickened the motion, hips grinding, chasing the feeling while you fondled yourself, your nipples erect from inside your dress.

Junhoe lay beneath you, panting, his hands fisting the sheets. You writhed above him, the room echoed with moans and the slick sound of skin meeting skin.

Each thrust sunk deeper. Each whine louder.

You wanted to feel everything—and you did.

You felt it building—your body arching as you convulsed. Junhoe’s stuttered breaths told you he was close.

He withdrew his hardened length from your dripping cunt just in time, before he could spill his seed inside you. Rising to his knees, he stroked himself with urgency, eyes fixed on you, still aching for the lost contact. You leaned back on one elbow, one leg raised, spreading yourself to him. You mirrored his motion, two digits working in and out of your folds as you watched him—disheveled, mouth agape. His face and lips down to his chin still bore traces of dried blood. You kept pace, tracking each twitch of his body—watching until you both reached orgasm, spilling cum onto the silk sheets.

Junhoe lay half-upright against the headboard, chest heaving, eyelids shut.

You stayed where you were—head dangling off the foot of the bed, catching air in shallow bursts. Once he’d composed himself, he reached for the tissues on the bedside table, tending to himself and then to you with quiet care before tossing them in the trash.

Junhoe coaxed you closer, hands on your ankles, his body folding toward yours. You cupped his face. The anger had vanished from his features, leaving only the bruises you’d left. Your thumb traced each mark slowly, reverently.

“I’m sorry, Junhoe,” you whispered, voice cracking as the sob rose again.

Junhoe slid his arms under you, lifting you gently from where you lay. He held you close, your trembling body folding into his chest.

Between the embrace, his thumb found your cheek, wiping away the tears as they came.

“I deserve it, so stop crying now.” he cooed. 

Junhoe’s split lip brushed your forehead, your nose, then your mouth. Each kiss softer than the last, like he was afraid to break you further.

“I’m sorry for what I said too,” he murmured. “I won’t say it again.”

A faint smile broke through you despite the tears—your heart ached for him, not just for the marks on his skin, but for everything you’d said and done.

Junhoe shifted, easing both of you down onto the bed. His arm wrapped around you from behind, pulling you into the curve of his body, breath warm against your neck.

He was tired—bone-deep, and you felt it in the way he held you. Sleepless, restless nights had caught up to him, along with every fight, every argument, and every moment of longing that had passed between you.

You’d stopped crying—just the occasional sniffle now.

Junhoe’s voice was fading, thick with sleep.

“You should’ve told me you liked plays. I’d take you to any of them, anywhere in the world.”

Ever since you were a kid, you knew the world wasn’t built to be fair to a girl like you. You learned that the hard way.

You couldn’t have everything you wanted. Not when your mother worked overtime at a daycare just to keep the lights on. Not when your father was a drunk, a gambler, and a cheat. The kind of man who’d come home angry and leave even angrier. Your house wasn’t a home. It was shouting matches, shattered glass. Sometimes bruises. You didn’t grow up with toys—just a single teddy bear. Ragged and dirty. But you held on to it. It was the only thing that ever comforted you.

At least you went to school. That was something. But school didn’t spare you either.

The other kids laughed at your hand-me-down clothes, noticed when you never joined field trips, never brought packed lunches with cute notes. You stopped asking your parents for things when you were eight. You already knew the answer was no.

Then came puberty.

And with it, the only silver lining in your life—you were beautiful.

Painfully, unfairly beautiful.

And you learned quickly how far beauty could take you.

In high school, you turned heads. Boys tripped over themselves to get your attention. Girls stared. Some in envy, others in disgust. You liked that. You weren’t made for friendships or cliques. You were a lone wolf. Mysterious. Dangerous.

You wanted more.

You watched rich classmates flaunt designer bags, latest phones, and stories from family trips to Europe. You watched them live the life you knew you deserved. You envied the models on TV, the actresses in movies, the way they moved like the world belonged to them.

So you started taking what wasn’t given to you.

A lipstick here. A bottle of perfume there. A silk blouse from a department store. You never got caught. You stole things not just to look pretty, but to become someone else. Someone enviable. Someone desirable. You painted your face with stolen makeup, wore heels you couldn’t afford, and walked like you owned every hallway in that school. You used your looks to get good grades from your teachers. It was never about sleeping with anyone. You didn’t need to. A practiced smile. Compliments tailored to inflate their egos. Coffee on their desks before class. Stolen gifts slipped in with notes just flirtatious enough to stay on their minds. You learned how to pull strings without ever being touched.

But it didn’t suffice. All it got you was a high school diploma. A scholarship was possible, but you still needed money to attend college. And you didn’t want that. You were meant for something bigger. You always knew it.

You didn’t like this town, its people, or your life. You hated your life. You wanted to escape, but you had no idea how.

A few months after graduation, you landed a job at a run-down diner—long hours, low pay, barely tolerable. Just enough to keep your mother off your back and food in the fridge. Your father had been gone even before you graduated. Now just another woman’s problem somewhere else.

One slow afternoon, mid-shift, you were wiping down the counter for the third time, killing time. The place was dead. On break, you slipped into a booth, grabbed the remote from under the register, and flipped through the channels on the old wall-mounted TV.

Static. Commercials. Background noise.

Then you stopped.

A sports channel.

You didn’t even care for sports.

Tennis.

Something about the game gripped you—its pace, its tension, its class.

Or maybe it wasn’t the game at all. Maybe it was him.

The magnificent player Kim Jinhwan. Sweat glistening under the sun.

It was electrifying—the way he commanded the court like he owned it. Every swing pierced, each step measured. His movements were lethal disguised as grace. It was like watching a god play dress-up in a boy’s body.

He wasn’t just playing, he was showing off. 

And by the end of the match, you were shouting like you had a front-row seat. The crowd on the screen roared around him like a storm breaking open.

He won.

The camera caught him tilting his head back, jaw clenched, eyes closed—like he was memorizing the moment.

You couldn’t take your eyes off him, like something inside you had suddenly ignited. You couldn’t quite tell if you wanted to be in his place—or if it was something else entirely. But one thing was stronger than the rest. You wanted him. You wanted him to be yours.

---Kim Jinhwan became your reason to leave everything behind.

You watched him obsessively—his matches, interviews, public appearances. You learned his schedule, his routines, the name of his coach, his circle of friends. You even found out about his family—respectable people, low-profile, private. The kind who raised someone like him. He was their golden boy. Everyone’s Mr. Nice Guy. No scandals, no slip-ups.

And then there was her—his high school sweetheart turned fiancée. Simple, pretty, safe. They were just newly engaged.

It didn’t matter.

You convinced yourself it wasn’t just infatuation. He was your way out. Your way up. You believed it—fully, desperately.

So you did what you had to.

You started small—stealing from the diner’s till when no one was looking. Then from your mother’s purse, her hidden cash, her savings. Still not enough. So you went online. Sugar baby sites, dating apps. You used fake names, fake photos. On first dates, you’d smile, make promises, take the money. They’d expect more on the second, but you never showed. You knew better than to give real details. You rotated aliases, met in public, never twice in the same place. You were smart and cautious. 

And all the while, you kept tracking Jinhwan. Studying him like he was an exam you had to pass. The better you knew him, the clearer your plan became.

When you finally had enough money to stay afloat for a while, you packed a bag.

You left your mother a note. I’m leaving for good. Don’t look for me. I have your number. I’ll call if I can.

You bought a one-way ticket to Seoul, heading straight for him.

 ---When you arrived at the Korea Open for the first time, it wasn’t a dream come true. Not yet. You wore a tight white dress. You weren’t trying to get anyone’s attention—only his. But people stared, and the next thing you knew, you saw yourself on the big screen, zoomed in from the crowd. The camera lingered on you longer than it should have.

Kim Jinhwan still didn’t notice you, no matter how good you looked that day. But that didn’t discourage you. You were just getting started.

In time, you would slip into his circle like a ghost. And for your next move, you didn’t go for just anyone in his orbit. You went for the one closest to him—his coach.

You studied him well. He jogged the park trail every morning, so you showed up too—wearing something skimpy, just enough for him to notice. One time, he brought his dog along, so you adopted one. A small one, easy to manage. You made sure to walk it when he did. His social media told you the rest. Recently divorced, loved reading, big Murakami fan. You spent afternoons alone at his go-to café, a Murakami book propped open, making sure he could see the cover from where he was seated. Some days you pretended to read. Other days, you simply waited.

All your hard work paid off the day he finally came to you.

“That’s a good book,” he said, nodding toward Norwegian Wood in your hands.

You looked up through your lashes. “I can’t say I like it… it’s a little too emotional for me.”

He chuckled at that. “Mind if I join you? Tell me more about it.”

Talking to him took hours, and you were bored to death—but this was what you did best. Pretending. Acting like you were interested, like you were a good listener. Men fed on that—especially when you let them talk about themselves. He did ask a bit about you, though. You told him you were new in the city and worked at a public library. All true. What you didn’t say was why you were really here, or that none of this was a coincidence. 

By the end, he finally said the magic words. He leaned back in his chair and smiled. “Do you know Kim Jinhwan? I coach him. He’s the best tennis player in Korea right now.”

It only took a few more dates—and sleeping with him—before you were officially together. Just like that, you were already halfway into Jinhwan’s world.

---The first time Jinhwan laid eyes on you, you were dancing by yourself, like no one was watching—but he was. He couldn’t ignore you, not when you were wearing a black, backless silk dress that clung to every curve, the slit cut high enough for every man on that floor to feast their eyes on you. He knew it was wrong to stare—especially drunk, with his fiancée working continents away, unable to be there to celebrate his latest win.

For the first time in his career, he found himself looking at a woman for this long. Sure, he’d met plenty of attractive women along the way, but he loved his fiancée. He never saw anyone else like that. Until you. There was something about you that drawn him in. He held himself back. Thank god he managed to stay in control. That night, he didn’t make a move. Didn’t approach you.

He just watched you leave—with his coach—after the party had quieted down. Watched the way his hand gripped your waist, like he was afraid someone might steal you. Jinhwan understood. It wasn’t jealousy he felt seeing you with him—it was intrigue.

You were something else. Priceless. Like art—meant to be admired, not touched. He couldn’t figure out why you were with someone like him. He didn’t deserve you.

---You already had in mind what you wanted to ask your boyfriend while he was behind you, hands tight on your hips, breathing ragged in your ear. It didn’t mean anything—not to you. You knew what he wanted, and you gave it, silent, compliant, letting him believe he had all of you.

When he finished, he slumped forward, his chest slick against your back. You waited for him to catch his breath before speaking.

“I’ve been thinking,” you said, voice flat, calm, like nothing happened. “I kind of want to learn tennis.”

He laughed as he collapsed beside you. “I could teach you.”

“No, that’d be too much… but maybe you could sign me up at your club?”

And he did—without hesitation, he signed you up for private sessions with one of the in-house trainers at the club. The same club where you knew Jinhwan played to pass time and practiced whenever he had a competition.

You started showing up at the tennis court every weekend—light swings, awkward footwork, the occasional stumble. You kept your head down, acted shy, let the ball roll too far just to bend over and pick it up slowly. You weren’t aiming to impress; you were aiming to be noticed by him, Jinhwan. You knew he’d find you in that club—and he did, sooner than you thought.

He recognized you instantly—his coach’s girlfriend. The girl in the black dress from the party. Jinhwan didn’t expect to see you there alone. But there you were. 

He tried to play it cool, but he couldn’t ignore the way you struggled. It was obvious you were new to the sport. Maybe it was the urge to help, maybe just curiosity. But if he was being honest, he knew he couldn’t resist you anymore. You were a magnet, and he was already pulled  in.

You were on the adjacent court when your trainer left to assist another beginner. You stood alone by the bench, taking slow sips from your water bottle, catching your breath. That’s when he crossed over.

“Need a partner?” he asked, racket already in hand.

You blinked, feigning surprise. “Sure… if you don’t mind wasting your time.”

He smiled. “I could use a break from taking things seriously.”

What started as a few soft serves turned into something else. He corrected your stance, adjusted your grip. He moved closer behind you, his breath brushing your shoulder as he guided your hand. Your skin touched. And it stayed there for a beat too long.

From then on, he looked for you every weekend.

Hallway greetings and small talk turned into him hanging around after practice more often. He stopped mentioning his fiancée, and you never brought up your coach boyfriend. The guilt in his eyes faded the more time he spent with you. Whispers had already begun to spread around the club. People talked—about the way Jinhwan watched you during drills, how often you laughed at something he said, how close the two of you had gotten in so little time. One rumor said someone heard noises from the locker room—that they saw you slip out, followed moments later by Jinhwan.

As for your boyfriend, he wasn’t stupid. He’d had a hunch for weeks. He never caught the two of you in the act, but it was obvious—there was definitely something going on between you and his star player.

He drove you home after practice one night, oddly quiet, knuckles white on the wheel. At the club, he’d acted like everything was normal. Even gave Jinhwan a pat on the back. But you could feel the tension simmering beneath it all.

The moment you stepped inside your apartment, the door slammed shut hard enough to rattle the frame.

“You think I don’t know?” he said, voice shaking. “Everyone’s talking. The locker room? Really?”

You said nothing—no guilt, no apology, just silence.

That set him off.

He grabbed your wrist, shoved you against the wall. The next thing you felt was his hand around your throat, squeezing hard. Your feet barely held weight. His face was inches from yours, eyes blown wide with rage.

“I gave you everything,” he growled. “And you fuck him?”

You clawed at his hand, not in fear—but because it was annoying.

He let go suddenly, like your skin burned him. You hit the floor, coughing. He stared down at you for a moment, fists clenched.

“I’m done. We’re over, you fucking bitch,” he spat, then walked out.

You stood there, fixing your hair in the hall mirror. A bruise on your neck, but you were unfazed. You laughed, because at last you got what you wanted. Jinhwan.

A week later, he broke off his engagement and fired his coach, your now ex-boyfriend. The scandal spread like wildfire. Headlines, forums, gossip blogs. Everyone was talking. Not just tennis fans, but everyone. Even people who didn’t follow sports knew your names. His good boy image was thrown out the window. A cheater, a traitor—that’s what they called him. But the backlash you received was even worse. They didn’t just call you a slut. They hurled every ugly name they could think of. Even sent death threats. 

But neither of you cared. Jinhwan was too far gone, too crazy about you. You made him forget her like she never existed. It was that easy for you to take her place. You became the new face beside Jinhwan—at press conferences, during matches, on international trips. You whispered in his ear before every game, smiled beside him at every trophy lift.

He made you move in with him. Made you quit your job at the public library. He was wealthy enough that you never had to work again. He dressed you in designer clothes, gave everything you asked for, and took you to high-end hotels and restaurants. In return, you kept up with Pilates, watched your diet, took care of your skin—and gave him sex he couldn’t forget. You made sure he’d never want another woman again.

You continued your tennis training on the side until you were good enough for Jinhwan to pull a few strings—calling in favors, speaking to directors. Before long, you weren’t just a beginner taking weekend lessons anymore. You had a private coach, access to elite training facilities, and a spot in low-tier tournaments to get your feet wet.

The next thing you knew, you had won—Women’s Nationals, out of nowhere. It was unexpected. Eyebrows raised, because everyone in the tennis world knew Jinhwan was the one who brought you this far. They didn’t know whether to hate you or worship you.

But your triumph came at the cost of Jinhwan’s loss at the Singapore International, where he took a bad fall—foot twisted mid-return.

“Torn ligament,” the doctor said. He’d be out for a year.

You didn’t let him stay at the hospital for long, you wanted him to resume his recovery at home. Jinhwan agreed. He knew you couldn’t stand sleeping there. But after a week, you stopped sleeping beside him.

“I need rest,” you exhaled. “Your brace squeaks.”

Jinhwan didn’t say anything and let you sleep in the guest room—for two months. 

You weren’t around much during those months. So a nurse handled his care—meals, meds, sponge baths. You hated seeing him like that. Weak and helpless. You spent your days at the club, at the spa, shopping, attending matches. You needed a distraction.

And that was when he caught your eye—charming, striking, confident. The young rookie player, Jung Chanwoo.

You watched him from the stands, legs crossed, smirking. He reminded you of Jinhwan in his early days, but he was way cooler, and his moves were cleaner. And that fascinated you.

When Jinhwan’s brace finally came off, the first thing you asked was for him to come watch a tournament with you. Not just any match—Chanwoo’s. It was the last thing he wanted. Watching some other, healthier player compete while he was still recovering, able to walk but far from playing. But when it came to you—how could he ever say no?

To say he was relieved when Chanwoo lost would be an understatement—like the universe had thrown him a bone. Still, he couldn’t deny it—Chanwoo was good. Too good for a rookie.

As the crowd cleared out after the game, you leaned in toward Jinhwan.

“You should train him,” you said, casual. “He’s cute.”

Jinhwan didn’t know how to feel. He could only nod at your request. And for the first time ever, he wondered if he was no longer the apple of your eye. He didn’t question where you’d been the past months or why you didn’t come home some nights. He didn’t ask why you were suddenly interested in another player. He loved you too much to care. If you want him to kiss your feet, he’d do it—no questions asked.

---Chanwoo agreed in a heartbeat the moment Jinhwan made the offer. A chance to train under a name like his wasn’t something you passed up. Even his own coach and that scrappy little team of his were stunned. No one saw it coming.

Jinhwan started mentoring him right away. And to your delight, he even brought him into your home since his own place was too far from the club. Jinhwan couldn’t play, but that didn’t matter. He directed with precision, used a substitute player when needed, and guided Chanwoo through strategy, form, and mental game—relying solely on his presence and words. Chanwoo, on the other hand, listened intently and followed every word. He was learning things his old coach could never teach him.

And then there was you.

You showed him the guesthouse, where he’d be staying until his next match… or maybe longer. Who knows. You always sat beside Jinhwan at breakfast, offering him protein smoothies like a sweet ritual. Sometimes he’d join you both for dinner, until he realized he much preferred it when you brought his meal to his room. You were the passenger princess in Jinhwan’s car, always riding with them to and from the club.

You were everywhere.

Watching their drills. Laughing at his mistakes, but scrolling through your phone whenever he did something right. You’d hand him a bottle of water or a towel, smiling like you knew something he didn’t. It felt like a game. And maybe it was. You still had him wired in ways he didn’t expect. Compliments, stolen glances. You made him talk, and you listened well. There were instances where you’d intentionally graze his arm when passing by, or let your fingers brush his a little too long when handing him a glass. You made it hard for him to breathe sometimes. It was impossible not to look when you strolled through the house in silk nightgowns with nothing underneath, or oversized shirts that barely covered your underwear.

One afternoon by the pool, you asked Chanwoo to swim with you. He hesitated at first—Jinhwan was only ten feet away, buried in his laptop.

“He wouldn’t mind,” you said with a wink.

Chanwoo glanced at Jinhwan, then slipped into the water. Jinhwan never looked. You floated beside him, skin glowing under the afternoon sun. Conversation turned into teasing. Your leg brushed against his when you caught him staring. Neither of you moved away.

Chanwoo wasn’t sure which was more dangerous—this game you were both playing now, or the way Jinhwan never seemed to care.

It’s not that Jinhwan didn’t care. He saw it all—the looks, the touches, the way Chanwoo played along. Again, it was his love for you that made him do anything to keep you, even if it meant letting you be entertained by someone else. Someone younger.

He caught you and Chanwoo in the laundry room one night. You were perched on top of the running machine, legs around Chanwoo’s waist, his shirt halfway off, your head tilted back in pleasure. You saw Jinhwan, met his eyes, and didn’t stop. If anything, you pulled Chanwoo closer.

There was no panic or apology on your face. You wanted him to watch. And Jinhwan—twisted as it was—felt a burning jealousy claw at him, but he was shamelessly turned on by what he was seeing. 

He didn’t leave. He let it happen.

And for the next few months, he kept letting it happen.

You and Chanwoo were reckless.

Bathroom quickies. Practice sessions without Jinhwan that ended in makeouts under the bleachers. The club was gossiping again. Everyone knew—you were cheating on Jinhwan with his own protégé, just like he had once done to his ex-fiancée and former coach. It was déjà vu. Karma. But none of you cared.

Jinhwan would swallow all of it—as long as you still came home to him. Even if you would disappear into the guesthouse for hours, he chose to keep his mouth shut. And when you crawled back, asking to be fucked like nothing had happened, he gave it to you. Rough. Just the way you both liked it.

When Chanwoo won the local championship, you all came home drunk and flushed from the high of celebrating. But it wasn’t over yet. Music blasted from the speakers. Champagne was poured into glasses. You all shrugged off your jackets and danced in the living room, barefoot on polished floors. Your body swayed between the two of them. Laughing, teasing, touching. You only stopped to give them a dare they weren’t ready to hear.

“Kiss each other.”

Jinhwan let out a loud laugh. Chanwoo froze, unsure if you were joking. But the look you gave them said otherwise—you weren’t playing. And you were waiting.

They gave what you ask for. 

Jinhwan moved first, fingers still wrapped around his drink. Chanwoo met him halfway. It started hesitant, almost clumsy, but quickly turned heated—messy and breathless. You watched like it was a show you directed.

You clapped, pleased. “Don’t leave me out.“

The night led you all to the bedroom. The door was left open, clothes scattered across the floor like no one had time to think. Chanwoo’s mouth dragged down your neck, wet and slow, while Jinhwan’s fingers worked you open between your thighs.

Their hands moved like they already knew what you needed—like they’d been waiting for this.

You pulled Chanwoo closer, feeling the weight of him against you. His fingers roamed over your breasts, tracing slow circles around your nipples. You gasped, your back arching into both of them. Jinhwan stepped back, watching, his breath uneven. You looked at him and reached out, switching without a word. He kissed you hard, grunting into your mouth as your tongues collided. Chanwoo moved lower, lifting your leg over his shoulder. His tongue replaced Jinhwan’s fingers. You choked on a moan.

Time blurred. You found yourself in Jinhwan’s lap, his movements slow and steady as he anchored your hips. Each thrust pulled a deep, ragged groan from him, right against your ear. In front of you, Chanwoo knelt—lips swollen, jaw tight, pupils blown wide. You were stroking him before taking his shaft into your mouth. His entire body tensed, a curse slipping past his lips as his palms caressed the back of your hair. Behind you, Jinhwan growled, his pace quickening as he took in the sight.

The room was hot and loud, thick with sweat and cum, as your bodies came undone together.

After that night, being a trio felt like the most normal thing. Jinhwan and Chanwoo each had a piece of you. No rules, no complaints. Jinhwan went along with it, and so did Chanwoo. He still stayed in the guesthouse, but every night, he climbed into bed with you and Jinhwan in the master bedroom. You sat between them at the table—breakfast, dinner, always in the middle. You remained their plus one at the club, as Chanwoo continued to train with Jinhwan like nothing had changed. It impressed you how cleanly they kept the line between personal and professional. Though it was never confirmed, the entire club and even the press were aware of the polyamorous relationship you shared.

Some days, it was just you and Jinhwan—shopping, grabbing a meal, and taking late-night drives while listening to the radio. Other days, it was you and Chanwoo at the market or having a picnic in the park. You’d read to him, and he’d give you foot massages. And of course, you still got to fuck them separately. But you liked it better when it was both of them—especially during trips abroad. They’d spread you legs in the most beautiful places, making you climax over and over again against breathtaking views.

But it was only a matter of time before things began to change. They grew more needy and greedy, wanting you only for themselves. Jinhwan didn’t like it when you faced Chanwoo in bed, or when you laughed too hard at his jokes. Chanwoo hated when you spent more time with Jinhwan or left him out of conversations. Even during sex, it turned into a silent war—who could make you come harder, faster, longer. They ended up leaving you bruises.

Jinhwan would keep you out longer than usual—dinner dates, late-night drives, too many stolen hours. He never said it, but you knew he was trying to keep you away from Chanwoo. You’d come home late, only to find Chanwoo still awake in the living room, sitting in the dark. His expression cold. So he started taking you on day trips without telling Jinhwan. He’d show up early, get you before Jinhwan even woke up. And when you weren’t looking, he’d slip your phone out of your bag. Just so Jinhwan wouldn’t have a chance to text you asking where you were. You’d return home to find Jinhwan pacing restlessly in the driveway.

“Where have you been? Why aren’t you answering your phone?” he’d ask, voice laced with restraint, barely containing his anger.

You never asked Chanwoo why he took your phone. You already knew. If you confronted him, he’d flip it on you. Make it your fault. Say you left it behind. Sometimes he wouldn’t let you leave the guesthouse at all. He’d keep you there. Make you sleep beside him until morning.

---Chanwoo may have finally cracked.

It was one of those nights in the guesthouse. He was rougher than usual, but not the kind you liked. There was something pointed in the way he gripped your wrists, the way he pushed too hard against you on the bed.

You asked him to stop. It was starting to hurt.

“Chanwoo, I said stop!” you repeated, louder this time.

He let go. “What? You don’t like it now?” His voice cracked with something ugly underneath.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” you snapped, grabbing your robe and storming out barefoot into the cold night, fury buzzing under your skin. 

Jinhwan was on the porch, smoking, when he saw you walk out of the guesthouse. One look at your face, and he knew something was wrong.

He dropped the cigarette, stepped forward. “What did he do to you?”

You tried to stop him, but he was already rushing toward the guesthouse. He glared at Chanwoo like he wanted to kill him.

“What the fuck did you do to her?”

Chanwoo didn’t back down. “You act like you’re any better.”

“If you touch her like that again,” Jinhwan said, voice low, “I’ll break your fucking hands.”

They were chest to chest in seconds. Shouting. Shoving. 

You tried to push between them. Someone’s elbow hit your nose. It bled.

You stumbled back. Appalled. 

They stopped mid fight.

You scowled at both of them, breathing hard.

“I’ve had enough!” you exclaimed, furious, one hand pressed to your nose to stop the bleeding. “Take your alpha male ego bullshit to the court.”

They were speechless. 

“Whoever wins, gets me.”

You turned and walked out. No more games. You were done letting them think they were in control. You hated losing control. 

---The match wasn’t official, wasn’t on record—but it was vicious. And it was televised. You wanted the world to see two men tear each other apart for the chance to keep you, even if they didn’t know it. They thought it didn’t mean anything more than a friendly spar between master and protégé. But the three of you knew better.

Jinhwan hadn’t played in a year. A torn foot ligament had nearly ended him. Doctors told him not to risk it and no coach would clear him. He didn’t listen. He trained quietly, obsessively, through the pain—because he wanted everything back the way it was. When it was just the two of you. With Chanwoo out of the picture. 

Chanwoo didn’t flinch. He was younger, stronger, still riding the high of his local championship win. His confidence was unshakable. He had something to prove, too—that he no longer needed Jinhwan. That he was the better man for you.

You sat high in the stands, dressed in white from head to toe. Slim trousers, a button-down vest top, dark sunglasses hiding your expression. You crossed your legs, head slightly bowed—focused, waiting for the outcome of this whole charade.

The first set was all Chanwoo. His moves were clean, per usual. Fast and ruthless. He taunted Jinhwan with every serve, every smirk. You could feel the message in the air. He’s getting rusty.

Second set. Jinhwan adjusted. He didn’t let ego take over—just grit. He played smarter, worked around his injury. He returned fire.

Third set was brutal. Jinhwan pushed too hard, too fast—slipped. He was limping. The cameras caught the grimace he couldn’t hide. Chanwoo crushed him.

Fourth set. Jinhwan forced it. Pure will. Every swing looked like it hurt. His shirt was soaked. Chanwoo lost control.

By the fifth set, it wasn’t tennis anymore. It was war.

No one sat still. The tension gripped the audience. Every serve, every footstep echoed loudly. Chanwoo cursed under his breath. Jinhwan gritted his teeth. At one point, he tore off his bandages mid-changeover, rewrapping them with trembling hands. Jinhwan’s foot was clearly failing. His shoe was soaked with sweat and blood. But he didn’t stop. Neither did Chanwoo. Each rally dragged on, painful and desperate. You watched in silence as they ripped each other apart, proving who deserved you more.

Match point came after the longest rally of the game. Jinhwan landed a drop shot just over the net.

Chanwoo couldn’t reach it.

Silence.

A wave of disbelief swept through the stands.

You stood and took off your sunglasses. The sun hit your face. Your eyes locked on the scoreboard, stunned—it blinked Jinhwan’s name.

Victory.

Shouts and scattered applause rippled across the court. 

Jinhwan dropped to his knees, chest heaving. Chanwoo stood frozen at the baseline. Breathing hard, staring at the ground.

And that was the last time you saw Chanwoo. 

When you got back home, all his clothes and belongings were gone from the guesthouse. Meanwhile, Jinhwan was back in the hospital. The doctor said it was uncertain whether he’d ever be able to play tennis again. It was the result of pushing himself too hard during the match with Chanwoo. Recovery would take at least another year—maybe more.

In the following months, you didn’t dare check up on Chanwoo. Not once. You didn’t want to know where he’d gone, what he was doing now, or if he ever thought about you.

The house felt quieter without him. It was just you and Jinhwan. Mornings were the same. You brewed coffee. He took his medication. You helped him wrap his injured foot. He winced less now, but still limped. He’d whisper a thank you and gently kiss the back of your hand. Sometimes, you’d read on the porch while he rested. Sometimes, you’d drive out alone just to feel movement again. There wasn’t much sex. Not because he didn’t want you—he did. But his body couldn’t keep up, and yours wasn’t always in the mood either. It wasn’t spoken aloud, but you both felt it. Something had shifted, something dull. 

You tried to fill the space—gym, spa, shopping. Everything you used to do to feel good. But now, it barely registered.

You started to feel it. Boredom, discontent, unhappiness.

Jinhwan saw it—of course he did.

But he didn’t question it. He knew you wouldn’t want to talk about it. When had you ever really opened up to him? He believed you wouldn’t leave. Not now. Not after everything he’d done to win you back. And in some way, he was right. You weren’t going anywhere.

Until an invitation came. An international competition in Barcelona—something new. It piqued your interest. You decided to go and compete again, but you didn’t want to bring Jinhwan with you. Even though he was happy for you. He couldn’t, anyway. He wanted you to go alone. Said he didn’t want to be a burden. Someone limping next to you wouldn’t look good.

Neither of you spoke during the entire car ride to the airport. It was the day of your flight, and Jinhwan had insisted on sending you off at the very least. But just as you were about to board, he pulled you into an embrace.

“Shall we get married?” he murmured in your ear. 

You stiffened, unsure how to respond. All you could manage was, “I have to go.“

Jinhwan only nodded.

You kissed his cheek. “I’ll call you when I land.”

 ---You lost.

The final score flashed on the board. It was over.

There were no tears in your eyes. You refused to cry. Lips tight, you stayed seated on the empty player’s bench tucked behind the baseline, hands clasped between your knees—like a wounded animal. Tired and defeated.

The stadium had cleared. Staff swept the court. But you didn’t move.

“Thought I’d find you here,” a voice said behind you.

You turned. Chanwoo stood in his tracksuit, a gold medal around his neck, damp hair sticking to his forehead. 

You tried to mask the jolt that ran through you at the sight of his familiar face.

“You won,” you said, hollow.

He nodded. “Men’s singles. Finals wrapped up an hour ago.”

You looked away, staring at the court. “Good for you.”

“I knew you’d be here.”

You gave a dry laugh. “Of course you did.”

He sat beside you. For a while, no one said anything. Just the sound of distant chatter and a cart rolling past.

“Why’d you come?” you finally asked.

“To see you lose,” he replied, smirking.

You rolled your eyes. 

“Hey, I’m only kidding,” he chuckled, holding his hands up. Then, softly, he said, “I came because I wanted to see you again.”

You didn’t glance his way. Just kept staring ahead. All quiet. 

“I’m staying another week,” he told you. “In case you feel like talking.”

Chanwoo stood and walked away, leaving you to your thoughts.

Jinhwan was on the phone with you. It was the third time you’d spoken since you arrived in Barcelona. Once when you landed, once before the match, and now, on the day you were supposed to fly home.

“I’m going to stay a few more days,” you said. “I need to clear my head.”

He wanted to say no. To demand you take the flight back. But he didn’t.

When the call ended, he stayed frozen, phone clenched in his hand. His jaw was tight. Eyes narrowed at the screen of his laptop—an article announcing Chanwoo’s win in Barcelona.

His gut twisted. He knew you were with him. And the worst part was—he couldn’t do anything about it.

He didn’t want to lose you. His vision blurred. Tears welled up, hot and bitter.

For the first time in months since Chanwoo had been out of your lives, you were able to feel something again. Here he was, making you forget the weight of your recent loss. More than that—he made you forget Jinhwan. Or at least, he made you stop thinking about him.

The days in Barcelona moved differently with him. You wandered through the Gothic Quarter, hands brushing as you dipped in and out of narrow alleyways and small boutiques. You stood side by side beneath the towering spires of the Sagrada Familia, heads tilted back, soaking in the view. In the afternoons, you rode bikes along the boardwalk at Barceloneta Beach, the sea wind catching your hair. When you found a spot away from the crowd near the shore, you laid out a mat on the sand and stretched out on your stomach—the waves just within reach. Chanwoo sat beside you and smoothed sunscreen across your back. You liked how there was no need to exchange words with him. Your eyes did all the talking.

“Let’s swim,” you grabbed his hand with a grin. 

He didn’t need convincing. In the water, you played like kids. You splashed water at him and tried to swim past, but he caught you around the waist and lifted you effortlessly, slinging you over his shoulder. You squealed, half-laughing, half-protesting as he spun you toward the deeper end, both of you soaked and breathless with joy.

You spent a wine-stained dinner in El Born, sharing jokes and laughter in between bites. The two of you curled up in a corner table like newlyweds on a honeymoon. You could tell Chanwoo carefully avoided any mention of tennis. You wouldn’t have minded if he did, but it was better this way. You’d never admit it, but you liked the gesture.

Barcelona’s nightlife burst with neon lights and noise, spilling over cobblestone streets crowded with exuberant locals and tourists. You and Chanwoo slipped into bars where the music throbbed and the drinks burned. He watched as you sipped a small glass of vermut, then something sweeter. Licor 43 over ice. You pushed a shot of orujo toward him. He took it in one go, wincing. “Burns like hell,” he muttered. You laughed. He took another shot like a dare, and motioned for one more round.

The thumping beat inside the tight bar called to you. Soft red light scattered through the haze. You grabbed Chanwoo’s hand without thinking and led him to the dance floor. You moved first—hips swaying lazily, gaze locked on his. He followed, hands finding your waist. As the music pulsed harder, his touch grew bolder, sliding lower. You spun around and pressed your back to his chest. Your bodies moved together in rhythm, like you’d never been apart. His breath was hot against your cheek. You clung to him like you were weightless. Drunk on it all.

Back in his hotel room, he didn’t rush despite the alcohol in his system. He was gentle with you—not like at the guesthouse. And you let him take his time. From the way he undressed you to how he kissed you, to the way he held you. He explored every part of you like he was trying to relearn your body. And your body responded—he could tell how much you’d missed his touch. He missed it too. Your scent. The sound of your whimpers as his mouth moved over your folds. Above him, you looked disheveled but still beautiful—even in all your mess. By the time you were close, he laid you down and slid into you. Pace slow, deep thrusts. He wanted you to feel every inch of him. Your fingers dug at the sheets as he went faster. You moaned loudly when he hit the right spot again and again. You felt your body convulse, your legs giving up on you, but Chanwoo made sure they wouldn’t fall off his shoulders. He savored your cumming face as you finally released it all to him.

Afterward, you lay together in the dark. His arm tucked under your head, the other tracing your spine in lazy, slow strokes.

“Leave him.”

You glanced up at him, not expecting it. He was lying beside you, bare-chested, arm draped across your waist.

“Come back with me,” he added. “I’ve got a place in Jeju near the ocean. It’s peaceful, it’ll just be us. I bought it from my wins. I’ve been saving—there’s more than enough now. I can spoil you.”

You didn’t answer him.

“I’ll take his place. His throne.” His voice dropped. “The papers said he’s going to retire.”

There was a pause. You stared at the ceiling.

Chanwoo sat up, shifting to face you. “Say yes,” he whispered, cupping your face in both hands. “Please.” He kissed your cheek. “Say yes?” He kissed your forehead, your jaw.

You sat up slowly, still quiet.

“Please,” he repeated again, nearly begging now.

You gave a small nod, forcing a smile. “Yes,” you said calmly.

His face lit up. He leaned in, kissing your lips softly.

“Let’s lie back down,” you told him.

He pulled you close, his head on the pillow beside yours, eyes closed, a smile still playing on his face.

That night, you barely slept.

By morning, you were gone.

---You didn’t call ahead.

You let yourself into the house quietly. It was dark, lit only by a single lamp in the living room. The speakers were still on, a faint hum left behind from music that had just stopped. Jinhwan was asleep on the sofa, still in the clothes from the day before, one arm slung over his stomach. Bottles of beer littered the table in front of him.

You stood there for a moment, just watching him.

Then you stepped closer and wrapped your arms around his neck.

He stirred, tense at first. Then he blinked, waking slowly. His hand reached up to touch yours. He turned to look at you, eyes wide.

“Let’s get married,” you said, before he could even speak.

Jinhwan stared at you. He couldn’t believe those words had come from your mouth. 

It brought him to his knees, arms wrapped around your legs, forehead pressed to your thigh.

He kissed you there—once, twice, over and over.

He didn’t say a word.

He couldn’t. He was too overwhelmed to speak.

Finally, you had chosen him. Not Chanwoo. Not anyone else.

Just him.

---It started with fatigue, but you already had a hunch about what was behind it. Then came the nausea. Jinhwan was too busy preparing everything to notice. He didn’t want you to stress about the wedding, so he took most of the planning on himself. Or maybe it was because you didn’t let him. You were good at hiding things like this.

When your period didn’t come, you bought a pregnancy test. Alone in the bathroom, you stared at the result with cold hands.

Positive.

You sat on the closed toilet lid for what felt like hours, the stick still in your hand. From the other room, Jinhwan was talking to you—saying something you couldn’t quite make out. He was folding gift bags, arranging place cards. He sounded excited. But he had no idea what you’d just found out.

You knew he wasn’t the father.

You hadn’t told him. You couldn’t.

You couldn’t stop yourself from keeping tabs on Chanwoo.

After Barcelona, he didn’t slow down—he dominated. Paris. Rome. Shanghai. Montreal. Win after win. The world didn’t just feast on his victories—they obsessed over his personal life.

You saw videos of him stumbling out of clubs with strippers, photos of him smoking on balconies. Every week, a new woman by his side—models, celebrities, influencers.

He had become the wild card of tennis, both on and off the court. Netizens called him reckless, a disgrace—but as long as he kept winning, he still brought pride to the country. His career was soaring. Sponsors continued to line up. He even landed a multi-million dollar deal.

One article called him the new Kim Jinhwan—like a cocky version of him, but better.

You didn’t want to care. But you did. Jealousy and regret consumed you, no matter how much you hated to admit it. You knew it had been a mistake—leaving him in Barcelona without a word. No note. No call. You just disappeared. But deep down, you knew why you did it.

You wanted him back.

Eventually, you reached out. A message. Then another.

No reply.

You tried again. Still nothing.

Days before the wedding, the pressure became unbearable. You were desperate. You sent one more message:

“I’m pregnant. It’s yours.”

This time, he answered.

“Where?”

“Let’s talk,” you wrote.

You made up an excuse to skip a final wedding appointment. A venue check. Jinhwan didn’t ask questions—he never did anymore. You went to the restaurant Chanwoo agreed on, wearing one of those loose outfits you favored lately—anything to hide the small bump growing in your belly. 

You sat by the window.

You waited.

And waited.

The food turned cold. The waiter came back three times. Your stomach churned.

Then your phone buzzed.

“How do I even know that’s mine? Don’t ever contact me again.”

You sat there, staring at the screen, unable to move. The noise of the restaurant drifted out. And for the first time in your life, you cried uncontrollably—pure, raw heartbreak.

Chanwoo never intended to show up. It was payback.

You cried until they asked you to leave.

 ---Years passed.

Jinhwan still plays tennis sometimes with your kids. Not professionally—just silly games in the backyard. You had two boys. He raised both like they were his. Even Chanwoo’s. You never told him the truth, and he never asked. That was the unspoken deal.

His name lives in museums now. You stopped playing a long time ago.

These days, you work at an art gallery. Jinhwan writes as a sports columnist, covering everything—except tennis.

The last you heard, Chanwoo was still competing. Mentoring rookies. Engaged to a Russian supermodel. It looked like he was finally ready to settle down. 

Sometimes, you catch yourself staring at old trophies. Dust gathering at their edges. Or you find your finger hovering over an old clip—that match. Jinhwan versus Chanwoo. The one that ended it all.

Some nights, you watch it again. Alone. Just to relive it.

Junhoe’s wedding day.

Your heels clacked softly against the pavement as you walked toward the church, phone in hand, recording what you saw around you. You and your team from Exurb Nouveau had arrived half an hour earlier to begin your assigned tasks for covering Junhoe’s wedding—set to be the magazine’s cover story next month. The groom and guests would be arriving soon, which was why you came early, alongside the organizers, though they’d been there much earlier, as expected. It was a cold, gloomy morning. A few birds fluttered around the bell tower. The church itself was modest—nothing extravagant, just white stone walls and tall wooden doors. You spotted one of the church staff watering the empty garden. Behind you, Yoshi was already filming and taking photos of the setting. Ryujin circled the perimeter with a drone remote in hand. You felt the cold settle in your hands and feet, but at least your cashmere overcoat managed to keep the rest of your body warm.

You pushed open the doors and entered the church, your eyes adjusting to the illumination from the overhead lights. The pews were lined with simple white flowers tied in soft ribbons—nothing over-the-top. Near the front, Hongjoong was testing his camera, while a few crew members moved around setting up lighting equipment and adjusting cables. The altar was dressed in white, a small bouquet at the center. Someone had placed a pair of doves near the pulpit. After recording a few notes about the arrangement, you paused and sat back in one of the guest seats, letting the weight of the moment sink in.

Junhoe was getting married today. And you were here for him—not just to cover his story, but also as a guest, and more importantly, as a friend.

You breathed in the faint scent of fresh flowers in the air. Something inside you had softened—a quiet surrender, an acceptance that your childhood best friend, the one you’d loved for so long, was meant for someone else. And you were ready to live with that, to remain his friend for the rest of your lives.

An hour had slipped by. Guests began to arrive, filtering in one by one. Most wore classic neutrals—navy suits, dove-gray dresses, soft pastel linens. A few had coats draped over their arms, anticipating rain. The sun remained hidden behind thick gray clouds, casting a cool light over the church and its garden.

You hadn’t noticed them arriving. You were in the garden with Yoshi, squinting at the brightness of his phone screen as the two of you swiped through the photos he had taken earlier—shots of the aisle, the flowers, the empty pews, and the quick group selfie your team snapped together as a small keepsake of the day.

You were mid-laugh at the group’s one blurry photo when you felt someone grab your wrist.

A familiar flash of bunny teeth greeted you. 

“Jiwon!” you gasped, dumbfounded.

He was dressed in a charcoal suit with a loosened tie for the occasion, his hair parted loosely to the side over a clean undercut. A pair of thin-rimmed glasses framed his face, eyes crinkling as he grinned ear to ear at you. Beside him stood Donghyuk, smiling playfully in a deep maroon jacket over black slacks. Behind them were Yunhyeong, in a classy taupe three-piece suit, and Hanbin looking understated in navy.

“Dongie!” You pulled both of them into a hug, laughing in disbelief. “You guys made it!”

“We had to,” Jiwon said, pretending to sound offended. “Even if someone thought we were bluffing.”

“You said you wouldn’t come!”

“Exactly,” Donghyuk grinned. “That’s what made it a surprise.”

You playfully shoved him. “Unbelievable. You all conspired?”

Hanbin just shrugged with a grin. “Jiwon’s idea. He wanted to make you cry.”

“I was close!” you blurted out.

Yunhyeong leaned in. “Ask Donghyuk about his little crush at the studio.”

Donghyuk groaned, glaring at him. “Don’t start.”

“It’s the girl he teaches with, obviously,” Yunhyeong teased. “He’s in love, but guess what? He hasn’t said a word to her.”

“I am not! I’m just waiting for the right moment,” Donghyuk shot back, flushing.

You giggled, eyes flicking between them. 

“Coward! That’s the fourth time you’ve said that this year,” Jiwon chuckled.

“Shut up. Mrs. Kim told me she’s just putting up with you,” Donghyuk scoffed. “She’s my godson’s favorite parent, by the way.”

“She did not,” Jiwon scoffed right back, smug. “She loves me too much. And for your information, I am my son’s favorite parent.”

Hanbin let out a laugh. “That’s only because you spoil him with snacks when she’s not looking.”

You and Yunhyeong were already cracking up behind them. It didn’t feel like you’d all grown up—it was as if no time had passed at all, like nothing had changed.

Yoshi eventually murmured something about needing to check on Ryujin and slipped away quietly, leaving you lost in conversation with the boys. Not long after, Yeri and Eunha arrived together, both waving when they all spotted you from across the garden.

The greetings faded all at once as movement caught your periphery.

Junhoe was walking past, flanked by his family. His suit was ivory—classic and clean—with his hair neatly styled, more formal than you’d ever seen him. Beside him, his mother wore a dusty rose hanbok, while his father looked put together in gray. Junhoe’s older sister, Yejin, had the warmest smile upon seeing you all gathered together. She wore a seafoam gown with a sheer, ruched bodice and off-shoulder tulle sleeves.

Junhoe’s steps slowed when his eyes met yours. He and his family stopped in front of you.

“So these are the friends Junhoe grew up with? What a handsome bunch,” his mother said, her eyes lighting up as she took in the group. Then she turned to you with a fond smile. “And you, young lady—you’ve grown into such a fine woman. Junhoe told me you’re writing about his wedding, and that you’re very good at what you do.”

You nodded quickly and bowed along with the rest. “Thank you, eomeonim.”

Junhoe gestured toward his sister. “This is Yejin, my noona.”

Yejin offered a soft wave. “We’ve heard so much about your writing.”

“Thank you, unnie,” you said, pleasantly surprised. “I’m just here to make him look good in print,” you added with a grin, earning a round of laughter from the group.

Junhoe’s father spoke, “Thank you all for coming. It means a lot to Junhoe.”

“It means a lot to us too,” Hanbin replied.

Junhoe’s mother gave one last kind glance before gently resting a hand on his arm. “We’ll go ahead and give you a moment.”

Yejin gave you a small nod as she passed, her arm linked with their father’s. As their footsteps receded into the church, the garden suddenly felt quieter—more intimate, with the sky still stubbornly gray. Junhoe stayed behind, hands in his pockets, eyes briefly scanning each of your faces. And in the space between words, his friends just stood there—smiles tugging at their mouths, exchanging glances. They all wore the same expression as they looked at him: a mix of pride and affection for the youngest, now finally getting married.

Jiwon clapped Junhoe on the back, breaking the silence. “Who would’ve thought you’d be the second one to get married among us, huh?”

“To be honest,” Donghyuk interjected, glancing at Yunhyeong with a mischievous glint in his eye, “I thought it was gonna be Yun.”

Yunhyeong scrunched his nose in fake annoyance. “Being the oldest doesn’t mean I should get married first, you know.”

“Eunha,” Jiwon called out to Yunhyeong’s girlfriend beside him, her hand tucked into his arm, “if he doesn’t ask for your hand in marriage after a year, leave him.”

Everyone laughed, but Hanbin—who hadn’t said much—tilted his head toward Junhoe, studying him with more care than the rest.

“But how are you feeling, really?” he asked.

“Nervous, kind of,” Junhoe admitted with a breath, scratching the back of his neck.

“That’s a given,” Jiwon said. “It’s only a lifelong commitment. No pressure or anything.”

Snickers rippled through the group.

“Thanks for the assurance, hyung.” Junhoe could only shake his head, the corner of his mouth lifting despite himself.

“Okay, but real talk—should we place bets on who cries first when he says his vows?” Donghyuk chimed in.

“It’s obviously going to be y/n,” Jiwon said confidently, which earned him a few nods and laughter as everyone turned to look at you.

You raised an eyebrow, opening your mouth to argue, but before you could say a word, Junhoe’s fingers gently wrapped around your wrist.

“You all head in first,” he said, waving them off. “I’m just borrowing her for a minute.”

The others shared a knowing look—some amused, some curious—but didn’t say anything else. They slowly began to walk off, their laughter fading into the background as they headed toward the church doors.

Junhoe led you around the back of the church, his steps unhurried, the murmur of arriving guests fading behind you. He pushed open a side door tucked beneath a low archway, revealing a hidden preparation room. The walls were stonewashed, the floor a smooth, worn wood that creaked faintly beneath your steps. A single chair rested near a side table, beside a narrow stained-glass window that cast soft patches of color across the room. In the corner, a full-length mirror leaned slightly against the wall, its frame chipped with age. A few water bottles sat on the table, next to a small box of tissues and a neatly hung suit bag by the door.

Junhoe closed the door behind you with a soft click, the outside world falling away in an instant. He stood there for a moment, as if grounding himself in the stillness of the room, before finally turning to you.

“Sorry,” he said, voice low. “I just… needed a minute. Some time to breathe before everything starts.” He glanced toward the stained-glass window, its colored light catching faintly on the edge of his jaw. “And… I wanted it to be with you.”

You didn’t say anything—just watched him as he stepped over to the side table and picked up the boutonnière lying carefully next to a sealed water bottle. A simple arrangement: white flowers, a sprig of green, wrapped in soft ribbon.

He held it out to you.

“I asked them not to pin it yet,” he said, looking down briefly. “Because I wanted you to do it.”

You stepped closer and reached for the flower, careful fingers straightening the lapel of his ivory suit before sliding the pin in. The air between you felt still.

“She’ll be here in a few minutes,” you said quietly. “How’s your heart?”

“Right now?” he murmured. “I don’t know if this is still nervousness, anticipation, or—”

He didn’t finish what else he wanted to say, and you didn’t press him either. In that moment, you didn’t know why you couldn’t find the right words—to comfort him, to ease his nerves before his wedding began. And maybe that’s all he needed too. Just your presence. Just you, quietly sending him off to a new chapter of his life.

You smiled at him when he looked into the mirror, admiring how good he looked as a groom that day. However, Junhoe couldn’t shake the thought of you—it brought him right back to the villa. Back to your drunken confession. To the truth about your feelings he had never known, how long you had carried them, and how he hadn’t—and maybe couldn’t—do anything about it.

Junhoe adjusted his sleeves, eyes still fixed on his reflection. For a moment, he said nothing—he just stood there, as if trying to anchor himself in the quiet.

Then, suddenly, he spoke.

“Back at the villa… when you said—”

His voice was subdued, but there was a rush to it—like he’d been holding the question in for too long. He turned slightly to face you. “That night. Did you really mean it?”

You blinked, heart stalling mid-beat. It wasn’t a full question, not yet—but you knew exactly what he meant. Drunken memories rushed back—of what you might’ve said after that dance with him.

You felt trapped, unable to say the words you’d been longing to tell him since you were kids—since the day he said goodbye to chase his dreams. But you couldn’t. Not here. Not at his wedding.

Until a knock came at the door.

It was as if the universe had chosen that exact moment to intervene.

“Junhoe-ssi?” A voice called—it was the wedding coordinator. “They’re ready for you at the altar. The bride will arrive shortly.”

He lingered, his eyes never leaving yours.

“You can do this,” you said, managing a small, steady smile. “Shall we?” You motioned toward the door.

Junhoe didn’t speak right away. He just looked at you—really looked—before nodding. His expression unreadable, yet touched by traces of longing.

“Thank you,” was all he could say.

Together, you stepped out, leaving that conversation where it belonged—for now.

************************************************************************

That morning, the weather didn’t change. The sky was still gray, heavy with clouds. No sunlight broke through. Then it started to rain—light pattering at first, but within minutes, it grew stronger, drumming hard against the church walls. 

An hour had passed since Junhoe stood beside the altar, waiting patiently for his bride-to-be. He could already picture her at the church doors in her wedding gown, walking slowly toward him… but there was still no sign of her.

Like the rest of the guests, you and your friends felt the unease thickening with each passing minute. Whispers drifted through the pews, guests shifting uncomfortably in their seats. But among your group, no one spoke

only uncertain glances passed between you, confusion clear in your eyes. Outside, the rain poured harder, as if echoing the tension already looming inside the church.

Junhoe couldn’t count how many times Jisu, one of Yuna’s closest friends, had stepped out to try calling her. Each time, she returned with a different expression—first concern, then confusion, and now quiet panic. Still, there was no word. No message. No answer.

Jinhwan decided to step in and approached Junhoe at the altar, holding out the phone Junhoe had asked him to keep earlier—the screen already lit up with Yuna’s name.

“Try calling her,” he said gently, trying to mask the worry in his voice.

Junhoe took the phone but didn’t press the call button. He stared at the screen, thumb hovering, heart thudding beneath his suit.

He hesitated.

Junhoe lowered his phone and told Jinhwan, “Tell the guests… the wedding’s canceled.”

Jinhwan didn’t respond right away. His face faltered—eyes flicking over Junhoe like he wanted to say something, anything—but in the end, he just nodded, grief and disbelief settling behind his eyes.

Without another word, Junhoe stepped down from the altar and walked away. His shoulders, once held up by habit, sank under the weight of what he already knew deep down.

Yuna wasn’t coming.

She had left. She had ditched the wedding.

The church had descended into quiet chaos.

Gasps followed Junhoe’s exit. Guests rose from their seats, looking around for answers. Whispers turned into voices, voices into panic. Yuna’s mother sat frozen, hand to her chest. Junhoe’s father stood stiffly, his hand resting firmly on his wife’s back. Yuna’s relatives muttered among themselves. Junhoe’s sister stared at the doors he’d walked through, lips parted, but no words came.

Your friends stood close, trying to reach you—Hanbin’s hand on your shoulder, Jiwon leaning in, Yunhyeong calling your name, asking if you were okay—but their words didn’t land. Everything sounded underwater. Distant. Muffled. Like you were trapped inside your own head while the world spun just out of reach.

Your heartbeat thudded like a bruise.

Each beat cracked something deeper.

How could she? How could Yuna do that to him?

You didn’t even know if something had happened to her—an accident, a moment of fear, anything. But when Junhoe walked away, his shoulders sagging, his face hollow… he didn’t look like someone clinging to hope. He looked like someone who had already let go.

Then a voice broke through.

“Someone should go after him.”

Another replied, “I don’t think all of us should follow…”

That was all you needed.

You ran.

Ignoring the voices behind you—your name shouted once, twice—you pushed through the heavy doors, the downpour hitting you like a wall. Rain soaked your hair, your clothes, your skin, but you didn’t care. You ran faster, heart pounding for a different reason now.

You had to find him.

You just had to find Junhoe.

You searched everywhere.

The rain hadn’t stopped for a second—if anything, it seemed to fall harder the farther you went. You called Junhoe’s name more times than you could count, but the wind swallowed your voice. Your shoes were soaked through, your clothes clung to your skin, and yet you kept going—running, then walking, then running again. You didn’t even know where you were headed, only that you had to find him.

And then you did.

He was sitting beneath the bus stop shed, alone. His ivory suit—once flawless—was sodden, streaked with mud and rain. His shoulders were slumped, his tie loose, eyes fixed on nothing. He didn’t even seem to notice the world anymore.

Your heart cracked at the sight of him. He looked… defeated. Like all the light in him had been quietly put out.

You stepped forward slowly, feet squelching in the puddles. “Jun…”

He didn’t move.

You tried again, gentler this time. “Junhoe, it’s me.”

His head turned to you—just barely. There was no surprise, no anger in his face. Only exhaustion. And grief.

You lowered yourself beside him, careful not to startle him. “I was looking everywhere for you.” Your voice wavered. “You shouldn’t be out here alone.”

Still, he said nothing.

“I don’t know what happened,” you whispered. “But… I’m here, okay?”

Neither of you spoke for what felt like forever. The rain drummed overhead, endless. A car passed, its tires slicing through wet pavement before vanishing.

You looked at him carefully, your voice soft. “Let me take you home.”

But Junhoe shook his head, rain still dripping from his hair. “No. Not back home.” His voice cracked slightly. “I-I don’t want my family to see me like this.”

He looked at you for the first time, eyes glassy. “T-Take me to your place, y/n. Please?”

You couldn’t speak—you just nodded, swallowing the ache rising in your throat. He looked so broken. So unlike the Junhoe you knew.

You sat beside him on the bench, both of you drenched and shivering under the flimsy shelter of the bus stop. Raindrops pooled at your feet. You both waited—but more of you for him—until the next bus arrived.

By the time you turned off the faucet, steam had begun to gather on the mirror. You busied your hands—checking the water temperature, placing a folded towel and a fresh shirt (one of Hanbin’s), and setting down a pair of sweats Yunhyeong had forgotten months ago—on the counter beside the sink. Your almost-forgotten purse, rain-splashed and misshapen from the downpour, also sat there. Miraculously, its contents had stayed dry—including your phone, which buzzed non-stop against the porcelain.

A breath caught in your throat before you reached for it. The screen lit up—your call log a parade of concern.

Twenty-three missed calls.

Hanbin. Yunhyeong. Jiwon. Donghyuk. 

Even Yeri and Yoshi had left messages.

Are you with him?

Where did you go?

Please tell me you’re both okay.

Answer me, y/n.

You scrolled through the texts without reading most of them. A pit opened in your chest when your mom’s name appeared on the screen. Your dad had written too—short texts, scattered between timestamps, all asking the same thing.

Hanbin told us what happened. 

Where are you? 

Are you safe? 

Please call us. 

You stood there, unmoving, taking it all in at once.

You hadn’t heard from them this much in months. They were never around long enough to worry this way. Always abroad—volunteer work, remote teaching, humanitarian projects that kept them floating from one continent to another. Your childhood had been one long exercise in self-reliance. As an only child, you learned early how to exist on your own, to take care of yourself as you grew, and to keep things moving even when it got lonely.

You drew a slow breath, bracing yourself, and typed the same message back to both your parents and Hanbin.

I’m safe. I’m with Junhoe.

Then you silenced your phone, flipped it over, and let it rest on the sink.

The bath was ready. You steadied yourself before calling him from the bathroom doorway. Across from you in the kitchen, Junhoe sat hunched slightly forward in one of the wooden chairs by your dining table. Water dripped from the hem of his ruined suit, pooling beneath his chair. His shoes had left dark impressions on the floorboards.

He hadn’t said a word since the bus ride—since you brought him to your apartment. His fingers curled lightly around the towel you’d placed over his shoulders earlier, as if he didn’t know what to do with it. He just stared past the room, into nothing.

“Junhoe, the bath’s ready.”

He still hadn’t moved.

“Junhoe,” you called again, a little firmer this time. 

He stirred, the chair scraping against the floor as he stood. Without a word, he walked toward you and into the bathroom. Inside, the air was warm and heavy with steam. Without meeting his gaze, you showed him where the dry clothes were, along with the fresh towel you had neatly placed on the counter.

"I’ll give you a minute. Take your time."

But before you could fully turn to leave, his voice stopped you—frail, rasped.

"Y/n…"

You halted.  

"Can you… stay?"

His eyes weren’t on you—they were fixed on the floor, as if asking was already too much. You nodded and gently closed the door behind you.  

You turned your back to him to give him privacy. You heard the rustle of wet fabric—the sound of his ruined suit jacket hitting the tiles, his shirt clinging to his skin as he peeled it off, then the dull thud of his belt unfastening. You took another towel from the cabinet under the sink and patted yourself dry. You weren’t sure if the cold rain had left you still shivering, or if it was something else entirely.

When the sound of water shifting reached your ears, you knew he had stepped into the bath.

“Okay,” he said, voice thin. “You can turn around.”

You did.

He sat in the tub, knees slightly drawn in, arms resting along the porcelain edge. His gaze wasn’t on you—only lost in the wavering reflection of the bathroom light on the water’s surface. Perhaps that was why you felt the space to move, easing down beside the tub, your back pressing against the chilled tiles.

You had lost track of time, sitting there with him, listening to the rain—a constant, rhythmic presence, the only sound filling the apartment. The trembling in your body had passed, replaced by the damp heat that clung to the air.

“Hyunjin, the painter,” he began. You gripped the towel tighter when he spoke, as if it could shield you from the weight of his words. “They were close, way before I came into the picture. She used to model for him.”

You remembered him—Hyunjin. Junhoe had invited you to his art exhibition months ago, along with Hanbin and Yunhyeong.

“She always said they were just friends,” Junhoe let out a hollow laugh, chest barely rising. “But I knew. I knew by the way they looked at each other. The way she talked about him. The excuses—always finding reasons to go somewhere. I knew she was with him. But I chose to ignore everything.”

Junhoe slumped backward, eyes falling shut.

"And I couldn’t even blame her."

You jerked your head toward him, heart clenching painfully. "Junhoe—"

“There’s something I never told you. I never told anyone—only Jinhwan and Yuna. My old manager knew about it too.” 

You froze.

Junhoe’s eyes opened sluggishly, as if forcing himself to meet your gaze—clinging to the false pretense that he could bravely tell you the truth.

"It started with slipping lines during shoots. Misplacing things. Calling people the wrong names. I thought it was just stress. Lack of sleep. But then it got really bad. I couldn’t finish a scene without cue cards. I’d walk into a room and forget why I was there."

You pressed a hand to your mouth, tears stinging at the corners of your eyes.

“The tests confirmed it. I tried to keep going—pushed through a few more films… but I couldn’t go back to music. I forgot melodies halfway through writing. Lyrics I used to know like the back of my hand just… disappeared.”

He let out a shaky breath. “I’ve had early-onset Alzheimer’s... for years now.” 

He lowered his gaze to the water. “Remember that day at the house? The interview? When I didn’t recognize you?”

You did.

"I lied to you," he murmured. "It wasn’t the meds that made me forget. I forgot because I’m sick. All those times I didn’t reach out to you..."

You couldn’t stop the tears. They spilled silently, trailing down your face as you stared at him, everything inside you unraveling.

“It’s getting worse,” he went on. “I think Yuna left because she couldn’t handle it. Not just the wedding. Not just me. But the idea of watching me fade, slowly. Of becoming a caretaker, instead of a wife.”

His voice cracked, and you saw him fight it—the pain, the humiliation.

“I think she went to Hyunjin,” he said. “Because he remembers her completely… and I would be forgetting her.”

You reached for him—fingers grazing his arm, your voice breaking. “Junhoe…”

You pressed your forehead against your knees, muffling your sobs. Your heart ached with a helplessness you had never known until now.

Because you couldn’t fix it.

But you could stay.

And you would.

************************************************************************

You didn’t want to know, but you couldn’t avoid it. It was all over the news—Junhoe’s canceled wedding. Dispatch got to it first. 

Your team at Exurb Nouveau did everything to contain the story. No one knew who talked—could have been a guest, a staff member. 

Despite the NDAs, it leaked anyway.

Junhoe had been right all along.

Yuna didn’t show up to their wedding—because she never planned to. She flew to America, with Hyunjin.

So you shielded Junhoe from it, as much as you could.

The days that followed passed in a hush, as if the world outside your apartment had dimmed itself in quiet reverence. Junhoe didn’t speak much. He spent most of his time on the couch—sleeping, reading. You bought him books. Sometimes, you’d watch movies together. He let you choose, but never his, never anything local. Other times, he stood by the window, watching the rain when it came. It had been falling for nearly a week now.

Junhoe hadn’t touched his phone since the day of his wedding. The missed calls, the unread messages—all remained unanswered. His family had been trying to reach him, but he refused to respond, retreating from the thought of facing them. At first, he resisted, shaking his head with weary defiance. You urged him gently, saying, “They deserve to know. And you don’t have to carry this alone anymore.” Something in him faltered, and Junhoe relented.

They came the next afternoon. You left to buy groceries, giving them space.

Hours later, Junhoe texted you—“You can come back now.”

Your stomach tightened. You returned to find his mother and sister standing in the hallway outside your apartment, eyes red and swollen. His father stood apart, arms crossed, jaw clenched as if holding something back. They had all tried to convince him to come home, to let them take care of him. But Junhoe had refused.

“He said he could handle it himself," Yejin told you, sniffling through her tears. “He doesn’t want to be pitied.”

"He’s not alone.” You took Yejin’s hands, offering comfort. “I’ll look out for him,” you assured them.

Life inside the apartment settled into a muted routine as Junhoe remained by your side for another week. His appetite hadn’t returned, so you called him to the table for every meal and made sure he took his medication. There were moments when you sensed he wanted to speak—but he couldn’t, and you didn’t mind. You wanted him to take his time, to slow the world down if it might somehow ease the weight he carried. Sometimes, you spoke through music, playing his favorite songs—letting them fill the silence in ways words couldn’t. Conversation existed in glances, and when his met yours, it carried something unspoken but understood. A wordless apology for burdening you with everything he’d been carrying. Yet he still stayed—because in his fragile state, you were the only safe space he had.

You’d been working from home ever since Junhoe started staying with you. You were grateful for Yeri’s understanding of the situation and her willingness to let you. “Take all the time you need,” she’d said over the phone. As for the boys, you appreciated how they’d stepped back without question. Jiwon and Donghyuk had flown back to the States, checking in every now and then through messages. Yunhyeong did, too—mostly Hanbin. Especially Hanbin. You knew how much he wanted you to open up to him. He had always seen you as strong, but if you ever felt overwhelmed enough to fall, you knew he would catch you. But you wouldn’t. And he knew that, too—that you’d tell them the truth only when the time was right.

It happened on a Wednesday. 

He was still sleeping when you left him.

You had gone out to buy flowers, to replace the withered ones near the window—where Junhoe used to sit and stare. You regretted walking back from the market instead of taking the bus. You just wanted to breathe some fresh air.

Junhoe wasn’t on the couch. He wasn’t in the bathroom. He wasn’t in your room. His shoes were missing. The jacket he’d never worn had vanished from the hook.

Fear overtook you.

You tried his phone, but he had left it next to the television. You rushed outside your apartment, calling his name once, twice.

No answer. No trace of him.

You called Hanbin next.

"He's gone," you said, breath shallow. "I don't know where he is."

Hanbin didn’t ask questions. "We’ll find him. I’m coming."

Within twenty minutes, he and Yunhyeong had joined the search, fanning out across neighborhoods Junhoe once called familiar. You checked playgrounds, cafés, even the noodle shop where you used to go after school.

Nothing.

It was Hanbin who found him.

He called you, his voice windblown and tight. "I got him. He’s at the beach. Near the jetty."

By the time you got there, Junhoe was sitting in the sand, soaked in sea spray, breathing too fast—his hands trembling violently.

"He didn’t recognize me at first," Hanbin said, his face grim. "I think he thought I was someone else.”

Junhoe looked up as you crouched in front of him. Tears streamed down his face, but no sound escaped him.

"I didn’t know where I was," he mumbled. "I forgot… I forgot how to get back."

You held his hands. "You’re okay now, Jun. You’re safe."

Junhoe was sedated at the hospital. 

The three of you stood side by side outside his room—unmoving, as if time itself had stopped in that moment.

But Hanbin had to be the one to break it first.

"It all made sense now—why he left his career."

"How long did you know?" Yunhyeong asked, staring at the floor.

"I first saw it when I tried to interview him for the wedding at his house," you answered. "He said it was a muscle condition, but it was far from that. He told me the truth when I brought him to the apartment. He’s had it for years now."

Hanbin crossed his arms, his voice rising with every word. "And Yuna knew about it all this time? She couldn’t take it anymore, so she left him?"

You couldn’t bring yourself to respond. 

"What do we do now?" Yunhyeong asked, his voice on the edge of tears.

You looked at both of them, your eyes stinging. "We love him harder. We don’t leave."

Junhoe didn’t want to stay another night at the hospital. You didn’t inform his family about the incident—he begged you not to.

He had promised to leave your apartment once he sent them off to the airport in a few days. They had no chance of convincing him to let them stay in your hometown to look after him, nor would he agree to go with them to Japan.

You didn’t want him to leave—Junhoe didn’t answer.

You woke to the sound of thunder. It was five past midnight. You pulled yourself from bed and stepped out of your room into the living room, where Junhoe was.

He was curled up on the couch, a blanket half-pulled over him. The space had been his for over a month now. Light from the television cast shadows across his face, but he wasn’t really watching.

You took a seat next to him.

“Can’t sleep?" you asked.

"My brain’s too loud,” he responded.

"What is it saying?"

"That I messed everything up."

"You didn’t. You were just… carrying too much on your own.”

His weary eyes lingered on you before he spoke, bringing up something you had thought was buried for good.

He swallowed. "Back at the villa… at my bachelor’s party… when you said you liked me since we were kids…”

Your heart fluttered in your chest.

"It’s the only thing that makes me happy—knowing I haven’t forgotten about it," Junhoe said, smiling warmly. "I didn’t imagine it, did I?"

"No. You didn’t,” you said truthfully. 

He blinked, slow. "I liked you too… but I was so young back then. And I became too ambitious."

"You were just full of dreams, Jun," you said, smiling back at him.

The air in the room changed—softer, heavier.  

"What did I ever do to deserve you?" he asked, not particularly to you, but to himself.

"Nothing," you said gently. "You just have me."

He turned toward you, his expression crumbling—not from desperation, but from something raw, stripped of all his usual defenses. 

He could no longer hold back.

Slowly, Junhoe reached out, his cold hands cupping your face.

You leaned in—carefully. The kiss carried every ache, every unspoken word between you. He kissed you like it was a memory he needed to hold onto, even if one day it might slip away.

You pulled him close, the blanket sliding down as your hands found their way beneath the collar of his shirt. He buried his face in the curve of your neck, and everything held back for so long finally broke open—breathless and tender.

A year had passed.

You and Junhoe got married in the backyard of his family’s home—small and intimate, just as the two of you had hoped for. His parents wept during the vows. Yours did too, holding each other close. Jinhwan officiated. Jiwon and Donghyuk made everyone laugh during the toasts. Hanbin and Yunhyeong pretended not to cry.

Your honeymoon was in Japan. Kyoto in early spring—petals of cherry blossoms drifted down over your heads like love letters carried by the wind. You held hands on empty train rides and stole kisses beneath vermilion shrines. For a while, it felt like time had granted you an extension.

After that, you lived together at Junhoe’s family home. You were a managing editor now, as Yeri had become editor-in-chief. Junhoe still gets royalties from his music every now and then. Once in a while, he would write reviews for other artists’ work. He never stopped writing poems, either.

But time, of course, didn’t slow.

As the months slipped by, Junhoe’s health began to fade in increments. Some days, he would forget where he left his keys, his books or the name of one of your friends. Then came the deeper lapses—struggling to follow conversations, missing meals he swore he hadn’t skipped. One morning, he forgot which room was the kitchen.

You saw it happening before he did. At first, you’d nudge him back—“It’s this way, love," or “You already took that," with a smile. But eventually, you filled the house with reminders. Sticky notes labeled drawers. Calendars marked everything in detail. A whiteboard near the fridge held daily instructions in your handwriting.

Take medicine. 

Water the plants. 

Call y/n if confused.

You attended his checkups without fail, collected prescriptions, kept your phone on loud—even while working.

One evening, not long after his symptoms worsened, he came up behind you while you were sorting laundry.

"Y/n…" he said, his voice small.

When you turned around, his eyes were wet.

"I remembered you," he whispered, breath shaking. "I remembered you today. I woke up and—God—I remembered everything, even your laugh, and it scared me because I know I’ll lose it again."

You didn’t cry. You couldn’t. Not when he looked so broken in front of you.

So you pulled him into your arms and whispered against his hair, "Then remember this instead… I will never leave you. Even if one day you forget my name, I’ll still be right here. Loving you like I always have."

He sobbed into your shoulder, and you held him until sleep took the grief away.

Your first anniversary arrived on a clear day.

He asked you to come with him, his guitar clutched in his hand.

“I wrote a song for you," he said, excitement bright in his eyes.

You followed him to the balcony, where the breeze was light and the sky a watercolor blue. He sat and strummed the opening chords—hesitant at first, then steady. His fingers remembered what his mind oftentimes didn’t.

He began to sing. His voice was beautiful—deep and husky, the one you had always loved listening to. The lyrics were delicate, haunting. The melody was bittersweet against the warmth of the afternoon.

You watched him, heart swelling, eyes stinging with tears.

“It’s lovely, Junhoe," you murmured as his voice rose in the final refrain.

He glanced your way for a long time, as if memorizing every corner, every detail of your face. Then, he looked past you toward the sky—like he was absorbing everything before it could be stolen away.

You realized what this was. 

His swan song.

The last clear note before everything faded and was forgotten.

But you would stay—until the very end, and long after that.

Love.

What would life even mean without it? How would the world keep turning without love?

That’s exactly what Yunhyeong was thinking that morning as he stood behind the counter of his café, watching customers come and go. From the outside, you’d think he had it all together—a young, successful business owner running the only café in a small, quiet town. No competition. Steady income. He had his own car, a cozy apartment, and even if he didn’t finish college, he never saw it as a failure. His mother had taught him to cook and bake, and over time, he got really good at it. Everything he’d been through, everything he came from—it all led him here.

The place was called Smile Café—fitting, because that’s what people saw in him. A cheerful guy. Friendly. Kind. Polite to elders. The kind of guy you bring home to your parents. So it wasn’t surprising that he had plenty of admirers too.

But none of them were her.

None of them were you.

You were the last customer to walk in before he closed up for the night. And in his eyes, you were perfect. Despite looking like a total mess—mascara smudged, eyes puffy—you were still beautiful. Like something fragile and broken you’d want to keep safe in your hands.

You stepped up to the counter and cleared your throat. “Do you have any donuts left?”

Yunhyeong glanced at the nearly empty display. “Yeah. Last box, actually. Lucky.”

Your voice was faint. “I’ll take it.”

He packed the donuts carefully. You looked like you hadn’t eaten all day. He didn’t say anything, just made you a coffee and placed it beside the box.

You narrowed your eyes a little.  “I didn’t order this.”

“It’s on the house,” he said, offering a small smile. “You look like you need it.”

You didn’t smile back, but there was something in the way you looked at him—like no one had been kind to you in a while. 

“Thanks,” you muttered, clutching the box like it was the only thing holding you together.

That was it. That moment. That look. That voice.

At last, Yunhyeong found the love he’d been looking for—the missing piece in his life.

You started coming more often after that.

Always alone. Always near closing. Sometimes with messy hair, sometimes freshly showered. Always tired, always quiet. You never said much, but Yunhyeong didn’t need words. He learned to read you. A furrowed brow meant don’t ask questions. A hoodie pulled tight around your face meant rough night. A new bruise on your wrist—he noticed. You didn’t think anyone would.

But he saw everything.

And that’s when it started.

Following you after you left. Just to make sure you got home safe, he told himself. But he didn’t stop there.

He followed you to work—a dingy pub on the edge of town. You worked the counter, serving drinks and forcing a fake smile while drunk assholes flirted with you.

Until, he followed you home. You lived alone. The hallway was empty, dead quiet except for the buzz of the dim lights overhead. Yunhyeong pulled his cap lower, his hoodie casting a shadow over his face. No one would notice him.

He stopped at your apartment door. You were out—he had seen you leave an hour ago.

Without thinking twice, he leaned in close. His fingers worked the lock like it was second nature. A sharp, soft click, and the door gave way. He slipped inside, shutting it carefully behind him. 

Your apartment was small, tidy, smelled like laundry and cheap lavender candles. He walked through it like it was a museum—every book, every photo, every note on the fridge. Then he stepped into the bedroom.

That’s where he saw it—a polaroid taped to your mirror. You were with a guy, his hands around your waist, lips pressed to your cheek.

So you weren’t alone after all. 

Yunhyeong’s blood turned cold. But it was nothing compared to what he felt a week later. He was hiding across the street, watching the guy from the photo—your boyfriend—scream at you outside the pub.  He gripped your arm tight, shoving you afterward.

It didn’t take long for him to trail your boyfriend. He found him with another woman—laughing, hands all over each other as they disappeared into a cheap motel.

Yunhyeong clenched his jaw so hard he thought it might crack.

It was almost closing time when you stumbled into the café again.

Drunk.

Slurring. Makeup smeared. You leaned on the counter and gave him a playful smile. “You’re always here,” you said.

He caught you before you tripped.

“Let me take you home.”

He walked you to your apartment, helped you up the stairs, and found your keys in your bag. You leaned on him the whole way. Once inside, you sank into the couch, eyes half-closed.

“You’re… really sweet,” you mumbled. “You’re the only one who’s… not a fucking liar.”

You became friends after that. Texts. Inside jokes. Shared silences. But Yunhyeong wanted more.

He thought about telling you everything—about your boyfriend, about what he had seen. About how you deserved better.

That moment finally came. At night, he sat in his car across the street, watching your window, the words rehearsed in his head. He just had to find the right timing. Then the lights in your apartment went dark… and a dim glow flickered to life. Through the hidden audio feeds he had secretly planted, he heard it—the laughter, the moans, the sounds of you with him, echoing in his earphones. He didn’t have to see it. He already knew. Your shadows moved behind the curtain, a cruel silhouette he couldn’t look away from.

It gutted him.

He almost drove away for good.

But then came the screaming.

Another night. Same place. But this time, it was different. Your voice wasn’t just angry. It was scared. Panicked.

He didn’t think. He moved.

He undid the lock of your apartment door the same way he had the first time he broke in. He walked fast to the bedroom, where he found you—pinned beneath your boyfriend, his hands tight around your neck, his voice low and threatening. You were crying, telling him to stop.

Yunhyeong didn’t remember picking up the lamp. Just the weight of it. Just the sound it made when it hit your boyfriend’s skull.

Blood everywhere.

You screamed. Not at Yunhyeong. Just at the world, at your messed up life.

He dropped the lamp. Breathing hard. Heart racing.

And then… silence.

“How… how did you get in?” you asked, eyes wide. “How did you know I needed—”

He didn’t answer.

He didn’t need to.

You both cleaned the scene together.

Bleach. Garbage bags. Gloves. Quiet coordination, like you’d done this before. Like instinct. You both dumped the body deep in the woods. Buried it. Never looked back.

The sun was almost up when you made your way back to your apartment with him. You didn’t want him to leave you alone, and he felt the same. Yunhyeong kissed you. It was sloppy at first, then it became desperate, hungry, years of loneliness crashing between you. Clothes hit the floor, forgotten. Hands roamed. Mouths collided. He had wanted you for so long it hurt—and now, you wanted him just as much.

Neither of you talked about your dead boyfriend after that.

Didn’t need to.

Months passed. You two were a couple now. Normal, even. Happy, in your own twisted way.

You left your job at the pub and helped him at his café. Your dead boyfriend was declared missing. The theory was that he escaped, possibly even changed his identity to hide from some shady people he might have had bad dealings with, given his reputation in your town. Or so they thought. The police never became suspicious of you, and without any more leads, it was turning into a cold case.

As for Yunhyeong, old habits die hard. He couldn’t help but still snoop on you.

One night, while you were asleep, he opened your laptop. Just curiosity. Nothing more.

But he had no way of preparing himself for everything he found.

His name.

His socials.

You even found his address.

Photos of him, dozens of them—walking, laughing, working. Helping strangers. His weekend jogs, grocery shopping. Hidden in a folder. Dated before that first night you came into the café.

And there, on an app: real-time cam footage. Videos from inside his apartment.

You had been watching him.

Long before he ever knew you.

He turned to you in the bed, his mouth slightly ajar. You were awake, watching him, amused.

“You didn’t really think you were the only one, did you?”

You moved closer to him, your lips brushing his ear before whispering,

In the month you’d been working as Hanbin’s secretary, this was the first time he stepped out of his office to call you out—over a freaking typo.

“You missed a letter,” he muttered, tapping the error with his pen on the document you’d printed. His cologne hit you—musky and leather, a scent that pulled at your senses.

“Do it again,” he said, voice firm.

“Yes, sir. My apologies.” You snatched the document back, hoping he wouldn’t notice the tremor in your fingers.

You were about to begin the rework when you noticed he still hadn’t moved. His fingers hovered on the edge of your chair, tapping against it.

You glanced over your shoulder and caught him looking at your blouse—not in a sexual way, but in that piercing, assessing look that made you swallow. There was a hint of annoyance in his eyes. “Starting tomorrow, I want you looking presentable for our clients.”

He turned away, already heading back to his office, but added one more thing: “And stop biting your lip when you type. It gives the wrong impression.”

You almost bawled your eyes out the moment his office door clicked shut.

Hanbin hadn’t stopped testing you since that day. It was as if he were always looking for a fault in your work—in everything you did. You dressed better. You prepared his coffee exactly the way he liked it. Still, he’d say, “You forgot an extra teaspoon of sugar.” So you made it a habit to leave a packet beside his mug. You even trained yourself not to bite your lip anymore. Yet, you couldn’t shake the thought that maybe he was just waiting for you to quit.

And of course—the damn red ink, circling your typos. Why did he have to act like a professor grading papers? You’d had enough.

So when everyone finally went home, you stayed behind and walked straight into his office.

“Come in,” he said. You found him by the window, watering the small plant he always kept in his office.

“I need to talk to you.”

He set the watering can down and faced you, his expression unreadable.

“I always do what you ask, sir, but I don’t know what else you want from me.”

He said nothing at first—just stared. But when his voice came, it was calm—too calm. It rattled you more than if he’d raised his voice.

“Do you?”

“Y-yes. No offense, sir, but… I think you’re doing it on purpose.”

His brow lifted. “Is that what you think?”

He stepped forward, slowly closing the space between you, inch by inch.

“You’re a perfectionist. Maybe even controlling,” you said, fighting the urge to shrink back. “But I won’t give up easily. You can’t break me, sir.”

You kept your eyes fixed ahead, his presence still clear in your peripheral vision.

Something ignited in his eyes—interest, challenge.

“Really?”

“Try me,” you said, surprised by how steady your voice sounded.

Silence. 

Then he ordered, “Bend over the desk.”

“Excuse me?” you breathed, unsure you’d heard him right.

“You heard me.” His voice left no room for confusion, something darker simmering underneath.

You froze, pulse spiking. The air around you grew thick. 

Hanbin stood behind you, like a predator circling its prey.

“I said, bend over,” he repeated, his voice now dangerously low.

And you did. You obeyed, bending over and pressing your palms to the cool wood of his desk, heart hammering in your ears as you waited for what would come next.

Hanbin began by caressing your back, and your body shivered under his touch.

Carefully, his hand drifted lower, reaching your skirt. He paused, lifting the fabric just enough before letting it slip away.

He took in the sight of the black lace underwear barely visible through your stockings, eyes tracing the curve of your ass down to the back of your thighs. You waited, breath held, your body aching for the return of his touch.

At last, he unfastened your stockings and slid your underwear down with maddening control. His palm pressed against your bare skin—testing, feeling—as if searching for the perfect spot.

Without a word—slap!

You gasped, the sudden sting stealing your breath.

Another strike—harder this time.

Then another. And another.

He didn’t stop until you’d lost count. By the time he was done and satisfied, your ass throbbed, red and burning. You winced as you pulled your skirt back up, the fabric scraping raw against your skin.

Leaning in, he whispered in your ear, “Now, go home.” 

That day had changed everything; going to work each morning thrilled you like never before.

Hanbin felt it too—though he made sure you’d never know. He maintained his composure, face impassive, speaking only when necessary—usually when you made a mistake, which, more often than not, you did on purpose.

“What did I say about commas?” he’d scold you, tone clipped.

“Sorry, sir. I’ll fix it.”

“Do it again.”

“Yes, sir. I will.”

“You’ve been slipping.”

“I know.”

“I gave you more responsibility because I thought you could handle it.”

“I can,” you said through clenched teeth.

You couldn’t tell if he was convinced. His gaze locked on you in a way that made you feel exposed—like he was dissecting you, as if you were something to be figured out. 

And yet, he made you feel seen.

“Bring them back to me as soon as you're done. Don’t use your hands.”

“Understood, sir.”

Again, you obeyed him.

An hour later, you entered his office, the papers clutched delicately between your lips. He saw that your lipstick had been wiped off, leaving only the clean imprint of your effort. He watched as you placed the papers on his desk neatly—no smudges, just proof of your attentiveness. His expression didn’t falter, but you were almost certain his fingers had tightened around his pen.

He hated to admit it, but he liked it. He liked when you improvised—how you found clever ways to accomplish every task he gave you. And this time, you’d used your jaw, your mouth. A mouth he often thought about kissing. Hard.

You both kept it up every day of the week—undetected by anyone else at the firm. No one suspected a thing.

You two were unconventional—didn’t even hold hands in the break room.

But Hanbin had his ways.

He would leave notes on your desk in that annoyingly perfect handwriting of his. Little praises. Daring challenges. Sometimes, just your name written in red ink—like a secret only the two of you understood.

In the following months, Hanbin noticed how much you’d changed. The woman who had often avoided his gaze now looked him straight in the eyes—the same woman who used to apologize even for minor things. You stood taller. Spoke clearer. You had learned to be confident in yourself.

As for him, you weren’t just the fire in his loins—you’d become a light in his life. A light he wanted to keep. For a long time.

One night, after everyone had gone home, he found you still at your computer, typing away. He knew you were pretending, as you always did—finding excuses to stay late so you could wait for him.

“You never give up, do you?”

You looked up, a playful smile on your lips. “Never.”

Hanbin’s gaze glinted. “Can you do this… twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week?”

“You know I can,” you replied, daring, matching the spark in his stare.

For the first time ever, you saw Hanbin smile. God, he looked so good when he smiled—it made your heart jump.

“I’ve made reservations at this Italian place… for us.”

Your smile widened. “Are you asking me out on a date, sir?”

He nodded.

“You know what this means, right?” you teased.

“Yes,” he said softly. “It means this.”

Hanbin walked around your desk, took your hand, and gently pulled you to your feet. 

Nearly two months had passed since that afternoon at the noodle shop—an unexpectedly emotional moment between you and Junhoe. Since then, you hadn’t seen him—not with the wedding drawing near. But you still kept in touch—messages exchanged like warm embers between busy days. Until slowly, they faded, growing less and less frequent.

In one of those less frequent messages, Junhoe reassured you that he was doing fine. He understood your worry. The silence, he explained, wasn’t distance—just the weight of planning a wedding. He even shared that he and Yuna were keeping things simple—an intimate ceremony at the church in your hometown, followed by a modest reception at his family’s house. Only a few of Yuna’s closest friends, a handful of relatives, and of course, you and the boys were invited. The kind of celebration that felt more like home than spectacle.

Later, he and Yuna went over the same details during an online meeting with Yeri and the Exurb Nouveau team. It was the first time you’d seen him again—even if only through a screen. Junhoe spotted you right away in the conference room, a look of delight crossing his face the moment he did. The couple appeared composed—no tension, no off-putting energy. They handled everything with the same professionalism as the team, and the meeting moved smoothly through planning, setups, and assignments.

Then suddenly, it hit you—how quickly time had slipped by since you last saw him at the record store. Now, here he was, about to be married. And here you were, the one writing about it.

So you leaned into what you knew best: your work. You poured yourself into the coverage, every detail, every task—doing your best to keep your emotions out of it. More than anything, you wanted to be happy for him. To honor the bond you still had. If this—friendship—was all that remained, you were willing to hold onto it.

Even your suspicions about Junhoe’s condition faded into the noise of everything that followed.

One week before Junhoe’s wedding, you found something unexpected waiting in your mailbox. Amid the usual flyers and mundane letters sat an envelope you didn’t recognize—sleek, elegant, crafted from heavy cream cardstock. Your name and address were handwritten in clean, deliberate strokes, and the flap was sealed with a wax stamp—intricate, unfamiliar, and bearing no recognizable insignia. No return address. No clue who had sent it.

You furrowed your brow. Junhoe’s wedding invitation had arrived weeks ago. So what was this?

Slipping your finger beneath the seal, you carefully opened it. Inside lay a single card, thick and smooth. Embossed in graceful cursive across the center, it read:

If you have received this envelope, you are invited and required to attend Koo Junhoe’s surprise Bachelor Party this coming Friday. Party starts at 8 PM. Dress code: Evening attire.

Beneath the message, the location was printed in bold, smaller text, followed by what looked like a disclaimer:

This one’s just for Junhoe’s inner circle, so keep it under wraps. It’s not your average bachelor party (no strippers, no wild games). But feel free to bring a date. –KJH

You couldn’t help but laugh at the “no strippers” line—thank God it wasn’t one of those parties. But the amusement faded quickly, replaced by curiosity.

KJH?

The initials echoed in your thoughts. Who could it be?

Then a name surfaced—Kim Jinhwan. You’d never met him, but remembered glimpsing him at one of Junhoe’s concerts. A longtime best friend from the music scene. You could almost picture him behind the invitation and the surprise planning. How he found you, you weren’t sure. But he had his ways—and that surprised you more than anything.

Thursday.

You stood in front of the mirror, carefully adjusting the apricot-colored silk dress you’d bought for tomorrow night’s party. The dress was sleeveless, falling just past your knees, skimming your calves but stopping short of your ankles. The fabric shimmered in the light, and as you examined yourself, you debated whether the color had been the right choice. Maybe you should’ve gone with black—safer, more formal. Then again, the shoes you picked out complemented the dress perfectly: a pair of stilettos in the same apricot hue.

As you continued to second-guess the decision, your phone buzzed on the bed beside you. You picked it up and saw a message from Hanbin: Hey y/n, Yeri and I will pick you up at 7 p.m. tomorrow.

Just as you were about to reply, another notification lit up the screen. This time, it was from Yoshi: Hello noona, I’ll pick you up at your place tomorrow night at 7. See you!

You stared at the message, blinking. A pause stretched out as your thoughts scrambled to catch up—Yoshi? You hadn’t asked him to pick you up.

And then it hit you.

You brought a palm to your forehead, groaning as the memory came rushing back. A few nights ago, the entire magazine team had gone out for drinks—a rare moment when deadlines were done, and even Yeri and Chanwoo let loose. You remembered sitting beside Yoshi, laughing over something trivial… and then—nothing. A hazy blur. You’d gotten drunk.

Too drunk.

Bits and pieces floated back—Junhoe’s bachelor party, plus-ones, and somewhere in the haze, you might’ve asked Yoshi to come with you as your date. Your stomach twisted.

You had no idea how he responded, but judging by his message now, he’d taken your invitation seriously.

Regret bloomed. What did I even say? you wondered, mentally retracing each fuzzy step of that evening. Part of you wanted to reply and clear things up—politely decline, say you’d made a mistake. But another part hesitated. Hanbin would be with Yeri, and Yunhyeong was bringing his girlfriend. If you backed out, you’d be the only one arriving without a date.

You sighed, sinking onto the edge of the bed. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing. Yoshi was good company. And somehow, the idea of walking in with someone by your side felt easier.

With a heavier breath, you picked up your phone again, the weight of embarrassment pressing down. You stared at Yoshi’s message before typing your reply—reluctant, but sincere:

Hey, I’m so sorry for being drunk and all over the place the other night. I must’ve said something dumb. But thank you for remembering and agreeing to come with me. I really appreciate it. I’ll be waiting for you tomorrow.

You hit send before you could second-guess yourself. Your cheeks warmed at the thought of Yoshi reading it, probably smiling in that easy, harmless way he always did.

Then you tapped Hanbin’s name: Bin, no need to pick me up tomorrow. I’m riding with Yoshi.

Not even ten seconds later, your screen lit up again: Okaayyy, Ms. Bringing-a-Date.

You rolled your eyes and shook your head. Of course Hanbin would tease you.

Friday.

The night was supposed to be a celebration, but Junhoe’s excitement dipped the moment he noticed you weren’t there.

The party was held at a stunning villa owned by Jinwoo—Jinhwan’s boyfriend. The place was lively and inviting, with large windows overlooking a glimmering pool, its surface reflecting the string lights crisscrossed overhead. A movie projector played classic films across a floating screen nearby, adding to the dreamy ambience. Inside, a billiard table and a modern vintage jukebox stood in one corner of the spacious lounge, surrounded by other gaming setups. The living and dining areas had been transformed for the occasion—tastefully decorated in rich reds and gleaming silvers, with a table overflowing with mouthwatering food, snacks, and drinks of every kind.

Junhoe had only expected a quiet dinner with Jinhwan and Jinwoo, who had just arrived in town for the wedding—but instead, he was met with dim lights, loud cheers, and familiar faces. It was his surprise bachelor party.

Everyone was there: industry friends, and of course, his groomsmen—Jinhwan, and his childhood companions Hanbin and Yunhyeong—each with their partners in tow.

Still, one face was missing.

With a slight frown, he turned to Hanbin. “Where is she?”

Hanbin, already thumbing his phone, didn’t miss a beat. “I’m texting her. She said Yoshi got the GPS wrong, but they’re close.”

Junhoe said nothing, but the detail stuck—Yoshi was her plus-one.

You and Yoshi arrived at the villa at half past eight.

As he parked the car, Yoshi looked genuinely apologetic. “I’m really sorry, noona. There was a mix-up with the GPS—the place I pinned had almost the same address as this one.”

You smiled and waved it off. “It’s okay, Yoshi. Don’t stress—we’re here now.”

Music and laughter greeted you as you approached the villa. You saw Hanbin by the door, grinning. “Finally. Thought you two got lost for real.”

Junhoe stood just behind him, dressed in faded jeans and a white tee under a black leather jacket—completely off-theme compared to the rest of the guests who’d clearly gotten the memo about the dress code. You were amused by how unprepared he looked—he clearly hadn’t seen this surprise coming.

You laughed it off. “I’m so sorry—”

But Yoshi quickly cut in, “It was my fault. I messed up the GPS.”

Junhoe gave a distracted nod, his eyes on you—drawn to your apricot silk dress, your hair tucked softly behind your ears.

After making your rounds and greeting the guests inside, you eventually stepped back out and found yourself alone with Junhoe by the pool. Go Your Own Way by Fleetwood Mac played from inside the villa, blending with the quiet dialogue of Scarface on the projector.

Smiling, you handed him a bag containing your gift. “I know this is your night, but…sorry again for being late. And—congratulations, Junhoe.”

His eyes widened. “Y/n… you didn’t have to get me anything.”

“I wanted to,” you said, throwing him a cheeky wink.

Junhoe pulled out a dark red box with a crisp white ribbon from the white paper bag. Carefully, he untied the bow and opened it. Inside was a deep wine-colored Valentino tie.

He let out a low whistle. “Wow… this is beautiful.”

“You’re getting married. You deserve something nice,” you said with a grin, giving him a teasing shove.

Junhoe looked up, a tender glint in his eyes. “You always knew how to pick the right things.”

You shrugged, heart thudding harder than you wanted to admit. “Just figured it’d suit you.”

“Thank you, y/n. Really,” he said, tracing the silk with his fingers, looking at it like it meant more than just a gift.

For a breath, it felt as if it were just the two of you—suspended in something that didn’t need words.

Junhoe turned the tie over in his hands, admiring it a little longer before glancing back up at you—his expression now more curious than grateful.

“I see you brought Yoshi…” Junhoe said, trying to sound casual, though you could feel the weight beneath it. “Are you two…?”

You laughed, nervous. Your fingers found a stray strand of hair, tucking it back as you glanced toward the pool. “It’s… not like that.”

“Didn’t mean to pry,” Junhoe said, feigning nonchalance. “But you came here with him, so… I guess that means something.”

You hesitated. You couldn’t exactly tell him you’d drunkenly invited Yoshi just to avoid feeling left out. Instead, you deflected, eyes sweeping across the villa. 

“Can we talk about how impressive this party is? Jinhwan really went all out. He even nailed your vibe—jukebox and all.”

Junhoe chuckled, catching your dodge. “Yeah… he really did.” But softer, he added, “I hope Yoshi’s a good guy. Whoever you’re with… I want him to see you the way your friends do. The way I do.”

“You deserve the best guy on the planet, y/n.”

You swallowed hard at that. He looked at you—protective, sincere. You weren’t sure what to say, or if you could say anything at all without something slipping that wasn’t meant to.

With a teasing grin, you steered the conversation elsewhere. “Okay, Mr. Sentimental. Let’s talk about you. How’s the groom-to-be feeling, huh? Two nights left before your big day.”

Junhoe moved the conversation along with a smile, but his eyes stayed on you longer than they should have. “Honestly? It didn’t really hit me until recently. Everything’s been so busy. But now that it’s almost here… yeah. It’s surreal.”

You chuckled, trying to play it cool. “So? Where are you two headed after the wedding? Somewhere fancy, I bet.”

His smile grew, laced with excitement. “Paris. We’ll be spending a month there.”

“Wow.” Your jaw dropped. “A whole month in Paris?”

Junhoe nodded. “Yeah. Yuna’s always dreamed of it, and honestly, I could use the escape too.”

“That sounds perfect, Jun,” the words slipped out like nothing was wrong, even though part of you was still conflicted. You couldn’t help but wonder if this would be the last time you’d stand this close to him… or if you’d become someone he once knew—again.

The conversation faded as voices called from the patio doors.

“There they are—Joan and Bob!” Yunhyeong teased. “Food’s getting cold, guys. Are we missing out on some juicy gossip or what?”

Hopefully, Junhoe missed the reference. You shot Yunhyeong a glare, but could he be right? Was Junhoe the Bob Dylan to your Joan Baez?

Hanbin threw you a dramatic side-eye, wagging his finger in mock scolding. “Your date’s inside losing at pool, by the way, and you’re just out here? Cold move, y/n.”

Junhoe smirked, casting you another glance. 

You laughed, hands up in surrender. “Alright, alright—we’re coming!”

************************************************************************

It was a filling, satisfying dinner—plates passed, stories exchanged, and laughter bouncing off the villa’s walls. With full stomachs and loosened spirits, the guests began to drift apart. Some clustered around the billiards table, others lounged by the pool beneath the projector’s glow. 

In the living room, you found yourself in easy company: Yoshi by your side, Hanbin and Yeri beside him. Across from you, Yunhyeong and Eunha shared a sofa, while Junhoe perched on the armrest. The center table was a makeshift bar, lined with every kind of drink—wine, tequila, beer, soju, even sake. Bottles clinked, glass met glass, and conversations tangled together in teasing remarks and tipsy banter that spilled freely. Yunhyeong launched into another camping story, reliving the night a drunk Hanbin had crawled into his sleeping bag by mistake, using him as a pillow.

“When I woke up,” Yunhyeong said, already laughing, “his mouth was on my cheek—and I caught all his saliva.”

Hanbin doubled over wheezing as the whole group burst into laughter. Yeri groaned in mock horror, gripping her drink. “That’s foul, babe. Absolutely foul.”

You leaned past Yoshi to tap Hanbin’s knee, a sly grin in place. “Bin, remember when we went drinking for Donghyuk’s send-off?”

Hanbin pressed his glass to his face, eyes shut tight with laughter. “I know where this is going!”

You turned to include the rest of the group.“Yun got so wasted that night, he walked straight to the fridge near the cashier—thought it was the toilet.”

Yunhyeong threw his head back laughing, one hand over his face. “I hate you!”

“He was seconds away from unzipping his pants,” you continued, “until Bin and Dongie tackled him yelling, ‘Hyung! That’s the fridge!’”

Hanbin slapped his knee, voice booming.“We thought we were gonna get banned! He just kept mumbling, ‘Gotta pee real quick…’”

“I was sleepy!” Yunhyeong yelled through the laughter.

Junhoe leaned over, cracking up. “You almost peed on the beer bottles?”

Eunha giggled. “That’s the most Yunhyeong story I’ve ever heard.”

“Still not as bad as his body rolls at that jazz club for my birthday,” Yeri added, grinning.

You raised your glass toward Yunhyeong with mock pride. “Call it balance.”

The group burst into laughter again, each chaotic memory turning the atmosphere lighter and louder.

As the hours wore on and drinks continued to flow, snacks were passed around, and the atmosphere grew hot and heady—voices rising with old stories and new jokes. At one point, Hanbin raised his glass to Junhoe in a toast, offering his congratulations. Each of you followed, sharing your best wishes for the groom-to-be. Eventually, Jinhwan and Jinwoo took the reins, cranking up the energy in the room.

“Alright, everyone!” Jinhwan announced, clapping his hands. “Enough sitting around—get up, we’re dancing!”

The jukebox whirred to life, blasting The Rolling Stones’ Let’s Spend the Night Together, earning a collective cheer. One by one, people began pulling each other onto the open space in the living room, now cleared for dancing. You couldn’t stop smiling as you stood, watching Yeri tug Hanbin by the wrist toward the makeshift dance floor. Yoshi offered his hand with a small bow, and you let him lead you with a soft laugh.

As you swayed to the beat, you took in the scene—friends laughing, dancing freely, arms slung over shoulders, memories unfolding in real time. You couldn’t describe the feeling exactly, but it filled you to the brim. Bliss, nostalgia, and a fleeting kind of magic. Everyone was here. Together. And for tonight, nothing else mattered.

You spotted Junhoe across the room, now being dragged into a goofy dance-off with Yunhyeong to Footloose. He was laughing—head tilted back, gummy grin wide, eyes crinkling, completely swept up in the moment.

And that, you thought, might’ve been your favorite part of the night.

It was well past midnight when everything began to hush. The drunken laughter and shouting had faded into hums and sleepy smiles. The jukebox clicked, and a soft ballad began to play, threading its melody through dimmed lights, the lingering scent of alcohol, and the cool brush of night air.

Only a few remained on the dance floor—Jinwoo and Jinhwan swaying close, their foreheads nearly touching. Yunhyeong had spun Eunha once before she tucked her head into his shoulder. It was a kind of love made not of words, but of rhythm and breath.

On the sofa, Hanbin lay passed out with his head in Yeri’s lap, mumbling something unintelligible now and then. She simply brushed his hair back, smiling sleepily. Yoshi, seated beside you, was nearly dozing off, his head leaning against the cushions. You, on the other hand, were still very much drunk—smiling in a tipsy daze, chin propped in your palm as you watched the couples dance.

Then you heard his voice. 

“Wanna dance?”

Junhoe, just as drunk as you were, stood beside you, hands in his pockets. A lopsided smile ghosted across his lips. There was a glint in his eyes you couldn’t quite read—but the way he looked at you tugged at your heartstrings.

“I’m going to step on your foot,” you warned.

Junhoe chuckled, extending his hand. “Then I’ll just have to be careful.”

Your fingers met his, and he pulled you up with a laugh that made your heart stumble. Together, you walked toward the open floor, giggling like kids at a school dance. The next ballad that played was Break It to Me Gently by Brenda Lee.

You placed your hands on his shoulders; his found your waist. It seemed as if the world had quieted. The party, the drinks, the reality waiting beyond tonight—all of it faded. It was just the two of you, swaying beneath dim lights and slow music. He smelled of musk and tequila, you of vanilla and wine. The mix was dizzying, but neither of you minded the proximity. Nothing was said, but in your drunken stupor, you wished time would stand still. That he didn’t have to go. That he wasn’t getting married.

The song ended, leaving behind only the soft crackle of the jukebox. You and Junhoe came to a gentle stop on the floor, your head resting against his chest, his heartbeat steady beneath your cheek.

You looked up at him, blinking slowly, a lopsided, foolish smile curling at your lips—until your balance gave way.

“Whoa, careful!” Junhoe caught you before you could fall. His arms wrapped around you instinctively, steadying your swaying figure. 

The sudden motion caught the attention of everyone in the living room—Hanbin lifted his face from Yeri’s lap, Yunhyeong glanced over, and even Yoshi blinked himself awake.

Junhoe, still holding onto you, gave a sheepish grin. “She’s okay. I got her.”

“Maybe she should lie down,” Yeri said with vague concern.

“I’ll take her,” Junhoe said, meeting Yoshi’s gaze. Yoshi simply nodded, guilt flickering across his features.

“There are spare rooms upstairs,” Jinwoo said, still clinging to Jinhwan. “Use any.”

Junhoe gave a nod of thanks and crouched down. “Alright, up you go,” he said, hoisting you onto his back in one fluid motion.

You mumbled something barely coherent, arms draped loosely over his shoulders as he carried you upstairs. Despite the alcohol in his system, his steps were careful as he carried you through the hall and up the stairs. Inside the guest room, he switched on the lamp. Warm glow spilled across the bed. 

Junhoe set you down gently, slid off your heels, and pulled the blanket over your frame, smoothing it over your shoulder. For a moment, he just stood there, uncertain. But as he turned to leave, your hand caught his wrist.

“Stay,” you mumbled.

He nodded, pulled a chair closer, and sank into it with a sigh. Elbows on his knees, he watched your flushed cheeks and fluttering lashes.

“You’re really drunk,” he said, grinning in his own buzzed state. He could still hold his liquor—just barely.

You giggled, words tumbling without filter.“Everyone’s drunk. Hanbin talks too much. Yunhyeong thinks he’s a DJ. So dumb…”

Junhoe laughed under his breath. “Look who’s talking.”

The silence settled in as your eyelids drooped. Then, almost like speaking in sleep, you whispered, “I can’t wait for you to get married, Junhoe.”

Junhoe sat still. He had heard it—all of it.

“I want to forget how I feel about you. Just… wait until I can move on.”

His lips parted slightly, then pressed into a thin line—controlled, but shaken.

“Maybe if I’d told you how I felt before you left, you wouldn’t have been gone so long.”

A sharp pang shot through his chest. The timing couldn’t have been crueler—your once-concealed feelings now laid bare, on the eve of his vow to someone else.

You mumbled a bit more—nothing that made sense—and then you were out, fast asleep.

Monday came, and Yeri held a meeting at the office to announce that Junhoe and Yuna’s interview had been rescheduled for the following day. However, the venue had changed. Instead of the couple’s home, they requested to conduct the interview at Hongjoong’s studio.

Apparently, they had decided to work exclusively with the magazine’s photographer—Hongjoong himself—for their pre-wedding shoot. Yuna had chosen a minimalist black-and-white editorial concept, opting for something simple yet elegant. She’d also agreed to let a few of the final images be used for the feature. It was a rare level of trust coming from her, and Yeri seemed both relieved and pleased by the arrangement. It was also decided that you and Yoshi didn’t need to be present during the shoot, given that the day was primarily focused on capturing photos. You would only need to arrive at the studio once it wrapped, in time to conduct the interview. 

With everything falling into place, the plan seemed straightforward.

Still, the edge of dread clung to you. You remembered how the last interview had gone—how nothing about it felt normal. You hoped this one would be different. Smoother.

Junhoe had managed to text you last Saturday—maybe that meant he was doing better. You kept telling yourself it was just work, that you were only showing up to do your job. But this wasn’t just another meeting—you felt it. Junhoe had something to tell you. And you had to know what.

You and Yoshi arrived the next day just as the photoshoot wrapped up. The studio buzzed with quiet efficiency as Hongjoong and his staff packed away the equipment.

Spotting you, Ryujin greeted you with a brief smile and gestured toward the dressing room. “They’re inside.”

Sensing your hesitation, Yoshi leaned in with a quiet, “You got this, noona,” as you both approached the room.

“I’m right here.” His words were simple but grounding.

You met his gaze, gratitude shining through—wordless, but understood.

Yoshi knocked lightly, then pushed open the slightly ajar door, revealing the couple inside. Yuna was casually scrolling through her phone, standing nearby, while Junhoe sat with his hand hovering over a book he was just about to open. The scene was nothing like what you’d expected—a stark contrast to the Junhoe you’d seen at his family home.

Junhoe’s sharp black suit hung perfectly—minimalist and clean. His open collar and carefully styled hair resembled the man you used to know. Yuna embodied a portrait of control wrapped in glamour, her long halter dress skimming her figure like ink on glass, her updo intricate and sculpted.

Together, they looked picture-perfect. As if nothing had happened.

“Y/n…” Junhoe said, his eyes finding yours instantly. And for the first time since that day, there was clarity in them—real recognition.

“Jun…” You masked the tremor in your voice as best you could. This was the Junhoe you knew.

Yuna, in seemingly good spirits, offered pleasantries—though her tone still felt rehearsed. “Y/n. Yoshi. It’s good to see you both again.”

“Good to see you too,” you said, neutral, professional. Even as your mind struggled to process the drastic change.

Junhoe tucked his book away as Yuna took a seat beside him.

‘We’re ready whenever you are,’ he said with a smile.

You and Yoshi exchanged a silent glance—an unspoken signal that you were ready. With a subtle nod, Yoshi pulled out his phone and positioned it carefully for recording. You took your seat across from the couple, waking your iPad with a single tap.

You masked your emotions beneath practiced ease, adopting the tone of someone here for work and nothing more. You scrolled through your notes, the questions waiting like a script you weren’t sure you could get through. You already knew what most of it would be: their love story, Junhoe’s admiration for Yuna. It would sting. But this was your job. And for Junhoe’s sake—for the friendship you refused to lose—you’d face it with grace.

“Alright,” you began. “Let’s start from the beginning. How did the two of you first meet?”

Junhoe’s face lit up. The spark returned to his eyes—something that had been missing the last time you saw him.

“It was during the script reading for our movie,” he said, fondness curling around each word. “The moment I saw Yuna… I knew. Something about her just pulled me in. I fell for her right then and there.”

He looked at Yuna, a grin slowly forming at the corners of his mouth. The memory was vivid, unshaken. “Cliché, but yeah—call it love at first sight.”

Yuna smiled, clearly flattered. “I fell for you later… during filming.”

Amused, she responded to the old rumor about them catching feelings on set. “Sort of true,” she said. “But Jun was already head over heels for me before filming even began.”

Junhoe chuckled. “Head over heels, huh?” He bumped her shoulder lightly. “I guess I can’t argue with that.”

Soft laughter filled the room, and at that moment, everything felt normal again.

You steered the conversation into more personal territory, tossing in a few off-script questions. Junhoe was himself again—animated, charming. He spoke easily, his humor and warmth filling the space like they used to. Yuna responded seamlessly, her gaze occasionally darting toward Junhoe as if gauging his reactions.

When the interview wrapped, Yoshi stopped the recording and stretched, clearly satisfied with how smoothly it had gone. You were gathering your things when Yuna rose from her seat, catching you off guard with a quick side hug.

“Thank you, y/n. I enjoyed the Q and A. You were easy to talk to,” she said, looking genuinely pleased—or performing it well enough that you couldn’t tell.

She offered Yoshi a passing “Thanks” before stepping over to Junhoe and pressing a light kiss to his lips. “I’ll go ahead, honey. I’ve got some shopping to do.”

“Drive safely,” he murmured, watching her until she disappeared from view. 

Junhoe cast you a look. “Yeri said you’re free for the rest of the day after the interview.”

You blinked. His message from earlier resurfaced in your mind. This was it. You weren’t sure if you were ready. But you knew you needed answers.

“You talked to Yeri?”

“Yeah,” Junhoe replied, smiling coyly. “I asked for it so I could spend time with you, and she agreed. Yuna knows, so you’re off the hook.” He shot Yoshi a quick glance. “Sorry, Yoshi—need to borrow her.”

You glanced at Yoshi, who was already giving you a knowing look—the kind that said he’d leave you two alone.

“No worries,” he told Junhoe, then turned to you. “I’ll head back to the office, noona.”

“Thanks, Yoshi,” you and Junhoe said at once.

You and Junhoe thanked Hongjoong’s team as you exited the studio together, exchanging polite goodbyes—even as your thoughts were already on whatever came next.

Stepping into the cool afternoon air, a memory had crossed Junhoe’s mind.

“Do you remember that noodle shop we used to go to after school?”

You couldn’t help but smile at the memory. 

“Yeah?”

“Want to go?”

“Sure.”

To your surprise, Junhoe led you toward the bus stop.

“We’re taking the bus?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Why not?” he said with a casual shrug. “I used to love taking the bus with you. Besides…” He looked around. “It’s a weekday—not many people.”

“Jun…” You hesitated, biting your lip. “What if someone—”

“It’s fine,” he said, gently but firmly. “I don’t… I don’t care right now.”

You didn’t question it further—Junhoe made no effort to conceal himself. He stood fully exposed, unbothered by recognition—unlike at the record store, where he’d kept a cap pulled low.

The bus arrived a few minutes later, and you both boarded. You were relieved to see only a handful of passengers, each absorbed in their own world. Junhoe led you to the back, settling into the window seat—just like he always did. You sat beside him.

The bus rattled gently as it pulled away, the city drifting past in soft motion.

“Feels the same, doesn’t it?” Junhoe murmured, wistful.

You turned toward him, and for a heartbeat, you saw the boy from those old days—the one who filled bus rides with talk of impossible dreams.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “It does.”

The bus rolled along at a steady pace, the low hum of the engine filling the quiet space between you, when Junhoe spoke again.

“So...” There was playfulness in his voice this time, an edge of curiosity behind it. “Yoshi, huh?”

You blinked, turning your head slightly. “What?”

Junhoe smirked, keeping his gaze on the window, trying not to make a big deal of it. “I think... he likes you.”

“Junhoe...” You sighed, shaking your head with a small laugh. “That’s not true.”

“Come on,” he said, finally looking at you. “I’ve seen the way he looks at you.”

“He’s just... really sweet,” You explained. “Yoshi’s always been like that with everyone. It’s just how he is.”

Junhoe didn’t respond right away. He glanced down, fingers tapping lightly against his knee. Then his words came slowly, the teasing gone—replaced by something more thoughtful.

“I just…” He paused, his voice low. “I want to see you with someone, y/n. Someone who… takes care of you.”

Your heart leapt. For a second, it felt like time held its breath.

“I know you don’t need anyone,” he added quickly, stealing a glance at you. “You’ve always taken care of yourself. But…”

His voice faded. He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t need to.

“Thanks for worrying about me, Jun.” You managed a lopsided smile. But in your mind, the unspoken words echoed louder. 

Maybe, in another lifetime… that someone would’ve been you.

Junhoe didn’t reply. He left it there.

The bus pulled up after a short ride, and you and Junhoe got off near a modest noodle shop on a peaceful corner.

The place looked almost exactly as you remembered. A faded red awning hung over the doorway, with the same old wooden sign swaying above it. The recognizable scent of rich broth and spices drifted into the street, tugging at memories of after-school hangouts and laughter-filled conversations. Inside, nothing had changed: wooden tables in tidy rows, walls dotted with old photographs of the neighborhood. But behind the counter, instead of the elderly couple who used to run the shop, stood a young woman.

“Is that…” you asked, squinting slightly.

Junhoe’s eyes followed yours. “Their daughter, I think.”

She noticed you as you and Junhoe took your seats. Approaching with a warm smile, she asked, “What can I get you?”

“Should we get the usual?” Junhoe turned to you, referring to your shared favorite. You nodded with a cheerful little clap that made him chuckle.

“Two bowls of ramen,” he said. “The biggest ones you’ve got.”

The woman laughed. “Coming right up!”

You waited in quiet anticipation, the scent of simmering broth wrapping around you like memory. The silence stretched, like both of you were waiting for the other to speak first. You looked past Junhoe, toward the window, but before you could sink too deep into thought, his voice gently pulled you back.

He called out to you. “Y/n…”

You met his eyes. At first, there was hesitation, but then came honesty.

“I want to apologize. For how I’ve been treating you… for pushing you away.”

Your heart tightened. “Junhoe…”

“I don’t know why I kept doing it,” he admitted, frustration creeping into his voice. “Maybe I didn’t want you to worry. I didn’t want to burden you.”

You exhaled slowly. “I’ve been gone from your life for a long time,” you said evenly. “But I’m still the same friend. I’d be more worried if you shut me out completely.”

“That day at my house… what you saw… I wasn’t—” He stopped, searching for the right words. “I wasn’t okay,” he confessed. “The disorientation… it’s a side effect.”

“Side effect?” you echoed.

Junhoe nodded. “Of the medication. It’s for my muscles.”

“Muscles?”

He leaned back, running a hand through his hair. “Years of pushing my body too far—during my idol days, then acting. The exhaustion caught up.”

Your heart sank.

“It’s not always like that,” Junhoe added. “I missed the counter medication for the stronger one. That’s why you saw me like that. You just caught me on a bad day.”

Your thoughts spun, heavy and jumbled. The sadness in his voice rippled through you. You blinked back tears, not wanting to fall apart in front of him.

Junhoe noticed. “Hey…” His voice was soft. He reached across the table, brushing his fingers against yours. “Don’t cry, okay?”

You swallowed hard. “I just… I’m sorry you’re going through this, Jun.”

“You’re so silly,” he said with a half-laugh, thumb grazing your knuckles. “It’s not that serious. I’ve got this.”

“I’ll be fine,” he said more firmly. He looked at you intently. “And I’ll be better. I’ll be a better friend, y/n. I promise.”

You wiped your eyes with the heel of your hand, forcing a smile. “You’d better.”

He smiled in return—faint, but not quite reaching his eyes.

“Just… don’t tell the guys,” Junhoe said, almost like a plea. “I don’t want them worrying too. This stays between us.”

“I won’t,” you promised.

“Yuna knows too, but that’s it.”

As Junhoe spoke, something in his expression—his pauses—told you there was more he wasn’t saying. Something he was still deliberately keeping from you. But for now, he needed you to believe him.

The sharp ringing of your phone jolted you awake, sending a painful throb through your skull. Groaning, you blindly reached for it on the bedside table, squinting at the screen before answering.

“Hey, noona, we’re on our way to pick you up.” Yoshi’s voice came through the speaker—far too energetic for your pounding headache.

It took a second to process his words before it hit you: today was Junhoe and Yuna’s scheduled interview.

Your eyes flew open. “What time is it?” you asked, voice still groggy.

“Uh… twelve.”

“Shit,” you muttered, jolting upright. The interview was at one. At Junhoe’s place.

“Are you okay?” Yoshi asked, but you barely heard him.

“Yeah, yeah. Gotta go!” you cut in, hanging up and scrambling out of bed.

You moved fast—brushed your teeth, washed your face, downed some ibuprofen with a gulp of water. Your mind raced as you tore through your closet, landing on dark-wash jeans, a fitted white top, and a brown jacket.

Makeup would have to wait. You could do it in the car.

Brushing your hair, you realized you’d skipped breakfast—and with the way the day was going, lunch was probably doomed, too. You rushed to the fridge, grabbed an apple, and tossed it into your bag. It’d keep your stomach from growling, at least.

A spritz of perfume, your iPad and phone packed, shoes slipped on by the door—then you were out of the apartment.

Downstairs, the company car had already arrived. You were five minutes late.

“So sorry, guys,” you said, breathless as you slid into the passenger seat.

Yoshi, behind the wheel, waited for you to buckle in before pulling back onto the road.

“I got you coffee,” he said, gesturing toward the center console.

Your eyes widened with gratitude. “Oh my gosh, Yoshi, you’re a lifesaver.”

“My pleasure, noona!” he grinned.

“I swear, I’ll personally put in a word to Yeri so they make you a regular employee,” you teased.

Yoshi laughed. “I appreciate the endorsement.”

“Can you give me a minute?” you asked, digging through your bag for your makeup kit.

Yoshi glanced over with an amused smile. He didn’t say it, but you could tell he knew—you’d definitely overslept.

Still, he reassured you. “Don’t worry, noona. GPS says we’ll be five minutes early.”

Relieved, you sighed and began dabbing powder and blush onto your face, your thoughts slipping back to last night. You regretted drinking too much and staying up late, talking to Hanbin and the guys. Ever since Jiwon and Donghyuk moved to the States, your catch-ups had become frequent—usually casual, mostly playful.

Last night had started the same way: jokes, stories, laughter. Then someone suggested turning it into a virtual drinking session. Somewhere between reminiscing and refilling drinks, the conversation drifted—inevitably—to Junhoe’s wedding. You vaguely remembered mentioning today’s interview, but beyond that, everything blurred. Alcohol and exhaustion had won out, and you passed out before the call even ended.

Now, in the light of day, an uneasy feeling nagged at you. Had you let something slip? Anything that hinted at how you really felt about Junhoe?

You pushed the thought aside. Overthinking wouldn’t help. And if you had said anything, you trusted the guys would have your back. They always did.

You finished your makeup with a quick swipe of lipstick and mascara, then looked toward the backseat—where Yoshi was already introducing the rest of the team for today’s interview.

“That’s Hongjoong, our photographer, and his assistant, Ryujin.”

You exchanged quick greetings. “Yeah, I know them. Good afternoon, guys.”

Yoshi felt a little silly, realizing you’d probably worked with them before. He, on the other hand, was still new to the magazine.

“My bad, guys. I’m still the new one here,” he said with a sheepish smile.

The three of you chuckled at his remark.

You turned back to your bag, pulled out your iPad, and slipped on your glasses. As the car glided down the road, you scanned the list of interview questions you’d prepared for Junhoe and Yuna—one last check to make sure everything was in order. Satisfied, you looked up at the team. 

“When we get there, I’ll need you two to prep the lights and camera in the living room. Yoshi and I will coordinate with the couple first—we’ll confirm where they’d prefer to do the interview before locking down the setup.”

Hongjoong and Ryujin nodded in agreement. 

With everything now in motion, you finally allowed yourself to take a deep breath. The day was just getting started.

You and the team arrived at Junhoe’s place five minutes early, just as the GPS had predicted.

Yoshi parked along the sidewalk beside the house. From your seat, you could see it was tucked behind a tall, solid fence, its thick panels offering no glimpse of what lay beyond. A sleek, heavy gate guarded the entrance, adding to the mystery of what the place had become. From the outside, there was no telling if it was still the same home you remembered—the one that had hosted countless sleepovers with the boys. You were glad the Koo family never sold it, even after Junhoe’s parents and his sister Yejin moved to Japan permanently. Given Junhoe’s success, the house had likely been transformed into something grander—a quiet retreat from the noise of the city. The simple home of your childhood was probably long gone, replaced by something more fitting for the man he’d become.

You told Hongjoong and Ryujin to wait in the car while you informed the couple of the team’s arrival.

Stepping out with Yoshi, a cool breeze brushed your face. Something about the street whispered of days long gone and the people you once were. Life used to be simpler. You and the boys ran through this neighborhood without a care. But time scattered people—to cities, to countries—and what once felt like forever had faded into a distant part of the past.

You shook off the memory. Today was about the interview.

With Yoshi, you approached the gate and rang the bell. The chime echoed somewhere beyond the fence. You both waited, exchanging a glance when no one answered right away. Frowning, you reached into your bag and typed a quick message to Junhoe: We’re here. Waiting outside.

You watched the screen, hoping for the typing bubble—but nothing.

Yoshi pressed the bell again, holding it a little longer this time. The silence that followed stretched just enough to make you uneasy. You were about to speak when the gate swung open without warning, making you step back in surprise.

It was Junhoe on the other side, dressed in a long-sleeved cashmere sweater and white pajama pants. But something felt off.

His dark hair was a tousled mess, as if he’d just rolled out of bed. His face was blank—withdrawn, as though he were staring at strangers.

“Who are you?” he asked, voice laced with confusion.

You stared at him, speechless.

Was he joking? What was going on?

Before you could process it, Yoshi had already spoken—with his usual professionalism. “Good afternoon, sir. We’re from Exurb Nouveau. We’re here for the interview?”

Junhoe’s lips pressed into a deep frown, his forehead creasing. “Interview?” he echoed, eyes shifting restlessly, like he was trying to piece something together but couldn’t. His confusion deepened, and that’s when worry crept in.

“Junhoe, are you okay?” you asked, stepping forward. But he didn’t respond. He didn’t even look at you.

He was somewhere else entirely.

Then a voice called out behind him. “Jun!”

Yuna stepped into view, freshly showered, wrapped in a velour bathrobe. Her hair was twisted up in a towel.

She approached gently, placing a hand on his arm. “Honey, let’s get you inside, okay?”

With a brief, strained smile, she turned to you and Yoshi. “Give us a moment. Please wait here.”

Without another word, she guided Junhoe back inside. The gate shut behind them.

You and Yoshi stood frozen, exchanging wide-eyed glances. No one spoke, but the look you shared said it all: What the hell just happened?

You swore it took more than five minutes before the gate reopened.

This time, Yuna stood alone. Her damp hair cascaded over her shoulders—the towel gone. She looked composed, yet distant, as if she’d drawn a line neither of you could cross.

“You can come in now,” she said, stepping aside.

Before moving, you fished out your phone and sent a message to Hongjoong: There’s a delay with the interview. Just hang tight for a bit.

Sliding your phone back into your bag, you followed Yuna inside with Yoshi. The gate locked behind you. Despite the afternoon sun, there was still the sound of birds chirping.

Your eyes scanned the front yard—beautifully kept, maybe even professionally landscaped. A stone path led to the entrance, bordered by manicured hedges and soft greenery. The air smelled of pine and damp earth.

The house had changed.

What was once a modest two-story home had transformed into something sleek and expansive. Glass windows stretched across the front, catching the sunlight like polished mirrors.

When you reached the entrance, you braced yourself—still unsettled by what had happened earlier. Whatever this was, it didn’t feel like the interview you had planned for.

Yuna ushered you and Yoshi into the living room, gesturing toward the couch, where you both sat. The house was spacious and warm in a way that felt curated. Polished marble floors reflected the afternoon light. To the left, a rich oak staircase climbed toward the second floor, where several doors stretched across the central hall. The tall ceiling, outfitted with contemporary pendant lights, made the place feel even more expansive. Most of the walls stood bare—except for one: a single framed photo of the Koo family from Yejin’s wedding. It looked out of place in an otherwise pristine, modern space—like it was the only piece of the past the family had chosen to keep.

It was no longer the place you remembered from childhood.

And Junhoe was nowhere in sight.

“Can I get you two something to drink?” Yuna asked, glancing between you and Yoshi.

You both shook your heads.

“No, we’re good. Thank you,” Yoshi replied.

Yuna smirked, like she’d expected that. Then she turned and strolled toward the right side of the house—likely the kitchen.

You didn’t speak to Yoshi, but the discomfort was there, fed by the unanswered questions hanging in the air.

Yuna returned with a bottle of wine in one hand and a single glass in the other. She took the armchair beside you, crossed her legs, and poured herself a drink. After a slow sip, she exhaled—then finally spoke.

“We have to cancel the interview for today.”

You tried to hold it together before asking, “Is Junhoe okay?”

Yuna took another sip, seemingly unfazed. She tilted her head, as if considering how much to say. Then, with a shrug: “He’s just not feeling well, that’s all.”

Her tone was flat. Unbothered.

“We’ll compensate for the effort and resources you spent coming here,” she added, already reaching for the bottle again.

Yoshi stayed silent, casting a quick glance your way, but you didn’t meet his eyes. You watched Yuna closely.

There was something unsettling about her composure. Too calm. Too detached. Like this was nothing more than a mild inconvenience. Her midday wine, paired with Junhoe’s absence, didn’t sit right with you.

Something was off.

Suddenly, the house felt colder. More hollow. You couldn’t just take her words and leave. The unease in your chest pressed deeper, curling up your spine.

“I’d like to see him,” you said, your voice firmer than expected. “Just to make sure he’s okay.”

The conversation halted.

Junhoe appeared on the stairs. He was still in what looked like his sleeping clothes—white pants, cashmere top—unchanged despite the hour. His hair was disheveled, his eyes distant, his whole presence oddly detached.

“Honey, have you seen my composition book?” he asked casually. “Also, why can’t I find any of my instruments?”

You stared, unsure what to make of him. There was determination in his voice, but his focus felt misaligned. He hadn’t acknowledged you or Yoshi—like you weren’t even there. His attention belonged solely to Yuna.

She remained composed, but something behind her eyes gave her away. Tightness. Strain.

“Jun,” she said, tone careful, “you left them at our home in Seoul, remember?”

Junhoe blinked, visibly disoriented. “Where are we?”

“We’re at your parents’ house,” she replied patiently, though it sounded like she was trying to mask the tension in her voice. “Can you please, for the love of God, take your medicine? It’s in the bathroom, honey.”

He was silent for a beat. Then, rubbing his temple: “Oh, yeah. My meds.” His voice faltered. “Okay. I—I’m going to take them and lie down. I have this headache.”

Junhoe headed back upstairs. The silence he left behind was thicker than before.

Your heart pounded—something was definitely wrong.

“As you can see, y/n, he’s sick and can’t talk to you right now,” Yuna let out a small breath. “I’ll let the magazine know if we can reschedule the interview. Maybe during our pre-wedding shoot—I don’t know,” she added, waving a dismissive hand.

“We’re sorry for wasting your time. Please find your way out. Thank you for coming.”

Your feet wouldn’t budge, but Yoshi gently urged you—it was time to leave. What Yuna said left you with no other choice.

As you and Yoshi stepped out of the house, you stopped him at the gate. “Can I ask you for a favor?” you said, placing a hand on his shoulder.

Yoshi tilted his head, waiting.

“Please don’t tell anyone what we saw here today,” you said quietly.

Yoshi understood. 

He exhaled, nodding. “I get it.” 

There was a pause—brief, but weighted—like he was holding something back. Still, he asked, “You and Junhoe… were you close?”

“We’ve known each other since we were kids,” you told him. 

Yoshi’s playful demeanor faded into something closer to concern. “Then we don’t ever have to talk about today again,” he assured you. “This stays between us.”

You felt a small wave of relief.

The reason for the canceled interview would be simple: Junhoe was just feeling under the weather. The couple would notify the magazine when it could be rescheduled. 

That was all anyone else needed to know.

************************************************************************

In the days following the canceled interview, things appeared to return to normal—or at least, that’s how it seemed. Yeri and the team took your word that Junhoe had been under the weather. You and Yoshi carried on at work as if nothing had happened, showing no sign that anything was wrong.

Junhoe hadn’t reached out since that strange day. And though you were deeply concerned for him, you hadn’t tried to contact him either. You weren’t sure why—why you were avoiding him, or even Hanbin and the others. Their messages filled the group chat, missed calls stacked up, but you left them unanswered. You knew they were probably starting to worry, but you couldn’t face them—not when you didn’t have answers yourself.

Your thoughts kept circling back to that day—Junhoe, looking so disoriented, like he was somewhere else entirely. The blankness in his eyes. The way he barely registered your presence. It haunted you, like a loop you couldn’t get out of. And the more it replayed, the more you questioned what was really going on in that house.

And Yuna… she just sat there, drinking. You wondered if she was escaping. Numbing herself. Her detachment had clung to everything—her indifference toward Junhoe even more so. She didn’t act like a woman preparing to marry the love of her life. She seemed worn down. Resigned. As if the wedding was just another box to tick.

You told yourself it wasn’t your place to interfere. But you refused to let it go.

Junhoe wasn’t just anyone. He was someone you’d known forever. Someone you loved—more than just a friend. 

You needed answers—what could cause him to forget you, to lose touch with the world around him? The idea of him enduring it alone rattled you.

You didn’t know where to begin. But you knew one thing: you couldn’t sit still any longer.

When the moment came, he’d need to tell you the truth—no matter what it was.

A few days later, Hanbin reached out again, saying he was planning to come over with Yunhyeong. You stared at the message for a long moment before leaving it on read.

You weren’t ready—not when you still hadn’t figured out how to explain what you saw at Junhoe’s house. Or how to make sense of it yourself.

But the weekend came, and true to his word, Hanbin showed up around noon with Yunhyeong.

They didn’t come empty-handed. They brought your favorite food, probably hoping it would help. You appreciated it more than you expected. Their presence grounded you, offering a comfort you hadn’t realized you’d been missing. Or maybe something you needed.

You let them in and tried to act normal, but it didn’t take long for them to address the elephant in the room.

“Okay, what’s going on with you?” Hanbin watched you closely, his tone collected but edged with concern. “You’ve been acting weird. Aloof.”

Yunhyeong, seated beside him, chimed in, “And don’t say it’s just work. We know it’s not.”

You didn’t know what to say. 

“It’s Junhoe, isn’t it?” Hanbin asked.

Your body stiffened at the mention of his name.

“You know… that night you got drunk on FaceTime?” Hanbin’s voice was gentle, but it carried an undertone of knowing. “You talked about Junhoe.”

Startled, you looked at them. But Yunhyeong’s smile told you everything—you weren’t alone. They all understood.

“I’ve always known,” Hanbin added. “The guys… they’ve known for a long time too.”

“Yeah,” Yunhyeong nodded. “It was obvious. You always kept tabs on Junhoe.”

He continued, “We saw it, you know… how you stayed back. Even when it hurt. You could’ve gone to him so many times, but you chose not to.”

Yunhyeong’s words left a small ache beneath your ribs.

Sometimes, you wondered what might’ve happened if you’d been honest from the start—if you’d told Junhoe you loved him before everything in his life began to change.

You never found the courage to speak your truth.

There were fleeting chances—when you visited Seoul, and even those few trips abroad for his shows—moments when you could’ve come straight out and told him everything. But fear held you back. Junhoe had been living in a different world. One you no longer felt part of.

None of that mattered now.

Junhoe had moved on, and you had already made your choice: that your friendship with him meant more than risking it all for feelings that might never have been returned.

But even that wasn’t all. What haunted you most was his state of mind—the fractured stillness you’d witnessed at his house.

You couldn’t bring yourself to tell Hanbin or Yunhyeong. Not yet. Whatever was happening with Junhoe, you needed to hear it from him first.

“It really is because of work. I’ve just been… busy,” you lied.

“I’m trying to move on from him too. Don’t worry—I’ll be fine.” The words rang hollow, and you could tell they didn’t believe them.

Hanbin narrowed his eyes, unconvinced. He knew you too well to buy the excuse. But he didn’t press further—not yet. He just sighed and let it slide. For now.

The three of you ate together, drifting into safer conversations. No one brought up Junhoe again. 

Since Yunhyeong lived in Seoul, they decided to stay over. Despite their effort to lift your mood, your heart wouldn’t rest—it trailed behind you even as you got ready for bed.

You were just about to lie down when your phone buzzed. You stared at the screen.

Junhoe.

Hello y/n, how are you? Can we talk? By the way, the interview is rescheduled for next week.

There was a hesitation before your fingers moved. Whatever this was—it wasn’t over.

The last time you heard from Junhoe was over a week ago—just like the last time you saw him at the exhibit. You’d texted him afterward to let him know you got home safely and to thank him for the invitation. But he never replied.

Now, during a coffee break on your office balcony, you stared past the skyline of towering buildings and down at your phone. The message still sat there—“let’s hang out again soon :)”—marked as delivered, as if waiting for him to type something. Anything. Some small assurance that he hadn’t disappeared again.

Maybe he got busy. Maybe he was already back in Seoul. Maybe… he left without saying goodbye.

You gnawed at the inside of your cheek and shook your head, as if the motion could erase your thoughts. Stop it. Stop overthinking. You didn’t want to be that friend again—the one who clings too tightly.

Maybe you were reading too much into the silence. It probably meant nothing. Junhoe had his own life, his own priorities. And more than anything… he was engaged. Whatever you once had—whatever passed between you at the exhibit—should remain as it was. Time had changed things. You knew that. You’d accepted it.

But still, the unanswered message stung.

The soft scrape of the glass door sliding open snapped you out of your thoughts. Turning around, you caught sight of a familiar mop of bright orange hair in the doorway—Yoshi, the Japanese intern, grinning as he called out to you.

“Noona! There you are,” he said with a cheerful lilt. “Miss Kim wants to see you in her office. We’ve got guests—she needs you there.”

The fog of gloom that had settled over you moments ago began to lift, replaced by curiosity. You stepped back inside, falling into stride behind Yoshi as your mind bounced from unanswered messages to the mystery of these visitors.

In front of you, Yoshi chattered excitedly. “They looked like a couple,” he mused, voice bubbling with intrigue. “Probably celebrities. I swear I’ve seen them before.”

You hummed in response, only half listening as you grabbed your iPad from your desk and headed for the staircase to Yeri’s office. At the landing, you turned to Yoshi with a small nod.

“Thanks, Yoshi. If I need anything, I’ll message you.”

He gave a playful salute before heading off, leaving you alone to take a steadying breath—then lift your hand and knock.

“Come in!” Yeri’s voice rang out just as you pushed open the door.

Your eyes went straight to her, seated comfortably in the lounge area of her office, already wearing a knowing smile that sent a spark of unease through you. Across from her, the two guests sat with their backs turned—mysterious, unreadable.

As soon as they noticed you, they spun to face you.

It was Junhoe. 

And Yuna.

The shock stalled your heartbeat for a moment, long enough for Junhoe to lift his hand in a casual wave. That same familiar smile tugged at his lips—the one you remembered from the record store. You didn’t catch Yuna’s expression; your gaze was locked on Junhoe, even as her presence registered faintly in your periphery.

You stood frozen, feeling ridiculous, until Yeri motioned for you to join them.

Without another thought, you walked over and lowered yourself onto the sofa beside her. Hands clasped in your lap, you sat across from Junhoe and Yuna, still scrambling to catch up to the moment.

Junhoe wore tailored black slacks and a crisp white polo, the sleeves casually rolled. He looked neatly put together. Beside him, Yuna wore a sleek black trench coat over sheer stockings, poised and striking. But where Junhoe radiated warmth, Yuna’s energy felt different. Detached. Disinterested. Like she was present out of obligation, not intention.

You brushed the thought aside, telling yourself not to turn into Hanbin. 

Maybe that’s just how she is.

“Welcome to Exurb Nouveau!” you finally found your voice. “So, what’s up? Fill me in.”

Junhoe chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sorry for not giving you a heads-up about our visit. Yeri was kind enough to welcome us.”

You offered your usual friendly smile. Junhoe returned it with ease, while Yuna’s was more restrained—polite, just enough to be courteous, but never quite reaching her eyes.

Yeri beamed. “Of course! We’re honored to have you both here. Thank you for choosing and trusting our magazine.”

Then she turned to you. “We’ll be covering Junhoe and Yuna’s wedding.”

Their visit had already caught you off guard—this added another layer of surprise.

“It’s happening three months from now,” she continued, “and you’ve been chosen to write the article.”

“Me?” The word slipped out, louder than intended. Disbelief colored your tone, and you swore you heard Junhoe stifle a laugh.

“Please, y/n? For old times’ sake?” he asked, his voice laced with sincerity that made refusal nearly impossible. “I’ve read your articles—they’re really good.”

You opened your mouth, then closed it, caught between instinct and impulse. You wanted to say no, to claim your schedule was full, but Junhoe was watching you—hopeful, expectant, almost pleading.

And despite the warning bells in your head, you nodded. “Alright.”

Junhoe’s expression switched instantly, gratitude etched across his features. “Thank you. Really.”

Pleased with how things had unfolded, Yeri jumped in again. “We’ll need about a week—maybe two—to plan the coverage. That includes interview prep, building the team—y/n’s already on board—and scheduling the photos: the interview, pre-nup shoot, and wedding day. There’ll be videos too, mostly for the website and socials.”

Your stomach twisted. But it was too late to take back your answer.

************************************************************************

After the meeting, Junhoe asked to speak with you alone. Yuna gave a deadpan nod before excusing herself, agreeing to wait in the car.

He followed you to the conference room beside Yeri’s office, the air thick with everything unsaid. You motioned toward the chairs, offering him a seat, but neither of you took it. Instead, you both settled on the edge of the conference table—close, but cautious.

For a moment, nobody spoke. The only sounds were the hum of the air conditioning and distant office chatter—until you finally broke the silence.

“Congratulations—”

Junhoe cut in before you could finish. “I’m sorry.”

The words landed with surprising weight, halting your own.

He tucked his hands into his pockets, eyes fixed on the floor. “I should’ve reached out after the exhibit. I know I left things hanging.”

“That same night, Yuna said she wanted to get married. We started planning immediately, and I got caught up. It wasn’t that I was avoiding you—I was just… preoccupied.”

You weren’t sure how to respond, so you simply nodded and glanced at him.

Junhoe continued, lips curving into a faint smile. “The whole magazine idea was hers. But the moment she mentioned it… I thought of you. I knew you worked at Exurb Nouveau, and if anyone were to write about our wedding—I wanted it to be you.”

Something in your chest tightened. 

“No, Junhoe… I’m really happy for you and Yuna.”

His eyes scanned your face, soft but searching.

“It’s an honor to write for my childhood best friend’s wedding,” you added with a lightness you weren’t sure you felt. “I’ll do my best!”

The room felt tranquil, yet strangely heavy. There was no denying the happiness radiating from Junhoe—the spark in his eyes at the mention of her said it all. You should’ve felt the same unfiltered joy you once had when Jiwon got married. Back then, it was nothing but pride and happiness for a dear friend starting a new chapter.

But this felt different. Bittersweet.

Junhoe was in love—deeply committed. To him, you were just a friend. That was the truth. And you needed to see him that way, too.

Your throat felt dry, but you swallowed whatever emotion had begun to rise.

Junhoe gave you an earnest look. “I’m so thankful we reconnected, y/n.”

“Being back here… it feels right. I didn’t realize how much I missed home until I came back. Honestly, I’m happier now than I ever was in the city.”

There was something unguarded about the way he spoke—a rare glimpse into the depth of his heart. He let out a small laugh, shaking his head, amused by his own realization.

“And I know I wasn’t around, but I’m thankful for Hanbin and the others. For looking out for you in ways I should have. For being there when I wasn’t.”

His voice carried regret, yet there was something more—a sense of peace with the past.

You offered a caring smile in return. “I’m happy you’re back, Jun. Not just here—but in our lives.”

You hesitated, but said it anyway. “Is it selfish to say I want you to stay?”

There was vulnerability in your voice, a truth you couldn’t hide. You knew his path led elsewhere, that he had built a life beyond this place. Still, a part of you wished things could be different—that he’d choose to stay.

“Actually,” he said, “I’m planning to move back here permanently.”

You blinked. “Really?”

He nodded. “Yeah. I miss home. But…” His fingers tapped lightly against the table.“Yuna still wants to live in Seoul, so we compromised. She agreed to have the wedding here in exchange.”

You took that in slowly. It made sense. Seoul was where he built his career, spent years chasing dreams. But this place—this was home.

“Anyway,” he added with a grin, “I wanted to say you’re invited to the wedding. All of you. Yeri, the guys—everyone.”

He wasn’t staying. Not really. He was here for the ceremony, not for the permanence.

It felt like he was leaving all over again, and your heart ached just like before.

But again, this was about him. About his happiness. And you had to let go, even if it meant he’d build a future somewhere else—somewhere that wasn’t here, that wasn’t with you.

“Thanks, Jun,” you said softly. “I’m sure the guys will be thrilled to hear about your wedding.”

“I want to go home,” you heard Hanbin mutter the moment you set foot inside the building hosting the art exhibit. It was a serene Sunday evening, and the venue is located at the heart of your hometown. A prominent sign at the entrance displayed a vivid image of the artist, Hwang Hyunjin. Beneath his captivating blond portrait, the bold title “Mind Visions and Their Facets Through Colors” was emblazoned, with a small disclaimer discreetly placed at the bottom: “All proceeds from this event contribute to charitable causes.”

Disregarding Hanbin’s comment, you searched for any sign of your other friend Yunhyeong among the sea of faces. A stream of guests flowed into the gallery, moving in curated calm.

“Yun is here somewhere,” you said, your voice cutting through the crowd of low chatter and the shuffle of footsteps.

“Thank God for free food courtesy of our Song Yunhyeong,” Hanbin remarked, his senses easily caught the aroma coming from the opulent spread of delicacies at the catering area of the exhibit. 

Each guest was immaculately dressed, exuding an air of affluence as they mingled among the artwork. Their cultured conversation floated through the space, carrying the unmistakable cadence of sophistication. This was the elite of the art world—gathered to admire the abstract pieces on display.

Clad in a chic Ralph Lauren cocktail dress, you couldn’t thank Junhoe enough for reminding you of the theme for tonight’s event. You were also grateful to Hanbin’s girlfriend, Yeri, who, despite the limited preparation time, had managed to lend you an outfit from her designer-filled wardrobe. 

Like a burst of energy against the artistic refined setting, you spotted Yunhyeong rushing toward the three of you. His face lit up seeing his friends waiting for him. 

“And so, fate has its own way of reuniting old friends!” Yunhyeong declared, slipping into a theatrical narrator’s tone that made everyone laugh.

“It’s quite a coincidence, isn’t it? I got picked to cater the same event Junhoe invited us to,” Yunhyeong marveled, his voice quickly returning to its usual tone.

“I wish Jiwon and Donghyuk were here,“ you said with a sigh. 

You felt Hanbin’s hand gently pat your shoulder. 

“If it weren’t for you and the free food, I wouldn’t be here either,” he sneered.   

You crossed your arms and raised an eyebrow at Hanbin, catching on to his usual dry humor. Being the introverted one in the group, you knew events like these were never really his thing. But last night’s video call with him and the others told a different story—he genuinely wanted to see Junhoe, especially after you shared the details of your unexpected reunion. It was heartwarming to see how they handled it with maturity, no trace of resentment lingering toward their old friend.

Hanbin may have been a little sulky at first, knowing how close you and Junhoe had been in the past. He’d seen the hurt you carried during Junhoe’s absence, and despite being younger, he’d always taken on the role of a protective older brother. Yunhyeong, Jiwon, and Donghyuk had been there for you too—but Hanbin’s presence was the most constant. He may have had his reservations at first, but he chose to trust your judgment when you shared how sincere Junhoe was about reconnecting—enough to invite them to the art exhibit as well.

“Yeah, I know you’re only here for the food, Bin,” Yunhyeong teased. “You don’t have an ounce of appreciation for art. If I were you, Yeri, I’d think twice about marrying this guy.”

Yeri laughed, casting a mischievous glance at Hanbin.

“Excuse me?” Hanbin arched an eyebrow at Yunhyeong, mock-offended. “I happen to be very fond of art. I just don’t enjoy large gatherings like this.”

“Dude, you teach elementary school and host PTAs—how is this any different?” Yunhyeong asked, confused.

“A room full of art snobs is a whole different ball game,” Hanbin replied flatly. “Kids don’t pretend. If they think you’re ugly, they’ll say it to your face.”

You and Yunhyeong snorted at that.

Amused by her boyfriend, Yeri chimed in. “Well, y/n and I deal with these ‘art snobs’ at work, babe.”

“Yeah, but you’re not like them. I don’t have to fake anything with you two,” Hanbin shot back with a grin.

“My dad owns a publishing company, so technically, I’m one of those privileged snobs you dislike,” Yeri said, tapping her chin mischievously.

Hanbin took her hand and smirked. “Dislike is a strong word… but that’s exactly why I’m gonna marry you, babe.”

Yeri burst into laughter as did you and Yunhyeong, drawing a few curious glances from nearby guests.

A ping from Yeri’s phone signaled her cue to step away for the meantime.

“Chanwoo needs me for that magazine feature—gotta run,” she said, kissing Hanbin’s cheek before turning to you.

“Don’t worry, y/n. I’ve got this. You just enjoy the event with the boys,” she added, giving your shoulder a reassuring squeeze before melting into the crowd.

You’d almost forgotten that the artist himself had personally invited your editor-in-chief, Jung Chanwoo, to the exhibit. He’d asked you to cover the event for a possible feature in the upcoming issue, knowing both you and Yeri would be attending. But Yeri had volunteered to take the lead on your behalf instead.

You smiled at her thoughtfulness.

“Technically, she’s my boss—but sometimes it feels like she’s just one of us.”

“Man, you’re lucky to have Yeri,” Yunhyeong said, nudging Hanbin playfully.

“I’m lucky to work with her too,” you agreed.

Yunhyeong glanced around the gallery. “So… when’s Junhoe showing up?”

You and Hanbin followed his gaze, scanning the crowd for any sign of him.

You pulled out your phone when it buzzed in your purse—Junhoe had texted: Hi, I’m here. Where are you?

Right then, a ripple passed through the crowd, and like everyone else, your eyes were drawn to the lavish pair entering through the front doors.

Your breath caught when you saw Junhoe, dressed in a flawless black Prada suit. But it wasn’t just him that turned heads.

Walking beside him was his fiancée—Shin Yuna.

You’d seen it on the news a year ago—his engagement to his girlfriend of four years. She was a model and singer-turned-actress he’d met while filming one of his earlier movies. After promoting their romantic comedy, the two went public. Rumor had it their feelings developed on set.

You’d noticed the engagement ring on his finger yesterday at the coffee shop—but at the time, it barely registered. Seeing him now with his fiancée was a clear reminder of his commitment.

Before you could even reply to his message, Junhoe spotted you and began heading your way.

“Y/n!” he called out. “Sorry—we got stuck in traffic. I’m really glad you came.” Junhoe flashed you a bright smile.

You felt a sudden rush of heat to your cheeks. That smile had undeniably affected you—and you knew it. Maybe it was the way his slicked-back black hair framed his sharp, masculine features, or how the tailored Prada suit hugged his lean frame, adding to the polished confidence he wore so effortlessly. Junhoe exuded a quiet magnetism, and you couldn’t help but notice. But you quickly shut the thought down. There was no way you were attracted to your childhood best friend—especially not one who was already engaged to someone as beautiful and seemingly perfect as Shin Yuna.

“Thank you for the invitation, Junhoe,” you managed, praying you weren’t blushing in front of everyone. Honestly, you could’ve let the ground swallow you whole.

Thankfully, Hanbin waved at Junhoe, pulling his attention away from you.

“Annyeong!” Hanbin greeted cheerfully.

“Hyung!” Junhoe grinned, returning the wave with a warm hug—startling both you and Yunhyeong. Hanbin looked mildly taken aback, but you could tell he appreciated the gesture.

Junhoe turned toward Yunhyeong with a teasing scoff. “Nice to see you too, Yun.”

Yunhyeong rolled his eyes but played along, prompting you to laugh with them—just like old times. “Junhoe, you haven’t changed at all. I’m the eldest and you still disrespect me.”

“Bet you missed me, huh?”

“Not once. I’m only here because they needed my elite catering services.”

“There’s definitely poison in the food.”

“Then starve quietly in the corner, please. Thank you very much.”

It was their usual back-and-forth banter since childhood that you had missed.  Yunhyeong was the eldest, and everyone called him hyung, except Junhoe. No one questioned it. They all knew Yunhyeong had a soft spot for the youngest, just as you’d always favored Junhoe… even if the two bickered like Tom and Jerry.

Amid the playful chatter, Junhoe felt Yuna tug at his arm, redirecting his attention.

“I’m sorry about that, jagiya,” Junhoe said, a shadow of panic passed through his expression. He’d nearly forgotten the introduction. “By the way, this is my fiancée Shin Yuna.” 

Yuna offered a polite smile as she glanced at each of you. You could see how well she complemented Junhoe.

“Yuna, these are my childhood friends—y/n, Hanbin, and Yunhyeong,” Junhoe continued, introducing you all.

Adorned in a stunning Versace gown, Shin Yuna was a doe-eyed, charismatic woman with a figure that boasted possibly the tiniest waist you had ever seen. 

Before any of you could greet her, she had already excused herself. 

“I’m sorry I can’t stay longer,” she said pleasantly. “It was nice meeting you all! I’ll leave Junhoe with you.”

Was it just you, or did she seem disinterested in mingling with Junhoe’s old friends?

You caught a hint of dismay on Junhoe’s face.

“Yuna, we just got here,” he said softly, disappointment lacing his voice.

She turned back, her voice low but still audible. “Jun, honey, you’re with your friends. I want to look at the paintings… and Hyunjin’s expecting me.”

“Fine,” Junhoe sighed, resigned. “Tell Hyunjin I said hi. I’ll catch up with you two later.”

“Great!” she replied breezily, pecked him on the lips, and walked off without another word to the group.

A brief, awkward silence followed. Junhoe cleared his throat.

“Let’s get some wine, shall we?” 

************************************************************************

Knowing you didn’t own a car, Hanbin offered to drive you home that evening. His route conveniently passed by your apartment—unlike Yunhyeong and Yeri, who lived in opposite directions. They simply wanted to make sure you’d get home safely instead of having to commute, like you usually did.

Yet all throughout the ride, the night’s events kept looping in your mind. Seeing Junhoe again—with Hanbin and Yunhyeong—had filled you with overwhelming joy. Despite Jiwon and Donghyuk’s absence, their company brought comfort as you reminisced about the past and shared pieces of your present lives.

Still, a thread of melancholy unraveled as the conversation turned more personal. Was it the sadness you caught in Junhoe’s eyes when he told Yunhyeong and Hanbin about giving up his singing career? Or maybe it was the mention of his upcoming marriage to Yuna. Perhaps it was the way your own singlehood came into focus when they casually asked about your dating status—why, out of all your friends, you’d never been in a relationship.

Well, that wasn’t entirely true. There had been a handful of dates, none that grew into anything lasting. You brushed it off with the usual line about not being interested, being too focused on work. But deep down, you knew that wasn’t the case anymore—not after reconnecting with Junhoe. You couldn’t help but admire how effortlessly handsome he’d looked, how thoughtful he’d been all evening. You knew it was wrong, and yet… why did seeing him with Yuna bother you? Maybe you’d just had a little too much wine at the exhibit.

You didn’t even realize the engine had turned off—until Hanbin’s voice broke your thoughts.

“You’re home.”

“Thanks, Bin,” you said, shooting him a lopsided grin from the passenger seat.

“Did you have fun?” he asked, watching your face, dimly lit by the glow spilling from your apartment building.

“Did you?” you countered, tossing the question right back.

“It was really nice,” he admitted, letting his hands drop from the steering wheel.

“I got so caught up talking to you guys, I almost forgot about the paintings!” you added with a laugh.

You both chuckled at that.

But then Hanbin’s face took on a more serious note, like he wasn’t quite ready for the night to end.

“You know how long we’ve been best friends, right?” he began.

“Since forever,” you said, smiling sheepishly.

“That makes you easy for me to read.”

“O-kay… yeah, I guess. Your point?” you asked, eyebrows raised, unsure where this was heading.

Hanbin hesitated for a moment before continuing.

“I don’t know why I never told you this, y/n,” he spoke, careful with his words. “But I know you’ve been in love with Junhoe all along.”

Silence fell. You didn’t know how to respond.

You wanted to deny it outright—to insist Junhoe was just a friend. But the words refused to come, tangled up in your chest. He’d always been like a little brother to you, a treasured part of your childhood. That perception made it easy to ignore anything deeper.

You’d told yourself your feelings were platonic, a comfortable truth that kept everything in balance. But you knew better now. The truth had been building up for years—stitched into shared seasons, the way you watched him chase dreams, the closeness that never faded.

It had never just been friendship. 

Not really.

“Let’s be real—he’s the exact reason you can’t take any guy seriously,” Hanbin said, plainly, but not without empathy.

You sat in silence, unable to form a response. Every time you’d tried to date or build something meaningful, something always felt off—like a piece was missing. No matter how much you tried to deny it, no one ever measured up to Junhoe.

You tried to shove the thought aside. There was no way he felt the same, and besides, he might be getting married soon. You told yourself you’d accept it—move on once he took that step. For now, you were content playing the role of friend, choosing to protect what you had rather than mourn what could never be.

“I know my place, Bin,” you said quietly. “I’m happy with what we have right now.”

“Look,” Hanbin replied, voice softer now. “I just don’t want you to get hurt again.”

You offered a weak smile, trying to lighten the mood. 

“You know I’m a big girl, right? I can take care of myself.” You winked. “But thank you. I appreciate you.” 

Hanbin sighed and turned his gaze away, catching you off guard when he changed the subject completely.

“Something’s off about his fiancée. I can feel it… makes me feel sorry for him.”

“What the hell, Bin?” you replied, disbelief tightening your voice.

Hanbin had always possessed a keen intuition for reading people—his first impressions often unnervingly accurate. And it seemed Yuna was no exception.

“We don’t really know what goes on between them,” you offered, though the memory of how she barely acknowledged Junhoe’s friends still gnawed at you.

Hanbin wasn’t finished.

“I just don’t get it,” he said. “Why give up singing for writing? He left acting too. Can’t he do it all? I always thought music was the thing he loved most.”

That’s what you’d believed, too. Junhoe had always been deeply in love with singing—a passion unmistakable to anyone who knew him. Even as a child, his talent lit up every room, captivating listeners with his soulful voice. He was born for the stage, blending emotion and technique so effortlessly it felt like magic. Singing wasn’t just a hobby—it was his calling, the core of who he was.

You found yourself questioning if he truly wanted to pursue a different path… or if settling down with Yuna had simply become the next expected step. Something about his choices didn’t add up, and it wasn’t helping that your own unresolved feelings for him kept surfacing—tangling everything up until it felt too much.

Weariness began to sink into your limbs.

You didn’t stay in Hanbin’s car any longer. The night had given you all it could. After saying goodbye, you walked toward your apartment, fighting off the thoughts crowding your mind. 

It was a dreary afternoon, and you walked through the rain, carrying a couple of grocery bags—each lightly dampened by the persistent drizzle. The rain had already drenched your umbrella, rendering it nearly useless. You let out a sigh and quickened your pace, hoping to reach your apartment before the rain grew heavier. As you crossed the street, you noticed an old record store tucked between a quaint café and a cozy bookstore. You glanced up—its faded sign read ‘Good Oldies,’ and a wave of nostalgia swept over you.

“Should I?” you asked yourself, hesitating a bit. You looked down at the groceries in your hands before a faint smile curled at your lips. They weighed you down, but curiosity got the better of you.

You pushed open the creaky door of the record store. A soft bell tinkled overhead as you stepped inside, greeted by the scent of old vinyl and the low hum of music from a vintage turntable. Rows upon rows of vinyl records filled the store. Their covers adorned with vibrant artwork and the promise of forgotten melodies. You set your grocery bags down and began flipping through the albums, each one a portal to a different era. Lost in the world of music, you finally picked out a Billie Holiday record, its cover portraying the singer in profile against a purplish backdrop. As you held the record in your hands, your gaze drifted to a tall figure browsing the ‘Rock’ section in the next aisle. Aside from the cashier patiently waiting at the counter, the two of you were the only customers inside. You couldn’t help but watch the mysterious man in front of you. He wore jeans, a brown corduroy blazer to match and a baseball cap in the same shade. You saw him pick up a Bob Dylan record, and when he turned around, you glanced up—finally seeing his face clearly.

You froze, eyes blinking in disbelief.  

Even with only half his face visible, you recognized him instantly. A jumble of emotions surged through you—surprise, longing… a knot of unease.   

Is it really him? No, it’s definitely him! Should I approach him? What if he doesn’t recognize me?  

Without further thought, you took a deep breath and cleared your throat. Just as he was about to head to the counter, your voice cut through the stillness of the near-empty store.

“Junhoe?” you called.  

He paused, glancing over with a hesitant look, his brows knitting together, puzzled.

You tried not to get discouraged by his reaction, so you pressed on, moving a little closer to him.

“It’s me, y/n,” you said carefully. “We used to live in the same neighborhood when we were kids.”

Junhoe turned to face you fully. Familiarity dawned in his eyes as he studied the stranger before him—from the contours of your face to the soft curve of your cheeks. Your long ebony hair was still damp from the rain. Your eyes were wide, bright with astonishment. You wore a long white sundress beneath an oversized baby pink coat, a Lady Satin album cradled in your hands.

“Y/n?” he mumbled—your name sounding foreign on his tongue.

You were his childhood best friend—until he dropped out in middle school and left for the city to chase his dreams. You were the one he promised to call, to write… but never did. When exactly had he forgotten you? He couldn’t even remember.

Now, as he stood before you, Junhoe sifted through faded memories—searching for the version of you that once radiated a carefree spirit, back when you were both young. You’d always been one of the boys in the neighborhood, your circle of friends unchanging even as school years came and went. He fondly remembered how you used to match his energy—and the boys’—effortlessly, which became part of the rhythm of his youth. As the oldest among the six of you, you naturally took on the role of protector. You stood your ground whenever any of them were picked on. You made them feel safe.

Junhoe’s gaze lingered, drawn to the subtle transformation in you—the soft changes in your style, the way your clothing reflected a new language of femininity. Your posture now carried a touch of maturity, but your features still looked youthful, untouched by the passage of time. Gone was the y/n who hunted for frogs and insects with him in her tees and Chucks.

“Yes, it’s me! I can’t believe it’s you.”  

“I can’t believe it’s you too,” he said, offering a warm smile.

************************************************************************

“You didn’t have to pay for this,” you said shyly to Junhoe, referring to the album he’d just bought for you at the record store. You could smell the aroma of freshly brewed coffee in the air as you and Junhoe sat across from each other in a secluded corner of the café. The clinking of cups, hushed conversations, and a mellow jazz tune formed the backdrop to your reunion.

“It’s not free! You’re paying for my coffee,” Junhoe teased, earning a laugh from you.

“You bet it’s my treat today!” you said with a grin. There was a brief pause before you added, “Thank you, Junhoe, for coming here with me. I’m not taking too much of your time, am I?”

Junhoe shook his head. “Oh no, y/n! I’m actually on vacation right now. I got here just a few days ago.”

So this is why he’s back, you mused.

Taking a sip of the hot caramel macchiato you’d ordered, you watched Junhoe over the brim of your cup—the white undershirt he wore suited his ensemble perfectly. The baseball cap perched casually on his head wasn’t just a simple accessory; it served as a shield, offering him privacy from the curious gazes of onlookers. Junhoe was still a celebrity, after all. You hadn’t minded ordering for him. You knew he’d wanted a spot away from prying eyes, which is why the two of you were now nestled in this quiet corner. It gave a discreet setting to catch up after all that lost time.

Junhoe peeked through the misty café window, where the rain seemed to have turned into a light pattering, before glancing back at you. “It’s been so long, y/n. I can’t believe we’re sitting here, after all these years.”

You smiled and set your coffee down with a soft clink. “Right? It feels kind of surreal. Life really pulled us in opposite directions, huh?”

Junhoe’s expression shifted, his gaze dipping slightly. “Yeah… I feel awful for not keeping in touch. Especially with how close we used to be.”

Your smile didn’t fade, but something softened in your eyes. “It’s okay, Junhoe. You chased what you loved, and you made something incredible for yourself. Not everyone gets to do that. We were always meant to take different roads… and I’ve always been proud of you.”

That last part seemed to catch him off guard. He looked at you with something flickering just behind his eyes.

“Proud?” he repeated, as if trying to hold onto the word a second longer.

“How do I even say this—” you murmured, eyes dropping to the lipstick stain on your coffee cup. It felt safer looking there than meeting his gaze. A faint heat crept into your cheeks, your fingers fidgeting with the hem of your dress. You didn’t want him to take it the wrong way, to think you were some sort of overzealous fan.

“I followed your journey as a singer, Junhoe,” you admitted. “Your rise to fame—it was like a whirlwind. Your voice was everywhere. I even went to some of your concerts… to be honest.”

Junhoe didn’t recoil. If anything, awe was evident in the furrow of his brow. There was no trace of judgment—only gratitude in his expression.

“I wish I’d known, y/n. Thank you,” he said gently, as if your words had reached somewhere he hadn’t expected.

“You were the closest friend I ever had,” you continued. “And I guess part of me always believed your dreams would come true. Even with all the time that passed… even when I stopped hearing from you… you still held a special place in my heart.”

Junhoe felt the weight of your words settle heavily in his chest, a swell of regret rising to meet them. He thought back to the bond you once shared—so close it had become the envy of the other boys in your circle. He had always felt chosen by you, like your connection had its own unspoken gravity. You were there for everything: cheering him on at school talent shows, filming his shaky audition tapes, standing offstage like his shadow with a quiet kind of faith. When he finally got that call from YG Entertainment, your joy had eclipsed even his. He could still picture it—you dragging the others along to send him off, beaming like it was your dream come true.

“I’m really sorry, y/n,” Junhoe said, his expression heavy. “Back then, everything moved so fast. My schedule, the pressure—it swallowed everything. I lost touch with a lot of people… including you.”

He struggled to find the right words, knowing they might sound like excuses—but they were all he had.

The fervent pursuit of his dream came at a cost of his friends slipping away like grains of sand through his fingers. Training demanded everything—his time, his energy, his entire focus. Eventually, the studio and dormitory became his world, cutting him off from the outside.

The silence between him and his friends hadn’t happened all at once. It came in fragments—unread letters, unanswered calls, moments missed. The milestones of lives he once knew passed him by, unmarked and unknown. As his debut day neared, the momentum of it all took over. The spotlight beckoned, and the weight of ambition pulled him forward without pause. Recording sessions, photo shoots, stage rehearsals—every day disappeared into the next. The cheers of fans, the camera flashes, the roar of the crowd—they all consumed him. Until the memories of his past dulled at the edges, familiar faces drifted like faint constellations in the night sky.

“Please don’t feel bad, Junhoe,” you said, trying to ease the weight in his eyes. “We were kids, and life changed. I never held it against you.”

There was comfort in your words, even as regret hummed beneath the surface of Junhoe’s expression.

“Thank you, y/n. That really means a lot," his voice was thick with sincerity. 

You hesitated for a beat, then spoke with gentle conviction. Your gaze returning to his face.. “I know this may sound like too much, Junhoe, but I knew then—you were meant to be a singer. You weren’t meant to stay in this town.”

That struck something deep. Junhoe hadn’t expected you to hold on to that belief after all these years—let alone follow his journey so closely. Your faith, your persistence, the way you had never let go of your friendship—it humbled him. Somehow, despite time and silence, you had never stopped believing in him.

However, at that moment, a haunting thought crept into Junhoe’s mind like an uninvited guest. A world he thought he’d left behind spun to life, casting a shadow of pain over him. A bittersweet memory—of a dream once within his grasp—vanished as swiftly as a fleeting breath.

“I didn’t expect you to retire from music,” you said to Junhoe, a hint of yearning in your voice. “You were at your peak… but I’m genuinely happy you still pursued other things.”

Junhoe leaned back in his chair, staring at the coffee he’d momentarily forgotten on the table. He sat suspended between vulnerability and the urge to protect the fragile facade he had built. A torrent of memories resurfaced as he wrestled with emotions threatening to break through. What-ifs and maybes crowded his thoughts.

“You’re kind to say that,” was all Junhoe could manage. His smile was thin, uncertain—but it was a quiet admission that your words had struck a chord. Still, he let his defenses take over, to keep in the truth he wouldn’t dare say out loud. Not when you had just found him.

You noticed how the atmosphere between you had become a little too sentimental, so you tried to lighten the mood.

“I really wanted a copy of your last poetry book,” you said with a chuckle. “I looked for it in every bookstore, but it sold out so fast!”

Junhoe appreciated your effort to break the tension. That, and the fact that you even knew he’d published a book, meant more than he could say.

“It was only printed in limited copies,” he explained, beginning to relax. “I might still have an extra one lying around. I’ll give it to you.”

“I’ll treasure that for the rest of my life,” you said brightly.

“As the president of my fan club, I expected more from you,” Junhoe teased, casting a playful side-eye. “How did you not snag one?”

“I failed you,” you replied dramatically, clasping your hands together in mock shame. “I hereby resign from the post, effective immediately.”

You both broke into laughter. And in Junhoe’s mind, he could only thank you again—for pulling him back from the spiral of thoughts he hadn’t meant to fall into.

“Enough about me—how have you been, y/n?” Junhoe asked. “Are you still close with Hanbin and the others?”

“Me? I’m a writer for a local lifestyle magazine,” you said with a cheerful spark, seamlessly going along with his change of topic. “And yes, I’m still close with the boys. Bin’s an elementary school teacher now, can you believe that?”

“Wow, really?” Junhoe’s eyebrows lifted in surprise.

“Yun’s a master chef at a luxury hotel in Seoul. Jiwon has a family now, and he and Dongie both moved to the U.S. after graduation—different states, though. Dongie even runs his own dance studio in L.A.”

A sense of comfort settled between you and Junhoe’s shoulders eased as he listened, the stories offering a welcome contrast from his former life in the spotlight. Hearing how everyone had moved forward filled him with both warmth and happiness.

And then he remembered he had been invited to this event—an opportunity he didn’t want to miss.

“Y/n, would you want to come to an art exhibit with me tomorrow night?” he asked, barely able to hide his excitement. “You’re welcome to bring Bin, Yun, or anyone else too.”

Your eyes lit up. “I’d love to, Junhoe! That’s perfect—I really enjoy art.”