Bangtan Vault

MAIN INDEX:

First, We Were Everything

Second, We Were Almost

Third, We Were Still Here

Fourth, We Were On Edge

Fifth, We Were In Between

Sixth, We Were Becoming

Seventh, We Were Undone

Eight, We Were Remembering

Ninth, We Were Holding On

Tenth, We Were Finding Our Way

Eleventh, We Were Coming Home

Twelfth, We Were Where We Should Be

Thirteenth, We Were Ours

Fourteenth, We Were Enough

Fifteenth, We Were Once Us [PT.1] [PT.2]

Sixteenth, We Were Borrowed (Working Title/In Progress)

Seventeenth, We Were Forever (In Progress)

KO-FI EXCLUSIVE TEASERS: Part 10 — We Were Finding Our Way Part 11 — We Were Coming Home Part 12 — We Were Where We Should Be Part 13 — We Were Ours  Part 14 — We Were Enough Part 15 — We Were Once Us

KO-FI EXCLUSIVE FULL DRABBLES:

🌷🌞 MINE, OKAY? | JJK - A.T. Drabble🌞🌷 🌷🌞 ANOTHER HUSH | JJK - A.T. Drabble🌞🌷 🌷🌞 ANOTHER SHORE | JJK - A.T. Drabble🌞🌷 🌷🌞 ANOTHER LIGHT | JJK - A.T. Drabble 🌞🌷 🌷🌞 ANOTHER US | JJK - A.T. Drabble 🌞🌷

The boxes are heavy in the bag even though you know they weigh nothing. They press against your leg with every step, slipping from your hand even though you've already finished all ten Reese packs the lady slipped in for you.

You want to go back. Ask for more treats. Tell her you need something else to fill your hands with, something sweet to focus on instead of the weight sitting in your chest.

But those are just excuses. Ways to delay what's waiting. You've already wasted enough time circling around it. Thought maybe—maybe getting some kind of answer before you reach home wouldn't be such a bad idea.

So you pull your phone out. Scroll to the only name you know would help without asking too many questions. Hover over it for a while, thumb hesitating, before finally tapping and letting the chat window open.

| Harabeoji 🧑‍🦳: Yoongs, you up?

You type it out. Stare at the words glowing back at you. Feel stupid immediately because you know damn well he crashed hours ago, probably face-down in his pillow still fully dressed.

Delete it.

Try again. Something more sensible. Something he could actually answer in the morning without thinking you've lost your mind.

| Harabeoji 🧑‍🦳: You'd know if something's wrong with a human body, right? Like if I gave you specific symptoms, you'd be able to tell me what it is right away?

You read it over. Cringe. Delete that one too.

It's even dumber than the first version. Of course he'd know—Min Yoongi didn't top the boards for nothing. He'd probably diagnose you in two seconds flat and then scold you for not coming to him sooner.

| Harabeoji 🧑‍🦳: Yoongs, what do you think about being a samch—

You freeze. Stare at what you almost sent.

It's a silly assumption. Ridiculous, even. Makes you laugh—sharp and bitter—shaking your head as you delete the whole thing and shove your phone back into your pocket.

Keep walking instead. Slow. Counting the cracks in the pavement passing under your feet like it isn't 4:30 AM and you're not the only soul wandering these empty streets.

By the time you reach home, the sky's starting to lighten. Not sunrise yet, but close. That in-between hour when the world feels suspended, caught between night and day, dark and light.

Around this hour, you and Jeongguk would usually be awake together. Sitting out on the rooftop with blankets wrapped around your shoulders, watching the dark fade away, letting the light creep in slowly until the sky turns soft and golden—just the way you both love it. A quiet promise that today could be better than yesterday.

But you know he's knocked out cold right now. Dead tired. Between his brutal schedule in Inje, your bitching when he got home, your meltdown when he got home, all the effort he poured into making sure you were okay, and then following you all the way here to Busan without hesitation—he needs the rest. Deserves it.

So you slip inside as quietly as possible. Pass Hobi and Jimin's room next to the gaming area. Their door's cracked open just slightly, and through the gap you can see their window wide open.

Hobi probably gave in to Jimin's whining about wanting the sunrise to pour in when morning comes. Even though your sunshine soulmate hates the cold. Always a giver when it comes to his maknaes.

Tiptoeing inside, you push the window down halfway. Compromise. Saves them the argument later.

Then you slip back out and head down the hall to the bathroom, easing the door shut behind you. It clicks louder than you meant it to, and you freeze, holding your breath, waiting to see if anyone stirs.

Nothing. Good.

The tiles are freezing under your bare feet. The cold shoots up through your legs, spreads across your skin, makes you shiver despite the sweatshirt you're buried in.

Back in Seoul, you loved stepping on bathroom floors, loved it when its especially wet, slippery, cold. Some silly thing that made you feel like you were walking along the beach even when you were just brushing your teeth. A small piece of Busan you could feel.

Now, as you move—pulling the sticks out of their boxes one by one, hands shaking, doing what you need to do and then waiting, always waiting—you feel like you might collapse.

Holding onto the sink doesn't help. Your head feels like it's spinning even though you're standing still. Your legs are wobbly even when you finally sit down on the closed toilet seat, elbows on your knees, face in your hands.

For a second, you think about filling the bathtub. Sinking into the water. Letting it drown out everything.

But the sound of running water would wake Hobi. He's the lightest sleeper in the house—always has been. One creak snap and he'll be up, padding into the hallway to check on everyone like the mother hen of the maknaes he is.

It's already the third stick. Three more to go. But your bladder's run dry, or maybe it's just that your breaths are coming too short and shallow now, making it hard to do anything but sit here and try not to fall apart.

The first few are already sitting on the edge of the sink, but you can't look at them yet.

So you shove them all into the pocket of your sweatshirt instead. Finish the last three. Shove it in again. Set another timer. It’s only on your phone, but fuck, why does it feel like you’re hearing it ticking down like those old kitchen timers.

It doesn't even go off yet when you stand. Don't wait for it. Can't. The walls feel like they're closing in, the air too thick, your chest too tight.

Tears start falling before you can stop them—hot and fast, blurring your vision as you stare at the wall in front of you. The seconds crawl by like hours. Your head fills with noise, thoughts so loud you swear you can see them written across the tiles like subtitles in one of Jeongguk's short films.

God, Jeongguk.

You wish he was here. Wish you could wake him up and just blurt everything out—the fear, the uncertainty, the weight of all these what-ifs pressing down on you until you can't breathe.

Wish he was sitting beside you right now while you wait for that timer to go off. Holding your hand. Telling you it'll be okay, his little whispers of ‘baby’ or ‘I love you’s’.

But now's not the time.

You have to be certain first. Can't risk getting his hopes up—or breaking his heart—until you know for sure.

So you suck it up. Wipe your face with the sleeve of his sweatshirt. Handle it on your own for now, the way you always do when things get heavy. Walk out of the bathroom as quietly as you came in.

Head toward the beach. Where maybe—just maybe—the ocean can give you the calm you're desperately searching for.

By the water's edge, you sit on the sand. Scoop a bit, let your feet get buried under the warmth, let the waves almost reach you but not quite. The nerves instantly slow down. Your heart no longer feels like it's going to burst out of your chest at any second.

For a moment, you just listen. Let the rhythm of the waves sink in, clear your head. You pull out your phone, hit record, capture the blend of seagulls crying overhead and water folding onto shore. Think it's the perfect lullaby to put a little one to sleep—or maybe for those nights when you know you'll be the one needing it more.

When you press stop, watch the file save and disappear into your jungle of recordings, that's when you notice it. The little timer icon still running in the corner.

Two more minutes left.

Two more minutes until you hear that screeching sound that'll finally put your spiraling thoughts to rest. That'll finally give you the answers you should've faced a long time ago.

Beyond the horizon, the sky's bleeding color now—deep purple fading into pink, orange starting to creep above the darkness like it's being painted in real time.

The sun hasn't broken free yet, but it's coming. Slow. As slow as the seconds ticking down on your phone sitting beside you in the sand.

You watch it. Wait. Shut out the blaring noise in your head and listen to the ocean instead. Let yourself breathe because it's coming whether you're ready or not.

And it does.

The alarm echoes beside you—sharp, jarring, impossibly loud for such a tiny device. You swear you've woken up all of Songjeong. Never tapped your screen this fast in your life. Might've cracked it with how hard you keep hitting the damn thing to shut it up.

With shaking hands, you slowly pull the sticks out of your pocket. Six of them. Lay them across your lap carefully, like they're made of glass. Swallow down the lump rising in your throat.

All six.

All the same.

Red's never looked this bright to you. This vivid. This real.

With all the fabrics you've handled at Seora over the years—hell, even before that, back when your Eomma was training you, nagging you, slapping your hand every time you mistook Cherry for Berry—colors are basically embedded in your brain by now.

You could probably dedicate an entire section of your mind just to shades and hues alone.

But this red? This one's different. This one means something that’ll change your whole future.

Your breath catches. Tears blur your vision and suddenly you're full-on bawling, ugly crying into the sunrise like you could fill the ocean if it ever ran dry.

You try holding yourself, to stop the shaking, the overwhelming feeling that’s too big to name, but it goes on. Fear and joy and terror and wonder all tangles together until you don’t know which is which.

You try holding yourself together—arms wrapped tight around your knees, rocking slightly—but it doesn't stop. The shaking, the overwhelming feeling crashing through you in waves too big to name. Fear and joy and terror and wonder all tangled together until you can't tell which is which anymore.

The lines don’t feel real. Can’t possibly be real.

But your body knew. Has been trying to tell you all along.

All the signs were there—the exhaustion that wouldn't lift, your favorite foods tasting wrong, the way you'd give anything right now to take another bite of that cheesecake sitting in the fridge. Even knowing Yoongi's hidden whatever's left after last night's disaster, you know exactly where to find it.

It makes sense now.

This whole time, it wasn't stress or some bug or coincidence or just missing your stupidly sweet husband who was stuck on a shoot two hours away from Seoul.

It was this.

Them.

You press a hand to your stomach—flat, unchanged—but God, you swear you feel something flutter against your palm even though it's way too early for that. A laugh escapes through the tears. You keep your hand there, rubbing slow circles over your belly, and the jitters start to fade. Just a little.

Somewhere deep and hidden, there was something precious. Someone only you and Jeongguk have ever talked about in passing, in whispers, in late-night what-ifs that felt safe.

You remember a conversation from years ago—back when you were both still high off your honeymoon, sprawled naked across the mattress in your Seoul home.

Months had passed since you'd moved in. Most of the house was set up by then, furniture in place, pictures on the walls. Everything except that damn bed frame.

Jeongguk refused to assemble it. Said it was more comfortable sleeping on just the mattress. More like fucking comfortably without a creaky frame giving you away, but you didn't argue.

You don't remember what round it was that night. Lost count after four. Just knew your legs were shaking, your breath finally slowing, but the giggles wouldn't stop as Jeongguk kept tracing kisses all over your body like he hadn't gotten enough of you yet. Would never get enough.

He spent extra time on your stomach. Switching between soft kisses and tracing silly patterns with his fingertips—hearts, stars, his initials—before pressing more kisses there, nuzzling into the curve of your belly like it was his favorite place in the world.

It was just the two of you. The curtains from the veranda shifting gently in the breeze. Your breathing evening out together. A kind of calm you'd take any day, every day, as long as Jeongguk was beside you.

Then he'd asked, voice soft and a little unsure, "Do you want kids someday?"

It didn't surprise you. Even though it was the first time you'd talked about it alone—just the two of you, no friends around to make jokes or add their opinions—you knew the conversation would come eventually.

"Someday," you'd whispered, running your fingers through his hair, lingering on the ends, twirling the strands before brushing against his nape the way he loved. Got him nuzzling even closer. "When we've figured our shit out. When we're ready."

He'd laughed at that. Soft and warm. Came back up to your face, pecked your lips, drowned in your gaze like he was memorizing it. "You're not pressured or anything, right? I'm down with whatever you want, baby.”

You arched a brow, amused, a smile tugging at your lips. "Dummy, of course I'm not pressured. How many would you want? If we ever…you know."

"It's your body, my love." His eyes were shining then, looking at you like you were reciting your vows all over again. Like you'd just promised him the world. "I'll be happy with whatever you're willing to give me."

“Think a whole basketball team will do?”

You didn't expect him to moan at that. To pull you tighter against him, hand creeping up to cup your chest, giving it a light squeeze that made you gasp and laugh at the same time.

Your head tipped back, arm flying over your face to hide the embarrassment of blurting out such a bold idea.

"Fuck," he'd breathed, voice strained, control slipping. He kept nibbling at your shoulder, your neck, like he wanted to make it happen right then and there. "You'd look so beautiful with a bump, baby." His fingers traced over your chest, circling slowly. "And these, filled with—"

"Jeon Jeongguk, you stop it." You snorted, trying—and failing—not to laugh. Slapped his hand away. Useless. It was right back where it was a second later. "Baby."

He'd surrendered then. Behaved. Kept his arms wrapped around your stomach instead, still tracing little hearts around your navel like he couldn't help himself.

"We'll figure it out one day," he murmured against your skin. "Even if we don't. Even if Little Jeon comes at the most unexpected time—God, I'm going to take care of them. Of you. I'll do everything not to fuck it up, I promise."

Five plates, Jimin's gold chopsticks catching the light, Hobi's fancy wine he's been saving from last summer, Yoongi's hand-stitched table mats he managed to find in the basement—one he'd made with you and Jin a few holidays ago—spread across the table.

The steak's sliced perfectly, truffle sauce drizzled extra for you, pasta twirled into little nests and garnished with the basils you grew in the back.

Jeongguk and your family really put together everything with the kind of care that makes your chest ache. And somehow, miraculously, it's working. 

You're gobbling the meal with ease now, actually tasting it, enjoying it. Whatever you were feeling from earlier—that heavy, wrong feeling—is long forgotten. Like your body's decided to give you a break. 

"Look at this presentation." Jimin whistles low, phone already out snapping and posting pictures on Instagram like he's some food critic. Angles it perfectly, adds a filter. "Gguk always turns into some Michelin chef when it comes to our girl."

"Because she deserves Michelin star meals." Jeongguk pulls your chair closer like the sap he is, kisses the top of your head, soft and proud. "Want more, baby?" 

"Please." You nod eagerly, already moving your plate closer. Fork ready to stab the last piece of steak he fights Yoongi over with—a full-on chopstick battle that has Hobi referee-ing. Even the truffle pasta gets snatched from under Hobi's nose before he can claim it.

"Ungrateful brats." The resident grandpa mutters, as he savors whatever’s left on his plate. Takes his time with it, chewing slowly like he's trying to remember the taste. "You'd think he'd give back somehow since Jin hyung and I taught him to make these dishes."

Rolling your eyes, you scoop a bit of the pasta and transfer it to him. “Happy?”

"Very. Thanks, Sunshine." He doesn't even get a chance to bring the spoon to his lips because his phone buzzes. Whatever's on the screen makes him sigh, close his eyes in exhaustion that settles deep. "Can't even have one peaceful dinner."

“Hospital?”

"Mhm." He's tapping away furiously on his screen, thumbs flying so fast it almost looks like the thing's going to crack under the pressure. "Stupid staffing. Stupid hours. I'm not the only fucking resident in that place." 

"Guess that happens when you're really good at what you do, Mr. Bar Topnotcher." You hope your praise could help ease his stress a bit, make the late-night pages feel worth it. Reach over and squeeze his free hand. "Gguk's got a whole rim under our bed. Grab a few packs after dinner, yeah?"

Yoongi's already smiling, full gummy grin on display after hearing he's getting more than his daily dose of nicotine. Sets his phone down to look at you properly. "And that's why you're the Sunshine of this family." 

"That shit ain't cheap, hyung." Jeongguk's glaring at him from across the table, obviously bummed you're giving away his emergency stash. Accepts defeat when it's you glaring at him now, Still grumbles against your neck when he leans in. "Baby."

“Shut up and let harabeoji have it.” 

It didn't really matter to you that he smokes. You've done worse things with him during Uni days—shared cigarettes on fire escapes at 3 AM, bought cheap soju from convenience stores, that one whiskey a few blocks from Uni, the only hard drink you can tolerate for him. Stayed up till dawn talking about nothing and everything. 

Still do when Seora gets too much and you need a breather, need his steady presence and the burn of smoke to ground you.

You just love teasing him like this. When he acts like a baby. When he folds with a simple look from you.

“Fine. But you owe me.”

“With packs?”

He shakes his head, is smug, shameless, brows wiggling when he says, "With fucks."

"Really?" Hobi doesn't hide the judgmental look, eyes squinting in disgust, face scrunching like he's the one about to throw up his meal. "I'm all for your love, babies. But please keep it rated PG in front of the table."

But of course, Jeongguk doesn't listen. Never does when he's showering you with affection. Kisses you breathless right there, wine-warm and insistent, like you're his dinner, wanting to taste what's on your lips instead of whatever's still left on his plate.

It's you that pulls away. Had to—not because you wanted to, but because you feel sorry for your friends.

They're on the verge of either crying, barfing, or wanting to head back to Seoul despite the late hour. Jimin's covering his eyes dramatically, stupidly peaking in between his fingers. Hobi's pouring himself more wine like he needs it to survive this. 

They love you two, that’s not a question. 

But they love food more. And when they don’t get to enjoy that, it’s every bit of dramatic out in the open. You think each deserves their own Emmy really. 

You straighten in your seat, trying to look stern even though your lips are still tingling.

He does the same but mutters curses under his breath—something about cockblockers, something about his lower ab aching, something that makes Yoongi snort into his wine glass.

It's cute, it's your husband and God, your chest can't escape how fast it beats with these simple acts. The way he pouts. The way he looks at you like you've personally wronged him by pulling away. The way he reaches for your hand anyway, threads your fingers together on top of the table where everyone can see.

So you finish your dinner instead, try hard to hide the smile behind sips from Hobi's fancy wine. The red is smooth, expensive, tastes like cherries and oak and celebrations you're not sure you understand yet.

Still, they catch it. The smile. The way your eyes keep drifting to Jeongguk. The way you're glowing in a way somehow differently this time.

You ignore it. Focus on the last bites of pasta. The warmth of the wine. The sound of your family bickering about whether Jimin's Dior obsession is justified or just expensive brand worship.

For now, everything is perfect.

For now, you feel good.

For now, you let yourself just be happy.

In between clearing plates and putting away chopping boards, Jeongguk steps beside you at the sink. Doesn't say a word. Just appears with a fork in one hand, a slice of cheesecake balanced on the other, and brings it to your lips like it's the most natural thing in the world.

You're full. Would've gone the whole week after the meal he's prepped. But you still open your mouth, let him feed you, can't help it when the scent hits—strawberries and the chunks of cheese bits and something that smells like coming home.

The moment it touches your tongue, you know.

“Yeonnam.” 

His smile widens. Dimples on full display.

No doubt it's from that place—one that's witnessed stressful weeknights in uni, cramming for exams at that corner table by the window. 

Where the croissants and cheesecakes were your saving grace when Business Ethics or Fashion Theory wouldn't settle into your brain cells no matter how hard you'd memorize. 

Where he'd buy the whole cake from the display on Sunday nights, knowing Monday's going to hit you like a truck with your 7 AMs.

Back then, you were both tiptoeing on a fine line between what's more and what's safe. But still, no matter which side you both tethered on, Jeongguk always took care of you. Did the simplest things just to make you smile, just for you to breathe a little. 

"Baby?" His voice reels you back in, thumb brushing away the tear you didn't realize had fallen. "Hey, what's wrong?" 

"Nothing." You blink hard but it's useless—another one slips. You try laughing it off, hiding behind the soap-covered plate still in your hands.

But Jeongguk's faster. Gently takes the plate from you, sets it aside. Pulls you in without question, arms wrapping around you.

"This was supposed to make you happy." He pulls back just enough to look at you, and god, he looks like a kicked puppy—doe eyes wide, brows furrowed, bottom lip jutting out slightly. Worried. 

"It does." You're really trying to swallow down the emotions lodged in your throat, the way your stomach's flipping from butterflies. “I promise, it does, my love.”

It shouldn't be a big deal—Jeongguk's always done this. Always knew this dessert would be the ultimate cure whenever you're on the verge of breaking down. But god, somehow tonight, your heart melts too much with everything he's done—is still doing—for you.

You wipe your eyes, pull away with a watery smile. Abandon whatever's left in the sink and head straight to the fridge. Yank it open and push aside the stacks of snacks he'd carefully arranged to hide the box—like he ever succeeds in keeping surprises from you.

There it is. The rest of the cheesecake. Waiting.

Four slices are gone in less than ten.

The boys watch you in quiet amusement, always happy to see you like this—when small things bring out the sunshine in you. They don't even bother asking for a piece this time. 

Back during finals hell, Jimin and Hobi used to suck up to you just to get an extra slice, or if they were as burnt out as you chasing deadlines, they'd simply sneak one and pick a fight with you the next day.

Not this time. This time, they just let you be. 

"Aren't you happy you stopped at Yeonnam?" Hobi turns to Yoongi, smug and clear, poking his hyung carefully on the side. “Our girl’s glowing.”

Yoongi's already working through the last of the wine, glass halfway to his lips. "Just wanted Gguk to stop bothering me the whole four-hour ride here." He mutters it into the rim, drains what's left, and reaches for another bottle from the shelf beside him.

Despite his usual ice-cold expression, you catch the way he glances at you over the glass. The smallest smile slipping through before it's gone the second he realizes you're looking. 

"Just eat the damn cheesecake," he says, pushing off the counter. Walks away, leaves you all be. Returns to his cocoon on the veranda, lighting up another cigarette, the bottle cradled in his other hand like it's the only company he needs tonight.

Even with the smell of the ocean and coffee surrounding you, even with Captain America playing on the TV, your favorite blanket and Jeongguk’s hoodie draped over you, even with your two friends bickering in the kitchen if it’s cornstarch or flour they should be using for the pancakes they’re attempting to make, the Busan house still felt empty. 

It’s the fifth time you’ve checked your phone, hoping Jeongguk had messaged you, hoping he was looking for you. 

But when you see nothing, it feels like last night all over again. 

Fuck, you miss him. 

“You sure you don’t want to talk about it?” Jimin asks carefully, places the wonky pancakes in front of you that almost makes you smile when it slips off from its poor stack. 

“What in the pancakezilla is that?”

He gasps dramatically, flicks your nose playfully. “Excuse me, missy. That is art.”

“That is falling apart.”

“Don’t change the subject.”

“I’m not.”

“Are too.”

“I’m fine, Chim.” The tired smile you show says otherwise. Doesn’t help when Hobi joins in, gangs up on you too. 

“Showing up at our doorstep at 6AM for a spontaneous Busan trip doesn’t scream fine.” He gives you a look, sighs. Takes your hand in his. “It screams disaster.”

“Your pancakes are disaster.”

“It’s edible.” He takes the plate from the coffee table, tries slicing a bite from you. Until it falls on the floor. “Well, that’s shit.”

Despite everything, you laugh. One hopeful sound in what felt like forever. Even the two smiles along with you. But you know you wouldn’t be able to escape them. 

Not when Jimin's looking at you again with those eyes that usually lit up a whole room. "We're worried, bub." He brings you in close. Brushes your hair. "Something's obviously wrong. You never come here without Jeongguk." 

The way he says Jeongguk's name—gentle, knowing—makes something crack in your chest. Makes you miss him. Makes you wonder if he’s up, if he’s had his coffee. 

"I don't know," you whisper. And it's the truth. "Something’s wrong with me. I feel... off. Everything feels wrong and I don't know why."

Hobi exchanges a look with Jimin. Probably thinks you and Jeongguk had a massive fight. Knows that you do when you've come back to this place that's home to both of you. Never alone though. 

It's always Jeon and Sunshine in Busan. Non-negotiable. It's just how things are.

But they don't push it. Not when they hear sniffles you're holding back. Not when you force the disastrous pancakes down your heavy throat. Let it go for now. 

“There’s this new art supply store that opened near the beach.” Hobi breaks the silence. “They’ve got those watercolor sets you were eyeing online last month. Could grab lunch after, hit up that tteokbokki place in the market you love—"

"Don't want to go out." You don't mean to snap. Don't mean to slam the fork down on the plate. But it's too late when Hobi's face falls. Still can't apologize. Can't bring yourself to. "I don't want to do anything."

Still, Jimin tries. “You don’t even have to walk. We’ll drive. Even put Yoongi hyung’s soundcloud failed rap tracks on the radio.”

That should've brought at least a crack of a smile. Always does when you all blare the songs Yoongi's produced in his failed dreams of being a producer-slash-rapper. When you tease him during road trips for his overly sentimental lyrics that you all secretly love, just love embarrassing him with when his voice fills the car and his ears turn red. 

But nothing works. If anything, you feel even more irritated. Can’t help lashing out. 

“I said I don’t want to.” Your voice rises, unremorseful. “Can’t you fucking take a no?”

Jimin’s taken back. Hobi moves away. 

You've never yelled at them. In almost three decades you all have been stuck together, you've never snapped at them. Never got mad at them because they're the only ones who understood you the most in your crack family. Know you better than the back of your hand.

Guilt floods through you immediately. "I didn't mean—"

“It’s fine.” Jimin’s voice is too careful now. Clearly hurt. But he still takes your hand. “Let’s just hang here. Whatever you want, bub.”

Hobi stands, brushes off his hands. Grabs his phone on the kitchen counter muttering something you can't understand. Just know it's about you. Runs his fingers through his hair stressfully. 

Focusing on the TV, you curl against Jimin's side. Sniff away the tears pooling down. "I don't know why I'm being like this." 

He brings you close despite your episode. Places a soft peck on your hair. "Let's just enjoy Cap's six pack yeah?" Pulling the blanket around you, Jimin turns up the volume. Probably hopes your favorite superhero should be enough for now to keep you from breaking down in the next minute. 

You only hope for the same.

It doesn’t. 

By noon, you've shifted to the veranda, another round of Marvel playing on the iPad as the waves crash beyond the horizon. The sound of the water that usually brought you peace only makes you agitated in your seat as you go through Seora's reports on the laptop. 

Reviewing Jin's update on the marketing leak should've relieved you that he's found the employee who's been tearing your company apart for weeks this quick. Heejin's email about potential partners—European partners—should've made you smile. 

But you're just crying. One tear after the other as more emails come in. Even if they're nothing but positive, it still makes you pick up the laptop, almost toss it on the sand surrounding the house. 

Till there's a hand stopping you. A shift in the air that instantly makes you breathe better. You don't even have to turn around to know who it is. 

“Getting a new one is going to piss you off more, baby.” There’s that chuckle that makes your stomach flip. That gets you all giddy like you were sixteen again. “Unless you’ve got a million won raise for your IT team that’ll get it done in an hour, I suggest you put that thing down.”

Surrendering, you let Jeongguk take away your laptop, put it on the table, shut it down. 

There’s mumbling in the background, Hobi and Jimin’s reflection on the iPad catching your eye. 

“Fix her before I lose any more hair.” Hobi doesn’t even bother being subtle. Never does on the rare times he snaps. “God, Jeon, couldn’t get here sooner?”

Jeongguk playfully flips him off, throws something at them that makes them walk away. Settles on the seat beside you quietly. Doesn't move closer until it's you that's reaching out. 

Neither of you talk for a while. Just stare at each other really—well, mostly you. Head slumped on the table, you stare at him. See his messy hair that he obviously didn't bother fixing. His crumpled shirt, his plaid pajamas from last night. 

You knew he drove straight here without thinking. 

Still, he looks so pretty. Fuck, your husband is ethereal. 

“Hi.” You say quietly, a small smile cracking through.

“Hi baby.” Two words. Just two that’s enough to start melting your insides. Makes you come close. Enough to wrap your arms around him, snuggle into his chest, pepper his neck with kisses. “You left.”

“Just wanted to breathe.” Your voice sounds small, folding. Always is when it comes to him. “I’m sorry.”

Unlike Hobi and Jimin, he doesn't say it's okay. Never lets you off for your bratty ways. But knows how to say them with his flowery words. Or at least knows how to break it down enough to not make you feel like shit all at once. 

“Hope Cap’s loosening you up.” He murmurs into your hair, traces your arm, your wrist where the matching sun tattoo lays. 

You huff out a laugh despite yourself. “Wish he could’ve sworn more in Ultron though.” 

“Is that all it takes?” He pulls away, looks into your eyes. Smiles. You could just die right there. “Is your husband not enough to bring that?” He pokes your cheek, knows it cracks a sliver of smile in these times.

“You’ll need to grow a few inches taller. Get blue eyes too. Maybe buff up a bit, then let’s talk.”

He gasps dramatically, tickles you, fingers finding all your weak spots. Gets you shrieking and laughing till you're tearing into his chest. It's until the tickles stop, his kisses round your neck, your cheek, your forehead. Pulls away to look at you with those boba eyes that see you like you're his whole universe. 

Nothing's said. Just a shared look of quiet comfort that keeps you steady. Makes you say, "I'm sorry." 

“Hmm?” he hums as he looks at you so fucking endearing you just want to melt into him. 

"Been pissing off some people lately." You sound small when you bury your face into his arm that's wrapped around you. "About last night. I know you were tired from Inje and… last night wasn't supposed to happen." 

“And why did it?” There’s no bite to Jeongguk’s words. Just a soft firmness that say he wants to understand. Always understands you when you’re being difficult. “What’s on your mind, my love?”

"I don't know." You whisper. Honestly, you don't. Wish you did. Wish you knew why the hell your head and chest are messed up right now. "Feels like I've got another voice dying to come out. And…" Looking ahead at the waters beyond your home, you really wish an answer would just hit. "And it's tiring."

“That bad?”

Shaking your head, you pull away to look at him. Get some ease. "Not even. But it feels like something's in me that's putting me in so many places, making me chase two lives that I can't keep up with." A breath, a sniff. "I don't know, baby." 

Jeongguk doesn't talk. Lets the moment sit. Keeps his gaze fixed at the waters that calm you both. Plays with the engagement and wedding ring on your finger in that way he knows that gives you peace. 

“Seora’s been shit lately.” He starts, looks at you with a crooked soft smile. “The leaks, Eomma-nim’s talk about global expansion plans.” He sighs, not that in that tired way, but in that kind that absorbs the drain in you. Probably wishes he could take off some, if possible, all the weight you’re carrying. 

He brings you in, rests his chin against your temple, kisses you. "You wish someone was beside you through it all." 

You hate how clingy you sound. Hate that you're being such a fucking cry baby. Hate that you're making him feel like he's at fault. 

This isn't you. Lately, you don't know what's you anymore. 

Chaos unfolds in primary colors—tiny backpacks bouncing, sneakers lighting up with each step, voices high and shrill calling for eommas and appas and halmeonis.

A little girl in pigtails nearly crashes into your legs. “I’m sorry, imonim.” she giggles, runs to her waiting eomma.

Sooyeon's scrolling through her phone, half-distracted, but you're just—watching.

Two kids hold hands as they walk toward the parking lot, matching dinosaur lunchboxes swinging between them. Reminds you of that time in Busan when Jeongguk was still learning how to cook. Had stolen his mother’s Tupperware to fill it with kimchi pancakes, filling the top with sun doodles on those sticky notepads he’d stolen from his father’s office.

"There he is," Sooyeon waves at her little fuzzball that’s running towards her, all legs and giggles crashing into his mother’s arms with the kind of energy only a five-year-old can have.

You’ve seen Jaeyoung. Too many times to count. Have babysat for Sooyeon and Jin for date nights. But something about this moment just makes you tear up when you see him all giggly being tickled and smothered with kisses from his mother.

Something tightens in your chest. Can’t help the smile that breaks. You don’t know if it’s the two kids, or everything around you. It’s nothing painful. Just warm. Like someone’s reached inside, reminding you of something you didn’t know you were thinking about.

God, he’s adorable. You wonder if—

“Imo!” Escaping Sooyeon’s arms, he runs, tackles you that almost gets you both on the floor if it weren’t for Sooyeon.

“Missed you bud.” You pinch his cheeks as he tries squirming away.

Sooyeon hoists him up, balancing him on her hip even though he's getting too big for it. "Good day?"

"We made rockets! Mine went the highest!" Jaeyoung's hands shoot up, swoosh sounds escaping his babbling lips.

“And who do you thank?” Sooyeon gives him a playful cross looked, one that gets the little guy remembering his favorite samchon.

“Ggukie.”

“That’s right, bud. So you better give him all the hugs and kisses when he joins later okay?”

Jaeyoung nods excitedly. Always does when it comes to Jeongguk.

You know he misses him. Hasn’t been around much often since he’s been assisting cross-cities campaigns lately. Happens when you’ve achieved so much being the youngest Creative Director in the country’s leading entertainment company.

Made you miss him too. Can’t do much about it when your schedule’s just as packed.

Everyone at Seora up your ass trying to get the Spring collection together, the board spiraling because of an apparent leak of said collection that hasn’t even been put together, legal barking at you everyday to come up with something.

You hope Jin’s come up with something. Hoped he’d slapped the needed NDAs against those from Marketing who suspiciously resigned the same week of the leak. Hoped he’d also picked up Jeongguk from the airport safely.

Jaeyoung chatters non-stop from the backseat. Says something about this new pretty girl that joined their class. Makes you laugh.

Sooyeon hums along, smiles when she asks questions—not interrogating, just with piqued interest at how her son lights up with this new girl. And how Jaeyoung babbles easily, saying anything and everything.

The little kid’s just five but God, he had the brains of his father. Makes you forget he’s only five. Should’ve been fifteen at this point.

You wonder how she does it. How easy it is to just talk. How easy she handles him.

A mother pushes a stroller across the crosswalk. Her husband, lifting their daughter from inside, gently pulls his wife aside, away from passing cars, their dog on a leash in his other hands.

You blink. Realize your eyes are stinging. Haven't been one to get emotional over a family. Have seen your cousins with their own kids. Have seen cousins from Jeongguk's side too with their share of monstrosities.

Maybe that's it. Maybe you just miss him.

Fuck, you've never wished he'd get home faster.

By the time you pull up to Jin and Sooyeon's place, Jaeyoung's ready to bolt inside. Almost crashes into the nearby plant by the open front door—something you'd gifted the couple last Chuseok. Something you thought would be in their garden but obviously Jin thought aesthetics first.

Sooyeon catches him by the back of his shirt, laughing. "Shoes off first, you little tornado."

You can’t understand why but you’re already on your knees, untying the boy’s shoelaces before he bolts into the kitchen that’s filled with vanilla candles and something straight out of the oven. The cookies are already on his radar.

By the counter, you can't help but just stare at him. Watch how the crumbs fall messily on his shirt. Watch how Sooyeon just lets him. Even makes monster noises that sound like that cookie character from Sesame Street.

"You okay?" Her eyes are searching. Pours you a glass of wine. Just knows it's something you need. Refills it as soon you dunked it in one go.

“Yeah,” you take a second sip. Slow down when her hand slides over yours. Puts the class down. “You’re being weird.”

“You’re being quiet. You’re never quiet.”

Your laugh comes out too breathy. Nothing another sip can’t fix. “Just tired, I guess. Miss him.”

Sooyeon leans against the counter, studies you longer than comfortable. Smiles, soft. “They should be here in an hour. You’ll get to see him soon, Mrs. Clingy Jeon.”

“Sue me. He’s been gone for three weeks.”

“Right. Almost forgot you’ve been stuck by the hip since sixteen.”

“Not true. He’s been in and out of Seoul—hell, overseas too.”

“So what’s with the sudden longing today?”

Sooyeon’s question hits harder than it should. Jaeyoung runs past, toy car in hand, making engine noises. You watch him disappear around the corner, and that tightness comes back.

What is it with today? You can’t explain it. Don’t even know why you feel like crying every fucking second. Could probably fill a few buckets if there were any nearby.

"He's a handful," Her eyes follow her son, there’s nothing but love in her voice. "But god, he’s the best thing that’s ever happened to us.”

The way her whole face softens when she talks about him. The way motherhood seems to have settled into her bones.

You've seen it. Have been with her and Jin since the addition came into their family. You've witnessed how Jin immediately baby-proofed the house when he unboxed that Christmas gift filled with those tests. How Sooyeon called him a drama queen but followed through even though all of you still had dessert to share.

None of them even cared that Jimin and Taehyung were gobbling up the gingerbread cookies. Would usually be the first to hide those damn desserts from the two.

But not that day. Not when a little rascal was about to come into your chaotic family.

"Do you ever—" You stop. Clear your throat. "Do you ever wonder if you're doing it right? Like, raising him?"

Sooyeon blinks, surprised. Then laughs. Probably didn’t expect it from you.

"Every single day. I think that's just part of it, you know? The worrying. The second-guessing. But then he says something sweet, or laughs at something ridiculous, and I think—okay. Maybe I'm not screwing this up too badly."

You smile. Nod. There’s an unnamed shift. Something terrifying. But maybe a little bit beautiful too.

"You and Jeongguk," Sooyeon says carefully, watching your reaction. “Ever talk about kids again?”

It's no secret the whole squad's waiting for a little Jeon to run around. Have been dreaming hard for it probably more than you and Jeongguk have. The stupid group chat they've created right after your honeymoon—The Jeon Prophecy Shall Live—still notifies every now and then.

Jin’s silly jokes about connections of letting the little Jeon bypass kindergarten. Takes it back right away. Says Jaeyoung needs his buddy.

Yoongi’s patient sheet with Jeon Truffle listed under the baby’s name.

Hobi already pestering Louis for diaper bags.

Jimin sneaking in a lullaby with an EDM drop. Jin immediately deleted that off the chat.

Taehyung dropping maternal photoshoot concepts he’s drawn on breaks. Complains Jeongguk’s one-upping him half of the time.

You and Jeongguk appreciate it. Really, you do. Even talked about it countless times in your home how your little one will already have a whole village loving them even when they aren't around yet. Because you've seen the squad pour that exact love when Jaeyoung came along.

It’s just, you both never really had the time to talk about it. Never had the chance to plan it out. Always had this silent agreement that when the time comes, you’ll face it together.

Always together, no matter what.

The house is dark, save for the gold strip of hallway light spilling into the room. Midnight wind curls through the cracked balcony doors, warm for a spring night, brushing against your skin as you lean on the railing.

Ahead, the city glimmers—quiet, far away, unaware. The hum of distant traffic blends with the rustle of leaves below, a lullaby you haven't heard in years of apartment living. It smells faintly of rain that hasn't fallen yet, of fresh paint still drying in the corners of your new home.

Behind you, Jeongguk steps out with nothing but his sweatpants slung low and the faintest smirk already playing at his lips.

“You’re trouble,” he murmurs, wraps his arms around you. His voice is low, amused, still heavy with the afterglow of earlier, but already stirring something new. “You know that?”

“Just standing.” You look at him in that soft gaze tinged with mischief he knew was buried deep down – the kind that gets his heart flipping, racing and all sorts of fucked up, and giddy when it comes to you. “Taking in the view. Our new neighborhood.”

“Yeah, looking like that, in my shirt.” He laughs softly into your shoulder, lips already trailing across your collarbone, hands roaming anywhere and everywhere like he hasn’t gotten enough of you earlier. A low grumble gets stuck in his throat. “Gotta get away from these railings.”

You hum, fingers weaving through his damp locks, twirling at the ends that makes him dip his head back in a way you know he does when he's trying to hold back, to stop himself—at least, tries to. There's something about the way his throat bobs when you tug just right, the way his breath catches like you've stolen it straight from his lungs.

"Baby."

The whine in his voice makes the corner of your lips twitch before you can stop it. "Didn't you say we should test 'em out?"

His grip tightens at your sides. Know it's going to add to the marks that haven't even healed yet—the ones scattered like secrets across your hips, your ribs, places only he knows. "Didn't mean it right now—but since you've put the idea in my head."

Jeongguk turns you around slowly, pressing your back to the railing. Cradles your jaw as he kisses you—deep and slow. The kind of kiss that promises heat before it even arrives, that makes you forget your own name for a second.

You tug at the waistband of his sweats—just slightly, just enough to draw a low groan from him. Let the band snap back to place. Want him to beg for you, for your touch. Try to show the slight bit of control you have over him in these rare times when he lets you.

And he does. Lets you move him towards the railings now. His arms surrender, falling over the bars as your kisses trail over his chest, over the V he keeps in shape for you, over his tattoos, fingers working their way lower and lower until it stops just at the spot that gets him mewling.

"Fuck."

You tug at the waistband again, his Calvins going down with it, fingertips tracing his length already full, already hard, even when you've barely done anything. A soft giggle escapes your lips when you kiss his jaw, his eyes shutting lazily with every touch.

"Just a few kisses and you're all in?" The tenderness in your voice is anything but gentle—Jeongguk knows that. Knows when you try to sound all innocent but your actions say otherwise. "Already hard for me, baby?"

"Was hard when I saw you in my fucking shirt out here."

"What are you going to do about it?" You pull away just enough to watch him, to watch every freckle mapping his skin, like constellations to an unknown you don't mind journeying over and over as long as you get lost in him, with him.

And with the way you're watching him—like he's the only thing worth seeing in this whole city—all restraints are forgotten.

Jeongguk moves forward, flips you back to the railings, cups your face in his palms, lips finding yours. Breathes you in like you're the source of his air, like if you pull away—even the slightest inch—it'd cut the strings to his lungs.

And you're no better. Have always felt that Jeongguk's your second heartbeat, the pulse that keeps time when your own forgets how. The warmth in your veins when the world runs cold.

His kisses don't just stir something in you—they rebuild you, brick by brick, into someone who knows what it means to be loved recklessly, wholly, without conditions. Home isn't the house behind you with its empty rooms and unpacked boxes.

It's him. It's always been him.

Chest heaving, you pull away reluctantly, just to catch your breath. The thought suddenly hits you in this pause, that you're starting to get too loud, starting to forget the world around you. Can't blame yourself if you do. Jeongguk tends to have that effect on you. Always has.

"If an ahjumma decides to stargaze and sees your ass," you whisper, giggles disappearing between breaths. "You're moving us out of this neighborhood first thing in the morning."

"I've put work into this ass." Of course he'd flex. Of course your fiancé has no shame. "It's a lovely ass."

"Not for sixty-year olds it isn't."

He gasps dramatically—loudly. You swear you hear some birds flock away just from the sound. "You saying you won't be attracted to my ass when we're sixty?"

"I'm saying," you slowly start pulling up his sweats, the black fabric that you'd tugged down along with going back up too, until he grabs your hand firmly—stopping you. "Maybe we shouldn't do it out here."

"Should've thought about that when you started this." Jeongguk kisses down your neck, your chest, every exposed inch like he's starved for you.

Time should’ve been passing easily by now.

After all, everything was already in motion. The paperwork. The divorce. The timeline you’d quietly rehearsed in the shadows of your own heart.

You’ve carried these plans for so long they’ve started to live inside you—folded into the back of your mind like the muscle memory of sketching on worn tracing paper.

But now, time stretches the days longer than you can stomach—pulling you through every second like it’s trying to punish you for choosing to walk away.

When you begged the universe for more time, it gave you none. And now that you need it to rush forward, it slows—like it’s mocking you.

Even the movers ran late pulling the last boxes from the basement studio.

You sat in Jin’s car waiting, nerves knotting in your stomach, tempted to throw yourself in front of a neighbor’s lawnmower or get struck by lightning just to distract the gnawing dread that Jeongguk might suddenly show up.

But Hobi arrived. Then Jimin. Yoongi came last, still in scrubs, worn out from another dreadful shift.

All of them said the same thing: “He’s in Cheongdam. Don’t worry.”

You’re not sure if it made you feel safer or worse. Even now, weeks since the courthouse nightmare, your heart still hasn’t caught up to what it should be feeling.

Some days, you’d just sit in the car, stare out the window, stare into the nothing, your heartstrings pulling in different directions—one tugging you forward into the life you chose.

The other, yanking you back into the memory of another time—where love still lived in that house, and forever still felt like a promise you’d keep.

“Jeon Jeongguk! I’m fucking locked out!” You yelled the moment he picked up, breath misting into the frozen air.

It had been a long, brutal day—Seora’s board demanding next quarter’s forecasts, marketing emails multiplying by the hour, your mother checking in every three hours just to make sure you were still holding up her company.

All you wanted was to come home. To bury yourself in your husband’s hoodie. To eat whatever five-star dinner he’d prepped for the night and sleep on his chest till morning.

Instead, you were stuck on the porch. At ass o’clock. In a snowstorm. Coat getting drenched by the second, freezing.

“I’m in the shower, baby!” His voice crackled through the speaker, tinged with panic. There was a splash, some fumbling—he must’ve nearly slipped trying to grab the phone. “Just give me five minutes! I’m coming to get you!”

“You changed the code three days ago!” You kept trying different combinations on the keypad, each failed attempt more infuriating than the last.

“Didn’t I tell you? Rotation’s every three days now!”

“No, Jeongguk.” You slump onto the step, spine pressing against the door’s cold frame. “Just like you didn’t mention the new code.” You bring your hands up to your mouth, try breathing warmth into your fingers—but it’s useless. The snow and the wind just picking up even worse. “Baby, finish your damn shower in peace, tell me the code in peace, and we can both live happily ever after.”

“But what if someone’s listening?” He whispers, like he’s afraid someone could be lurking in the shadows, dramatic as ever. “What if they tapped into our network? What if they overhear, break in, and then you’re in danger and then—”

“The only thing that’ll be in danger is our marriage if you don’t tell me the damn code!”

As if the universe itself had enough of the theatrics, the keypad finally beeped.

Then the door creaked open—and there he was. Sad bunny incarnate. Hair dripping, face flushed, one of your thick blankets in one hand and your favorite hoodie—his—in the other.

“You’re going to leave me?” he pouted, eyes wide and wounded, holding out his peace offerings like it might save his life.

The annoyance melts instantly. You stepped inside, got rid of your coat, took the blanket, tugged on his hoodie, pressed a kiss to his damp cheek.

“Don’t change the code again for at least a month, then we won’t have any problems.”

He closed the door behind you, hopping after you like a clingy bun. “But a month’s too long, baby. What if someone hacks in, kidnaps you, and then you’ll be—”

“Oh my God, Gguk,” you laughed, shaking your head. “No one’s going to kidnap me. No one’s breaking in. You’ve watched one crime documentary and suddenly I’m the next victim.”

“You’re CEO now,” he muttered with a pout, eyes big with worry. “Anyone could have the wrong intentions…”

You sighed, stepped close again. “I’ll be fine. Promise.” Brushing away his wet strands away, you kissed him soft. “Now, go dry your hair before you get sick. It’s like minus nine outside.”

But he didn’t move. Instead, he wrapped his arms around your waist, tucked his face into the curve of your neck. “Were you really going to divorce me over a failed passcode?”

You chuckled, head tipping back against his shoulder before you turned to face him. Hands cradling his cheeks, eyes soft as they found his. “Babe, you said I manifested our marriage when I was eighteen. Drunk—but still manifested. You really think I’d leave you?”

He sniffled dramatically, lips jutting into a pout, feet shifting like a child being scolded. “Promise you’re not leaving me?”

Your smile lingered, gaze settled on him—this man you’ve loved through every version of yourself.

And in that moment, you were falling all over again.

“I promise, my love. You’re stuck with me forever.”

The warmth of the memory still echoes somewhere in your chest—until the car door opens with a quiet thud.

And just like that, you're no longer wrapped in Jeongguk’s hoodie, no longer safe in each other’s arms.

Jin slides back into the driver’s seat, the soft creak of the leather and the draft of air tugging you back to this cruel reality. The quiet hum of the engine fills the silence, steady and unrelenting.

Another voice in the room now. Another reminder that this is the life you’re meant to keep up with.

“That’s the last of it,” Jin says quietly. The headlights cut through the dusky road ahead, tracing familiar turns and curbs. “They should be en route to—”

“I know where they’re heading, Jin.” You cut him off, voie voice sharp and brittle, eyes never leaving the window. “I fucking signed off the papers.”

The houses blur past—each porch, each fence, each streetlamp. Memories pass by like scenery. A flicker of the life you once lived.

For a moment, you think you see Mrs. Chen’s absurdly proud iguana perched on the same windowsill it’s claimed for years—the one Jeongguk once stopped to pet on your first morning walk through this neighborhood. He’d crouched down without hesitation, smiled at the old woman, said it was “unique” and “cute” while you screeched and bolted halfway down the street.

Now, that same iguana draws a dull, reluctant smile to your lips—like a joke only the past version of you would understand.

This neighborhood—this whole life you built from dreams—fades in the rearview, shattered piece by piece like glass you never thought would break.

Jin exhales but says nothing more about the house. “I called up the office.” The silence that follows is thick, careful. “She’s ready.”

The words hit harder than you expect. You grip the inside of your coat, but your palms are slick, clammy. Pulse stuttering in your throat—head spinning not from motion, but from the weight of what you’re about to face.

When you don’t answer, Jin continues gently. “We can go tomorrow morning. Or—”

“No.” You finally turn toward him. There’s no softness in your gaze. Just a numb coldness that tells him you’ve already decided. “We go tonight.”

“Sunshine,” he sighs, hand moving towards yours, but you pull back before he can even reach. “We’ve been working the whole day. You haven’t eaten. You’re already getting—”

“Either drive or I take a cab.” Your voice wavers, but not from doubt. “Your poison.”

He doesn’t argue further. Knows better than to counter the choices you’ve made from the beginning. Continues to drive away from the city with a heavy heart and into the road that grow quieter the farther you go.

The sky hangs low and grey, like it’s mourning something. The gates ahead creak open on cue—familiar in a way that makes your chest tighten.

The sound hasn’t changed from the visits in the past. On quieter days.

Days when you carried a few stems of purple tulips. On the one day you came with Jeongguk as he walked behind you—keeping quiet, gaze distant, but his presence never absent. As if he couldn’t find the words, but still needed to be near her. Needed to see her, even if he could only do so like this.

And now, you’re back—with the people who saw her as their whole world too. Who loved her fiercely, even when she never got the chance to breathe in their arms.

Branches above sway gently, as if bowing under the weight of memory.

And somewhere between the hush of the wind and the faint flicker of pathway lights, you swear you hear Jeongguk’s laugh again—soft, trembling. See the tears caught between his smiles. Feel her little kicks against his palm.

You step out as the car slows. The ground beneath your feet feels different now—gentler, as though it remembers you. As though it still knows how to cradle the ache that never really left.

Everyone stays close—Yoongi, Hobi, Jimin—flanking you through every quiet step, never straying even as you lower yourself in front of the empty space.

The patch on the wall is bare now, nothing left but the wind-swept remnants of memory. The marble once cradled in petals now stares back unadorned, a silence louder than anything.

No one speaks. Even the wind seems to hold its breath—like the gentlest breeze might shatter all of you.

But they stay. Hobi’s hand wraps around yours, grounding. Jimin leans gently against your shoulder, warmth pressed into your side like he’s trying to soften every edge of you that’s about to break.

Their touch doesn’t fix anything—it never could. But it fills the void where his warmth should be. Wraps around the emptiness you left behind, offering a different kind of love—one they hope is enough for now.

Because they feel it too.

The space he once filled. The ache you don’t say out loud. And maybe, just maybe, if they stay close enough, it’ll help you breathe through the parts of yourself still reaching for him.

The hush deepens as Jin returns, footsteps steady, arms full with the weight of what you’ll need to carry into the next chapter of your life you didn’t have a choice in.

He doesn’t say anything. Just lowers beside you, places the vessel gently onto your lap, lingering for a moment, before retreating like a prayer whispered too softly to catch.

Another staff member kneels, placing the sealed box before you—what’s left of a life in photos, footprints, and unfinished things.

The final document rests atop it all, your signature line left waiting—just one more step in a string of farewells. The weight of the pen in your hand is unbearable.

You hesitate. Not because you haven’t made peace with it—but because the signature is yours alone. His name isn’t there. It never was.

Not when he couldn’t even breathe long enough to answer you back, each time you asked if you should stick to the traditional white or go with the soft purple you both loved.

Not when he sat frozen during the whole service—didn’t speak, didn’t move—his grief and guilt anchoring him to that seat like a chain no one could cut through.

Not when the moment came to say goodbye, and he couldn’t get a single word out—couldn’t even stand—until Yoongi stepped forward, voice steady only because someone had to be.

Because the day needed to end, even if no one was ready for it to.

You press the ink into the line. A goodbye. Quiet and irreversible. Then you pass it back wordlessly, your vision already blurred.

Tucked between files, the blanket stitched with the family name and the tiny silver bracelet with her name still shining like time hasn’t passed—you find it.

The small worn, bunny. Pale purple, barely palm-sized. Something you and Jeongguk picked out in a frenzy of excitement, by the counter of that store after your second appointment.

He’d said it looked like her somehow. Even though neither of you had any idea what she’d look like. But he insisted—she’d have that same bunny grin, soft and wide, full of light and hope.

Just like yours. Just like his.

You lift it slowly, fingers trembling as they curl around it.

Everything crashes down at once.

From Busan—the home you made him believe you’d return to. The love you promised would stay.

From the courthouse—the nightmare you dragged him into without warning, leaving him to stumble through the wreckage you couldn't explain.

From each day since, spent swallowing pain for the sake of peace, counting steps toward the end of the line you wished could turn out differently.

From letting go—the choice you never wanted, but had to make because you love him.

The flood arrives without warning. Your breath hitches. A sound slips past, guttural, raw. You clutch the bunny to your chest, to your face, the soft fabric catching tears that refuse to stop. Your body folds in on itself, shoulders quaking as you try—futilely—to muffle the sobs.

“Let it out, sweetheart.” Hobi’s voice is the softest thing in the air as he pulls you gently against his chest. Arms wrap around you, a firm embrace that doesn’t try to fix, only to hold. “You need to let it out.”

“I’m so sorry, baby.” The words leave you in a whisper, almost inaudible, spoken into the fur of the bunny like it could reach the angel close to the stars—to someone who’s no longer beside you. “I’m sorry it had to come to this. I’m sorry I’m not strong enough to fight this with—”

Everything inside the silence breaks with you.

Jin turns away briefly, head bowed. Yoongi pinches the bridge of his nose, jaw tight, blinking too fast. Jimin swallows hard and clutches the edge of your coat like if he holds on tight enough, it’ll somehow also keep him from falling apart further.

“You’re stronger than you think, Sunshine.” Hobi whispers, brushing your hair, over and over like he used to when you were young. “Handling all this, letting go of the things you didn’t want to, still putting him first. Putting her first.”

He remains firm but you catch the crack slipping in between too, even when he tries grounding you a light squeeze on the shoulder. “Only the bravest soul could do that. Only you could do that.”

“I miss her,” you breathe, trembling. “Him.” The words fracture as they fall from your mouth. “I’m so tired of fighting. Of moving. Of breathing.”

You pull the bunny tighter to your chest, the smell of cotton and dust filling your lungs. “Fuck… I’m so tired.”

“Just one last stretch, babe.” Jimin kneels, arms wrapping around both you and Hobi, his own tears wetting your hair. “I know it hurts. I know you feel like you’ve lost everything.”

He presses his cheek to your temple, voice breaking. “But you have us. You’ll always have us. Until the end.”

The cold presses in. The silence settles. But the warmth of them—of this broken, hurting family—surrounds you still.

You don’t know what time it is. Didn’t bother checking. Just know that wind’s turned colder, to remind you that no one should be awake at this hour.

But your heart is. Wide awake. Beating through the pain. Haunted by the kind of silence cradling nightmares. Sleep hasn’t stood a chance.

The boys had stepped out earlier, said they’d be back with food. And they did—your favorites, even the chips you used to hoard since Uni, sneak into meetings.

But the takeout bags remain untouched where they were set down, long gone cold. The chips unopened. The warmth spoilt with time, just like everything else.

“Sunshine, you’ve got to eat something.” Yoongi breaks the silence, soft from his usual cold. He crouches beside you, setting down the familiar yellow bag. “Or at least drink.” The bottle of water slips through your hand. “We don’t want you joining those anytime soon.” His gaze drift towards the rows ahead—where names lived and loved are now kept inside glass and air.

“The fuck, Yoongs?” Jin shoves him gently, slides into the space beside you. “Keep saying shit like that, I’m putting you in one of that first.”

“Seriously, hyung,” Jimin slumps on the ground across from you, face drawn. “For a cat who barely talks, you’ve been yapping a lot of nonsense lately.”

“That’s because I’m the only one thinking logically,” Yoongi grunts, shoving Jin back with a little more force this time. Then he sits back beside you. “And probably the only one who wants to keep our friend breathing.”

You huff—almost sounds like a laugh. Just barely. “Fucking ridiculous all of you.” you flick Yoongi’s forehead with the kind of softness that can only come from love. “Thanks, Grandpa.” Leaning against his shoulder, hoodie covered smells like laundry, tangerines and silence.

The usual comfort doesn’t ease the ache, but at least this family is here to keep you from completely drowning.

Yoongi doesn’t say anything. Just loops an arm around your waist, bringing you closer, gestures subtly with a lift of his chin—inviting Jimin in too, who’s long be waiting for the comfort of the squad’s grandpa.

The quiet stretches again. Not peace, but enough to let anyone breathe just for a second.

“We all saw,” you begin, voice cracking at the edges. “How cold Jeongguk was about the loss… from the start.” Eyes still fixed ahead. “The first anniversary, you know how he didn’t stay long.”

All remain silent. Lets you take your time. Lets you go on. Knows you needed this.

You draw in a shaky breath. “How he didn’t hesitate to leave me alone here.” Your gaze drift to theirs, their faces, finding the same hurt, the same apologies he couldn’t give you back then. “But he came back that night. Alone.”

The confession startles them. No one utters anything—but with the way they all froze said enough.

“He brought flowers. Stayed. Until the guards had to move him when he wouldn’t let go.” A single tear falls down your cheek, lips curl faintly. “I was right there.”

You point toward the corner of the wall, the cracked candle holder a reminder of where you’d stood that night. “It took four people to drag him away. To hold him when he broke down, held this spot like it would disappear the next day if he left.”

Three years have passed, yet the memory remains—etched not just in your mind, but in your heart. You can still hear his sobs sometimes, echoing in moments when everything else goes quiet.

They don’t shatter you like they once did. Not anymore. They just linger as reminders—of his love for you, for her, for the family he had once dreamed you could be.

“The second year,” you whisper, “he didn’t come on the day itself. Even hurt me in ways we all didn’t expect.” The cry gets stuck in your throat. “But he came later. On another day. More times after since then. Brought little things he wished for her. Kept them.”

You smile through the tears now, lost in memory. “Then he brought even bigger flowers from the last visit. Replaced them before they withered.”

You remember watching how he’d arranged your own bouquet from earlier that day—one of your visits, along with the fresh ones he’d brought when he came, gentle, deliberate.

As if he was piecing together a family, one he still longed for even when he strayed, through the petals and stems.

Hobi’s voice breaks, barely audible. “Gguk never left her?” It doesn’t sound like a question. More like guilt dressed in curiosity—regret pressed behind his throat.

You shake your head. “Never told him I knew.” A tight-lipped smile slips, painfully. “If he did, he’d know I was hoping. He would’ve felt more expectations were raining down on him—that he was still the Gguk we all knew, love.” You swallow down hard, but the tears fall anyway. “He was. But he needed his own time to find his way.”

You look at them, watching the apologies flicker across their face, the sorry’s they couldn’t say out loud. “He might’ve completely lost himself if he knew.”

Gently, you peel yourself from the warmth around, take a few slow steps forward. Gaze fixed on the open space. One that’s been a home, but now has to close with the rest of the chapter you have to say goodbye to.

“He’s been with her this whole time. Quietly. Still giving her the love of a father he never got the chance to become.” You exhale. Long. Slow. “And that’s what’s killing me.”

“Sunshine—” Jin rises, takes a cautious step toward you, but you turn. Give him a smile, tired—but enough to say I’ll be okay, even if you know, everyone here knows, you won’t.

“That I’m making choices meant to give us peace…” Head tilting up, eyes lingering the night sky, as if the stars could shine a little light on the guilt eating at you. “…but instead, it’s tearing us apart in ways I’ll carry until—”

“No.” Yoongi cuts through, firmly. Moves besides you, takes your hand with both of his. “Don’t you fucking doubt now—not until then.” Eyes glassy but he sniffs through it harshly. “You’re doing what’s right. For her. For you.”

You melt into his arms again, ones that have held you more times than you can count. Just like the rest of them have done since stumbling into your chaotic bubble.

“The softness is slipping out, Harabeoji,” you murmur, teasing through a sob. “Might want to check on your ice box a bit.”

Yoongi lets out a small scoff. Hugs you tighter—because even if he won’t say it, even if his scowl’s a signature look, he’s carried since then, you’ve always known he needed the warmth of a family, just like all of you.

“Thank you,” you whisper. “For being with me through every step.”

Next, you turn Jin, already watching you—eyes misted, jaw tight with the emotion he’s always tried to swallow for your sake.

“Can’t forget, Abeoji,” you say with a quiet laugh. “I know—I know I’ve been difficult, but…thank you for standing by me through ever choice. Every time I made you revise a clause. Made you regret you ever took up law school. For making my lunch boxes in Uni. For teaching Gguk to make them for me too.”

Jin approaches with a half-sigh, half-smile, ruffles your hair the same way he used to back in college. “And I’d do it all over again, just to make you happy, kid.” His voice is a little broken now, smile faltering. “We’ll always be here for you—no matter what.”

“Literally,” Hobi cuts in, gently brushing the tear from your cheek. “Jimin and I cleared all our schedules. You’re trapped with this crack family ‘til the end.”

You gasp dramatically, mouth falling open as if the weight has been temporarily lifted. “So, you’re saying you have no choice?”

Jimin snorts, sticks his tongue out at you. “We’re saying you have no choice.” He reaches for you, pulls you into his side, looping your arm through his. “You’re stuck with us. Whether you like it or not.”

Head dropping on to his shoulder, you sigh. “I’m really thankful to have you and Hobes, listening to me like a broken CD. I’ve been stubborn, caused you both to age faster than your tracks hit number one, faster than Hobi lands his next big gala.”

You shift slightly to face your co-Sunshine, a grateful smile curling at the corner of your lips. “But you stayed, even until now.”

“Always, babe. Until the end.” He tucks away your hair, fixing you up like always. “Ready to finally go?”

The silence returns—gentle, still not peaceful, just enough to ground you, to let you take the next step forward with a little room to breathe.

You close your eyes, nod, let them lead the way through the graveled path, the smell of the earth fading in the air as it slowly disappears behind.

“Take me home, please.”

The roads you’d memorized like lullabies don’t appear outside Jin’s window.

No winding stretch lined with blooming hedges. No faded gas stop with one working pump and a flickering sign. No tiny convenience store tucked in the corner that always stocked more of your favorite strawberry yogurt drink.

Even the metal arch you usually spot when you stir awake during the last stretch—gone.

Instead, the car is still. Parked. Surrounded by other vehicles with trunks cracked open, suitcases being lifted out, families clinging onto final goodbyes or running into arms they’ve missed for far too long.

The air doesn’t carry waves or the scent of sea salt—no comfort, no home.

Only the hum of overhead announcements, the thrum of wheels on linoleum, the occasional screech of luggage carts and engines roaring back to the sky.

You jolt upright so fast, your forehead nearly meets the dashboard—Jin’s arm shooting out just in time. “Trying to give yourself a concussion?”

You whip your head toward him, eyes wild. “Trying to get your license revoked?”

The door swings open before he can respond. You stumble out, blinking at the bright lights, at the movement, at Yoongi emerging from the car across the lot, Jimin and Hobi falling in behind him.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” you breathe, spinning to face them.

Hobi steps forward first, warm fingers gently wrapping around yours. “Letting you move on without another regret chaining you down.”

“I’m not going with him.” Tearing away from him, you stagger back, breath catching. “You all said you’d stand by me—and now this?”

“And we are,” Jin quietly steps beside Yoongi now. “But not before you say goodbye the right way. One last time. Before we all have to face what’s next.”

“The fucking courthouse was goodbye, Jin!” You shove his shoulder, chest heaving. “You saw what I did. How I walked away. What I had to say to let him go—” Voice breaking, you wipe away the tears falling faster than your anger can mask. “And now you want me to live through that again?”

“That wasn’t the goodbye either of you deserved, Sunshine,” Yoongi mutters from behind. “And you know it.” He steps in, remains firm. “Stop fucking lying to us. You’ve always sucked at it.”

He reaches out, fingers circling your wrist with practiced ease, dragging you behind him—like he’s done this before. Like he knows you’ll fight it.

“Let go, you psychotic cat!” You twist, punching him with your free hand, feet kicking for leverage.

“Hyung, you’re hurting her!” Jimin’s cuts through, tries wedging himself between your linked arms, effort rendered useless as he falls to the ground, your hand still locked with the older.

“Cute attempt, Chim.” Yoongi flashes a brief smirk over his shoulder. “But she’s saying goodbye like the rest of us. Save everyone from this misery.”

You go still for a second. Then take a single, decisive step forward. Make them think you’ve given in. But your hand shoots to his side —tickling with harsh aim.

Yoongi flinches so violently he yelps, stumbling back as you release a triumphant bark of laughter. “Ha! Still got a weak spot, old man.”

But he doesn’t scowl. Doesn’t glare. Instead, his brows rise—impressed. Smug. “Big mistake, kiddo.” And then he bolts, feet pounding like he’s racing time itself—because he is.

“Thanks for the head start!” he yells, not even looking back. “Now I get to tell him you’re coming!”

“Min Yoongi!”

Shout tearing from your lungs, you sprint after him, using up every breath your stamina could handle. The rest of the boys yelling to stop, panicking at the turning cars at the curve of lot, ones you’ve barely dodged, some Yoongi slides over the hood with an energy you’ve never seen before.

The squad continues to chase after you both like lunatics possessed.

Passersby pause. Heads turn. A family gathering for a last photo-op nearly drops their phone.

But still, your feet don’t stop.

Fighting your way through the crowd, running down familiar halls where you’ve been too many times—

Rushing through terminals for Seora flights, red-eye designs, and whirlwind showrooms.

Arguing with Jeongguk over connecting flights he booked on purpose—longer itineraries he claimed were worth it, so you'd learn to savor each stop. So you’d understand that every airport wasn’t just a pause between places, but a memory in the making.

Layovers with the boys that turned into misadventures—misplaced passports, missing luggage, Hobi once forgetting his shoes.

Airline delays that used to make your blood boil, but grew to feel like appreciated time—one of the few moments that made you learn that life was more than to the adrenaline and the chasing deadlines.

This place another page of the story you and him put together over seventeen years.

The distraction and rush cause knocks into bodies, elbows, curses flying behind you like warning signs.

You barely manage a breathless, “Sorry!” to the man you just grazed with your bag—only to hear him spit a threat about suing for physical injury if he misses his flight.

Jin glances over his shoulder, eyes narrowed. “Go ahead,” he snaps, not breaking stride. “Her attorney’s right here and ready to countersue, asshole.”

You tug at his arm before he can turn it into a full-blown courtroom reenactment. “Stop wasting time, you walking Constitution.”

A sharp bow, more flustered than apologetic, follows, before you drag him past the man and toward the counters. “If I miss Gguk, you’re dead.”

Three heads snap toward you mid-run. Jin’s brows lift. Hobi’s lips curve. Jimin visibly squeaks.

“Did you say Gguk?”

You shove the oldest toward the counter before he can start crowing. “I said Yoongs. Get your hearing checked.”

Jin only smirks. “Super hearing, kid. Comes with the license.” He turns on his heel and rattles off the booking details without another word.

“Four one-ways. KE901.” Card already slapped on the counter, the cost of last minute tickets not even bothering him, all your passports he’s managed to fish out of your bags, the tickets get handed over in a smooth exchange.

Mouth hanging ajar, you’re about to ask how even knew Jeongguk’s flight number—but stop yourself before the words come out. Pride already bruised enough.

Jin still clocks it. Knows. Of course he does. Stupid lawyer attention span.

“It doesn’t hurt to keep track of all your friends,” the glint of smugness stays on as he slaps the ticket lightly against your arm.

“First class?” You gape, taking a double look at the print. “Couldn’t get economy like a normal fucking person?”

Shoving the ticket back into his chest, you stomp toward the kiosk. Passport already snatched back from Jin, own card out, both slapped back onto the counter, ready to make a sane purchase.

But the screen flashes back at you in bold red: Sold Out.

Muttering a string of curses, you snatch the ticket from his hand again. “Fucking waste of money,” you grumble, already breaking into a sprint. “Not even getting on the flight. I hate all of you.”

They hear you anyway. Laughs. Faint teasing remarks flowing one after the other.

“We love you too, Sunshine,” Hobi grins, giving your shoulder a push. “Now move those little legs!”

The hallway opens up—sleek floors, different aircrafts lined outside the tall windows, harsh lights bleeding over rows of benches, the faint static of overhead speakers announcing flight calls.

On other days, you’d slow down, take in the quiet hours of this boarding area, of just waiting, something you’ve learned to love because he taught you how to pause, breathe and appreciate the small things in life.

But not today. Not when time’s ticking faster in ways you can’t control anymore. Not when you’re chasing something slipping out of reach.

Turning around frantically, your eyes search in every direction—insisting it’s Yoongi you’re looking for. But your heart’s a traitor, always has been when it came to that one person who’s made a home in it seventeen years ago.

Chest tight with panic, light with denial, straining to find one face in the blur. Just one. And when it doesn’t you bolt toward the flight board, pulse racing, breath caught up in your throat.

Gate 7A. KE901. Departed.

Your heart stumbles, hands dropping limp by your sides. Knees almost give in if it wasn’t for Hobi coming to your side just in time to catch the fall.

You blink at the screen like the information could change. Except the hope takes off, just like the flights are doing on the runway.

Just like his had taken off just seven minutes ago.

Tears don’t fall anymore. Not even a tremble in your fingers. You’re not sure if you’re breathing.

Somehow, you’re still upright—held by arms you’ve known all your life, but your body feels weightless. Like the sorrow’s drained you completely, leaving only a shell standing in its place.

“Let’s go,” you’re already turning away—fingers curling tighter around the ticket, crumpling it in your hand. You don’t look back at the screen. Just shoot Jin a soft, half-apologetic in passing. “I’ll write you a check in the car. Sorry you wasted it on nothing.”

“Sweetie—” Jimin’s voice follows behind, gentle, reaching for your elbow. A quiet invitation to just sit—to breathe.

But you pull back sharply, the ticket flying from your grip and landing on his chest in a crushed mess of regret.

“I told you all this was a fucking mistake!” Your voice shakes—with the kind of shame that curdles deep within. “I shouldn’t have come. I should’ve known better than to hope.”

You’re not angry at them. You’re angry at yourself. For waiting too long. For hiding behind pride. For all the wasted minutes that now sit between you and a man whose plane already disappeared into the clouds.

Jin quietly guides Jimin away, a silent exchange between the two before he moves in. No words. Just steps beside you with the kind of quiet ease that’s always made him feel like a second parent.

His hand finds the small of your back, steadying you toward a bench nearby. When you’re settled, he joins you without hesitation, arm looping behind to pull you gently into his side.

“I’m sorry, Sunshine.” His voice breaks on the whisper. And when your head falls against his shoulder, he rests his cheek atop yours, hands cradling you with an ache only the closest family could carry. “I’m so sorry.”

You blink slowly. Try to focus on something—anything—that will keep you from falling apart. But your gaze drifts upward, toward the wide glass windows overlooking the runway, to the spot where his damn plane’s supposed to be. It’s all too much. Too real.

In the quiet ache between, your eyes trace the faint outlines of this terminal—the rows of worn benches, the vending machines buzzing near the corner, the café tucked beneath a glowing sign.

All small nothings to the other passengers, but everything to pull you back to the smallest memories with him.

To the time you nearly missed a flight because Jeongguk started a petty competition with you to try every over-priced instant ramen flavor from the vending machines, a challenge you took seriously in exchange for the window seat for your flight that day.

The photo he took of you passed out against a pile of carry-ons, legs up on the café’s chairs he’s rearranged for you, your open sketchbook resting over your chest while he captioned it, “my sleeping beauty with her fashion empire.”

And that one overnight layover when the lounge was too full, passengers taking it up from the weather diversions, so he stole two airline blankets, a dozen pillows you still don’t know how he managed to fit in his carry-on, and built a fort on the corner benches, just to make you laugh, just to ease of the exhaustion.

The ache crawls in deeper.

You close your eyes and try to breathe, but the weight’s dragging you down. So you give in. Bury your face in the curve of Jin’s shoulder, where warmth still exists, and sob—soft, silent.

"Does it make me a bad person," you choke, voice muffled into the fabric of his shirt, "if I wish his flight gets rerouted? That something breaks from the plane… just long enough to bring him back?"

Jin doesn’t answer.

But a few soft chuckles rise from him, Hobi. Then Jimin, who—despite your earlier words—comes closer. Slides beside you again. Wraps an arm around your back, pulling you into his side.

"It just makes you someone who still loves him with everything you have,” he murmurs, cheek pressing against your temple. “Someone who’s going to keep loving him… even when time doesn’t let you.”

A bitter laugh slips from your lips, caught somewhere between shame and longing. “I’m fucking insane,” you whisper, wiping at your eyes. “I told him to go… begged him to leave… and then I chased after him like some pathetic, delusional ex-wife. And now I’m stuck with regrets I can’t undo.”

“The biggest regret,” Hobi quietly crouches down in front of you, hand finding yours, “would’ve been not chasing after him at all.” Thumb brushes over the tan line where your wedding ring use to sit. “You tried, sweetie. Maybe it doesn’t feel like enough right now. But it’s more than most ever dare to do.”

You try to smile—really, you do. Lips twitching at the corners, but the tears pool at the end of your lashes, falling in slow succession like your heart hasn’t caught up to your resolve.

Still, your voice finds its way past the ache. Barely. “I wish… I wish he’ll be safe. I wish Paris treats him right. I wish… he finds the restart he deserves.”

Your eyes flutter shut, clinging to the picture of him boarding the flight, toward a life you’ll never be part of. Clinging to the idea of him—free from guilt, from grief, from you.

Then—

Hobi’s phone buzzes. The vibration hums between you like a pulse, sharp in the silence.

He checks it without thinking. Then freezes. “Hyung?” he answers, unsure, stepping away a little as the rest of you watch him.

The call is short. Barely a minute. But in that time, you see something shift in his face. Brows knit. Lips part. Then disbelief flickers into something softer—relief, maybe. Maybe even… hope.

He blinks at the phone like it’s spoken something impossible.

And then slowly turns toward you. Eyes a little wide. A slow breath. A quiet pause.

He holds it out. “…It’s for you.”

With trembling hands, you take it, not knowing what to expect, not understanding why Yoongi would ask for you. He could’ve just texted. Walked across the terminal, tracked you all down like he always does. Incheon airport familiar to him, to all of them just like it was to you.

His car keys are still clipped to Hobi’s belt loop—proof that he hasn’t gone anywhere.

None of this makes sense, and yet the weight of the device settles against your palm like it’s carrying something you’re not ready for.

And then—when you finally lift it to your ear, when the line hums once and steadies into a voice—your knees nearly give out. Jin’s arms are the only thing keeping you from sliding to the floor.

Because what you hear isn’t possible. Not here. Not now. Not when you thought you’ve already lost him.

“Baby?”

Just like that, everything around you seem to pause.

The final calls blaring from overhead.

The polite reminders to check passports and boarding passes.

Even that ridiculous Seoul tourism jingle—the one he used to dance to just to make you laugh, performing like an idol, in sneakers too loud for the floor, making strangers stare while you pretended not to know him—smiling the whole time anyway.

All that remains is him—his fragile voice, but still full of warmth. And somehow, through the static and distance, you can still hear the smile in it. Like he’s just as stunned, just as breathless… that he gets to hear you again.

“Gguk…” His name barely makes it out—shaky, thin, straining against the tightness in your chest. “H-how—how are you even calling? The board said—”

There’s rustling on the other end—fabric brushing, hurried footsteps, the distinct thud of something heavy being dragged.

Then comes Yoongi’s unmistakable grumble, low and annoyed, muttering about needing to clear the way for an emergency—claiming someone’s heart needed urgent mending and that he had medical authority to prove it.

Taehyung’s panic faint in the background, protesting between huffs, “Hyung, you can’t just yell cardiac distress in the middle of a plane’s aisle! We’re going to get arrested.”

And then, as if the universe wanted to make sure to bring out more smiles out of you today, you hear him—Yoongi again, unbothered and biting as ever. “Someone’s heart does need fixing. Our friends’. Now hurry the fuck up.”

It slips out of you before you can stop it—a laugh, shaky but real, tucked between the aches slipping away even just for now.

Jeongguk lets out a shaky chuckle. “Yoongi-hyung wasn’t supposed to be on my flight. Wasn’t supposed to hear his smart mouth for another year,” he admits, voice warm, incredulous. “But here we are.”

Your lips twitch before you even realize it, and then you're laughing again—brighter this time, steadier, like something heavy just lifted off your chest. “He actually got on the fucking plane?” You glance around at the boys, all of them watching you like you’ve just come back to life.

A smile cracks across your face, brighter than anything they’ve seen since Busan. “He really is a lunatic furball.”

“Yah!” Yoongi’s indignant bark carries through the receiver, loud enough for you to pull the phone slightly back. “Be grateful, kid. I’m the reason you get to hear your lover’s voice again.”

Biting back a grin, half-sobbing, you whisper. “Your flight was gone.” It still feels like a miracle he’s on the phone with you. “You were—”

“They flew us back.” There’s a pause—soft, almost reverent—before Jeongguk continues, steadier now. “Something about a bird strike fucking with the engine. Tae said there was a whole smoke show. I didn’t really pay attention, but—” His voice wavers with something fragile, something joyful. “But we’re getting off now. Walking out the ramp in a bit.”

Your breath catches. A laugh stumbles out—shaky, stunned, tangled with tears. A bird strike. The selfish, foolish wish you whispered minutes ago—your quiet prayer for a technical mishap, for just one more chance—it happened.

“A bird strike…” You turn to Jin, to Hobi, to Jimin, barely able to form the words through the rush in your chest. “There was a bird strike. The engine was on fire!” The words come out with a breathless laugh, part awe, part hysteria, earned you a few weird stares from waiting passengers nearby.

But it didn’t matter.

Not when the joy blooms through your chest, through the cracks of everything you thought you’d already lost.

The boys laugh too—soft, incredulous. Sharing the miracle with you, relief wrapping around all of you like a blanket. Hobi nudges your back gently, urging you forward. Jin follows silently, his hand firm at your elbow. Jimin wipes at his own cheeks, grinning through damp lashes.

None of them need to say it. The awe in their eyes, their smiles, all say the same thing: go.

Your chest pounds as you move closer to the gate, but not in that broken, hollow way it did when you watched the information board minutes ago, that ‘departed’ status beside his flight number.

No—this is something else.

It’s the breathless rush you felt when he first whispered that he loved you, voice trembling like he couldn’t believe it either he was facing his fear, risking it all to take the next step with you.

It’s the fire that surged through your veins as you walked down the aisle toward him, his eyes filled with wonder, hands waiting to catch forever.

It’s the quiet thrum of peace that wrapped around you when he returned home again—a bit bruised, a bit broken, but finally, choosing you in the end.

And then—you see him.

Jeongguk emerges through the sliding doors—hair tousled, carry-ons piled haphazardly in his arms, camera bags hanging in a tangled mess across his shoulders. He looks wrecked. Frantic.

His eyes sweep through the crowd, wild and searching—like yours had been earlier, desperate for one last glimpse.

And now… here he is.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t need to. But you hear him breathing on the other end of the line—shallow, uneven, like he’s afraid that saying anything might shatter whatever miraculous power brought him back to you. Like if he blinks, you’ll be gone.

You stop where you are. Don’t rush forward. Don’t close the distance. You simply out call to him, soft and reverent. “Jeongguk.”

And even with the chaos of the terminal—flight announcements blaring, strangers bustling around you—he hears it. Hears you.

His gaze locks with yours in an instant, like it always does. Like it never forgot how.

The corners of his mouth lift, trembling but sure. Tears cling to his lashes, smile never faltering. You know yours matches it—hopeful, cracked wide open, impossible to contain.

Neither of you move closer.

You stand suspended in the space between, as if the air itself knows how rare this moment is and dares not let it slip too fast.

Because this isn’t about closing the distance. Not now.

It’s about the way his eyes hold yours like he’s memorizing them all over again.

It’s about the way your chest aches with every beat, torn between goodbye and the desperate, selfish hope that this isn’t the last.

“Please tell me I’m not dreaming.” His whisper cracks through the line, words frayed at the edges, lips trembling as though the shared background sound alone is too much, too good, too impossible.

And when he sees you standing there, his breath hitches. “Please tell me that’s really you.” He blinks once, twice, like he still can’t believe you’re only a few feet away.

Eyes blurring with tears, your lips press together in a futile attempt to hide the smile spilling out anyway. The smallest wave, sheepish, soft—just for him.

“Hi Ggukie.”

“Holy shit.” His bags drop with a dull thud, hand raking through his hair as a nervous laugh tumbles free—uneven, wet with tears.

But it’s his—bright, whole, him. The way he’s staring at you, boba eyes memorizing everything—your face, your stance, your every breath.

“You came for me. You’re really here.” His chest heaves, breathless with too many emotions at once, and for a second, he almost forgets himself and takes a step closer.

“Don’t.” Your whisper through the call, soft, gentle but it carries weight—a painful plead he’s too familiar with by now. “Please… just stay there.”

Jeongguk freezes mid step, brows knit, confusion softening between the hopeful curve of his smile. “What?” He tries again, weaving through the crowd, brushing past shoulders, pace quickening.

And when you move back—retreating—he stops, frozen in place. He shakes his head with a small, pained chuckle—not bitter, just tired. “Did you come here just to rip my heart out all over again?”

A laugh slips from you too—half-shy, half-broken, as though embarrassment and regret can live side by side.

“I just wanted to see you one last time.” Dragging your sleeve across damp cheeks, leaving streaks on knit. “Maybe make sure your passport’s in the front pocket of your duffel so you don’t hold up the line.”

Your smile wavers, fond despite the ache. “And that you’ve packed enough boxers for a year.”

He laughs—loud, freely—eyes crinkling into soft crescents.

And for a second, it’s like nothing ever changed. Like you’re back in Busan, in that absurd obstacle course flashing behind your eyes, him chasing after you with that boyish grin, calling you baby, like you’re the only thing he’s ever needed.

The warmth that spills catches you off guard—like a thaw cracking through the frost you thought you’d quietly wrapped around your heart.

“So you prayed for my flight to catch fire,” he teases lightly, shaking his head in wonder, “just to check I had my documents and enough underwear?”

“You know what I mean, dummy.” Rolling your eyes with a choked laugh, your voice comes softer when it steadies. “And how do you know I wished for a flight disruption?”

“I saw Jimin-hyung’s texts on Taehyung’s phone.” His smirk is playful, not taunting. “Something about staging an in-flight emergency or yelling about engine failure. All for a certain someone.”

“Now you understand my panic?!” Taehyung’s voice explodes from behind him, loud enough to echo, loud enough to carry across the rows to where you stand. “I’d like to see the Louvre without handcuffs, thank you very much!”

You laugh, shaking your head, shoulders trembling with it. “Tell Taehyung I’ll book him exclusive visits for a whole week once you land.” Gaze drifting back to Jeongguk, you swallow the lump clawing up as the thought of your favorite museum tugs at something buried deep. “Take him, will you?”

But Jeongguk just looks at you, smile softening into something almost sacred. “I’d rather take you.” His eyes remain steady in that way it’s always been when it comes to you. “Are you really not going to change your mind?”

His attention flickers for a moment—to the passport still clutched in your palm, the crumpled ticket Jimin had quietly slipped back in the other, barely held together with how much you were trembling. But it's enough for him to believe in the impossible, with that quiet desperate hope, that maybe, just maybe…you'll come with him after all.

But you tuck them back in your pocket, a single tear sliding down your cheek even as you try to show the softest smile.

“The last goodbye wasn’t right.” You breathe in slow, like it could help steady the ache in your chest. Another tear drops before you could stop it. “In that parking lot, that wasn’t the one you deserved… the pain I gave you then. The pain I keep giving you now and I—”

“And you’re still hurting me,” he cuts in softly, gripping the phone tighter, jaw flexing—not with anger, but ache. “By not letting me near you.”

He draws in a shaky breath, and when his eyes meet yours again. “But it’s okay.” They’ve softened into something calm, almost tender. “Because you still came. Even if it’s just for now—you still chose to come to me.”

Your hand falls instinctively to the bracelet on your wrist, fingers gliding smoothly over the silver chain as if nothing was broken in the years between before it got to you, like nothing’s broken now.

The tiny tulip charm still hanging on like the love never left, like it’s still here even when some damn papers doesn’t say so anymore.

And when you clasp onto the charm, holding it like an unspoken vow, I’ll always choose you, my love—you know he sees it. Feels it. Understands that your promise still lingers, even through every push, every pain you never meant for him to feel.

You know he sees it hasn’t changed—not since the beginning, not even in that courthouse, not even now, in this final moment.

“Take care out there, Gguk.” Your smile slips, fragile but true. “Promise me you’ll never stop proving that they made the right choice—that Executive Creative Director was always meant to be next to your name. Show them who you are. Show them you’re the brightest sun Paris will ever see.”

And you’re proven right—he does notice. His fingers lift to brush against the twin on his wrist, not just in a way that it’s the only piece of you he has left, but like it’s something he’s grateful for. A quiet kind of reverence in his gaze now, fixed on the way you’re still holding on to the charm.

“I promise, baby.”

He takes a few hesitant steps forward, closing the space until only a few rows of chairs remain. No call needed now to hear each other. It’s near enough for his words to carry, but it’s also close enough for you to hear the ache laced into every one.

“You know I’m coming back for you right?”

The phone slips to your side, dangling loosely from your hand. “The whole reason I want you to go is so you can forget me. Start new.”

“And I will.” He inches closer, only two rows separating you now. His smile rueful. “I’ll live the life you want for me. But forget you?” Shaking his head, a soft chuckle escapes, his eyes never leaving yours. “Not a chance, my love.”

He holds onto the tulip charm again, tighter this time, both to anchor and to promise. “In a year, I’ll come back to you.”

“Gguk—”

“I’ll live Paris for you.” He circles the row, slowly approaching the aisle where you stand. But he halts at the end, keeping the distance. You see the hurt in those boba eyes, the way his hands clasp and unclasp—like they’re aching to reach for you, to close the space.

But still, he gives what you asked for. Even if it kills him.

His smile tilts, quiet and tired—like it’s doing its best to stay standing, just enough to whisper long written dreams. “I’ll send you dumb videos of me in French class.”

You laugh through tears, heart aching. Can already picture him on the first day—arguing with the professor over why he was late, probably because he couldn’t read the directions all written in the local language.

His grin softens, another promise beaming through glassy eyes. “I’ll send you pictures of your favorite croissants every morning.”

The croissants you never got to finish—always interrupted by Seora calls blaring before the first bite.

You can already imagine his mornings. Lining up outside your favorite Parisian shop before it even opens.

Jeongguk knows that if you walked in even ten minutes late, the jumbo croissants you loved would already be gone. Had learned it the hard way last time—slept through his alarm, and all you both walked into were the tiny ones that left you starving the entire morning. Not having enough time to get a proper breakfast either, not with another Seora crisis flooding your phone again.

This time, you know he’ll be up before the alarm even rings. Maybe a bit grumpy at the early hour, but he’ll go anyway—just to get them for you. Just to stay long enough to take the perfect photos—of the shop, of the streets, of him savoring each flaky bite.

Doing it all for you—because you never got to. Because time was always cruel that way.

His grin softens, boyish pride gleaming through. “And when I start at Ferrandi, I’ll send you a photo of me in that fancy chef uniform. Already packed the chef’s hanky, the one you stitched with our initials.”

Nose scrunching, your eyes crinkle despite the tears; chest full of awe. “You don’t need culinary school, dum-dum.”

He laughs, shaking his head, gaze never leaving you. “I’d still go—just to learn something new. Just so I can cook you something new when I come back.”

“Jeongguk—”

“And every night,” he murmurs, drawing in a deep breath, walking closer, “I’ll send you pictures of the Eiffel Tower.”

Your chest tightens, breath faltering.

Of all things—that. Your favorite place.

The tower you’ve visited more times than you can count. Hundreds of photos, short clips of just as many; of both of you—mostly of you, always in Jeongguk’s camera.

And still, somehow, never enough.

They were always taken in between meetings or rushed detours. Usually in stiff blazers or heels that hurt before the hour ended. Rarely in the cute outfits you once imagined—matching coats, themed scarves, dorky hats. There was never enough time to linger.

Even when you stayed longer, extended trips, it always like you were on a ticking clock.

Jeongguk still tried to make the most of it every time. Always said the outfits didn’t matter, that the lighting or angles wasn’t important, that it was okay you only got short hours at the Eiffel.

Because what mattered was the way you smiled. The way you lit up like the tower itself. That you were finally in front of the one place you’d dreamed of since he met you.

Most of the photos back then came out blurry. The lighting was off. The framing screamed hurried. Even the videos—though plenty—rarely lasted past half a minute.

But he’d said those mid-laugh, mid-sigh moments were the most real. The most you. Said he’d fix the rest in post.

And he did. Always knew how to bring your favorite place alive—so long as you were in the frame.

But now, you know he’ll do more than make it work.

This time, he’ll try again—without rush. He’ll wait for the perfect hour. Will send you the photos you never got to take. The raw, unedited memories you never had time to make. The kind that won’t need filters or polishes—because they’ll be the kind you were meant to remember.

A fragile kind of joy lingers, because he’ll finally live the life you always wanted him to have.

And ache, too—because he’ll live it without you.

And even then, he’ll still live it for you.

You exhale slowly, chest aching with promises, with dreams—with the love of your life, soon to be too far out of reach. Mask back in place. “I won’t reply to your messages.”

His smile crooks, unbothered. Had always known how to ready you—past the surface, past the silences. “You don’t have to.”

He takes a few careful steps forward, only a handful of chairs between you now, the space of the aisle narrowing.

But when you retreat, Jeongguk stops. Doesn’t push. Doesn’t plead—too afraid you’ll slip away completely if he moves again.

So he stays where he is. “I’ll call you anyway. So keep your charger around.” Voice steady, smile painfully soft. “Because I’m going to flood it. Until you’ve seen every corner of Paris through me.”

Your heart stutters at the picture of it—your stubborn boy wandering the cobbled streets, phone tilted toward the sky, showing you the city through his screen as if it that would be enough to bring the place you’ve always loved close to you.

This man—your always—is going still going to love you, keep you with him, even across oceans.

The thought melts you. Frightens you. Fills you with more love than your chest knows what to do with.

Your attempt at mischief wavers, but a laugh bubbles out anyway. “I’ll block you.”

“I’ll spam your emails.” His brows lift, playful defiance sparking.

“I’ll block you there too.”

“I’ll LinkedIn you.”

That breaks you into loud laughter, echoed by the squad behind you.

Jin pinches the bridge of his nose, muttering a low “dumb loser” under his breath.

Hobi shakes his head, an amused crinkle in his eyes—quietly impressed their maknae would go as far as reaching out to you through business platforms.

Jimin’s halfway folded over, clutching his stomach, giggling out a breathless “stop,” and “too cute,” between wheezes.

Yoongi rolls his eyes, but not before muttering something about using that technique for his next date.

Taehyung scrunches his face, caught somewhere between secondhand embarrassment and awe.

“The fuck?” You can barely breathe between gasps, heart swelling with the efforts he’d do just for you. “You going to send a résumé with the Eiffel Tower as your profile photo?”

“Don’t test me, baby.” He squints playfully, smile curling as a soft chuckle escapes. “I’ll do it.”

For a moment, everything stills—not because the terminal quiets, but because none of it matters. Not the sterile lights, the rolling wheels, the scuffle of shoes.

It’s just him. His smile. Yours. And the weight of goodbye pressing in with every second.

“When I’m done living that life you wanted for me,” his voice is steady now—each word wrapped like a final promise. “When I’ve lived all your dreams for you… I’m coming back.”

Your smile falters, lips parting around a breath you can’t seem to catch. Eyes burning—not just from the tears you’re trying to hold, but from the ache of wanting. Of life. Of time. Of hope you’re not allowed to keep.

“Gguk—”

He exhales, gaze locking onto yours like he’s memorizing every detail one last time.

“No matter where you are.” There’s no playfulness now. Just vows he intends to keep this time. “No matter how long it takes.” His throat bobs, eyes glassy, but unwavering. “I’ll come find you, baby. I’m coming home to you again.”

And that’s all it takes. You bury your face in your hands as the dam finally breaks—tears spilling, laughter caught in between, your whole frame shaking with the weight of what you can’t say.

If only it were that simple. If only time wasn’t so cruel. If only life didn’t always ask you to let go of things you loved the most. If you were selfish, you’d tell him—promise him, “I’ll wait for you.”

But that was never in your book. Never in the fate you’ve decided on since the start, no matter how much it hurts.

These few minutes was all you ever needed. This miracle to see him close again, hearing his voice, feeling his love even from an arm’s length away, was enough. Enough for you to carry till the end of the line.

Then the intercom crackles overhead:

“Final boarding call for Korean Air Flight 901 to Paris Charles de Gaulle. Passengers, please proceed immediately to Gate 5B for departure. Final boarding, KE901 to Paris.”

The final call echoes through the terminal like a sentence passed.

You thought the verdict at the courthouse was painful—sharp enough to pierce through bone, cold enough to freeze the blood in your veins. But this—this steals the breath from your lungs. Makes it feel like your heart has forgotten how to beat.

Time doesn’t speed up. Doesn’t slow down. It simply stops. No one flinches. Not Jeongguk. Not the squad.

Everyone turns to you like that final call meant nothing. Like it wasn’t supposed to send him walking down that gate, to get on that plane, move on toward a new life. They all look at you like the choice is still yours to make.

Because it is. Because somehow, you still hold the last say.

And maybe you do.

Without anyone expecting, you walk towards him. Like gravity, like breathing—something you know that's there and can never resist. Each step pulls you closer, feet finding their way back home like they always have when it comes to the man you've loved for seventeen years

Whatever space had stretched between you—the distance you kept for survival’s sake---disappears.

Finally, he’s right there, just a breath away.

Now, you’re close enough to see him, really see him.

The glimmer of tears caught between his lashes, those same little lashes that tickle against your cheek when he snuggles close. His nose, the one you've always loved booping, now a bit rosy from the cold or maybe from crying too much, but still so perfectly him. And those round does eyes, the boba orbs you’ve loved all your life—earlier, filled with restraint, the ache between smiles. They’re now filled with everything that’s no longer guarded, the surrendering kind of love that’s always been yours—only ever yours.

"Last call," you whisper, hands still tucked behind your back, fingers curling tight around the fabric of your cardigan like you're clinging to the last thread of restraint—even though you both know it's already unraveling, has been unraveling since the moment you saw walk back through those gates.

Jeongguk doesn’t hold back anymore. Not when you’ve chosen to come this close, not when you’ve finally abandoned the fucked-up distance you fought so hard to maintain.

It doesn't matter what you keep saying to push him away, doesn't matter the decision you made at the courthouse.

He knows your mask will never be strong enough to hide the way you look at him. Like he's all you've ever wanted, all you want, and all you'll ever want.

And so, he steps forward, quietly. Takes your hand in his like it's sacred, like it's the most fragile thing he's ever held. Like it's still his.

He laces his fingers through yours, tracing each bump, each scar, each line he's memorized over the years. He doesn't pull you closer, not yet—not until he feels your fingers curl around his hand, until he knows you really want to hold him again.

And when you do, your own fingers brushing over his tattoos, tracing the mark where his wedding band used to rest—that symbol that made him your husband, that title he carried with such pride since swearing forever to you—he pulls you in.

Until your chests meet, heart to heart, where they’ve always belonged.

“Last chance, baby.” It’s soft. It’s steady. It’s everything.

You breathe out slowly, your other hand reaching for his face. Thumb brushing over the scar he's always hated—the one you've always loved. Because even with the flaws, the imperfections, he was and always will be the man you love.

You linger on that familiar line, hoping he feels how your gentlest touch should be enough to carry him even through his broken parts. Hoping he knows he'll be okay, even when the touch fades.

Your fingertips smooth through his hair, making him look pretty one last time. You let your eyes drink him in, taking in all the love reflected there, hoping he takes the same from yours—something you both can hold onto when the storm comes.

“Thank you,” you whisper, voice hitching, brows knitting to hide the ache, a sniff catching in your throat. “For being my best friend.” Your thumb brushes along his jaw, huffing out the softest laugh, “For being that loving dork of a boyfriend.”

He chuckles too—broken, just like you. Smiling through the same ache, sharing this pain with you. A tear slips from the corner of his eye, but you catch it before it can fall completely—always catching him when he falls, always needing to make sure he's okay.

“Thank you for coming into my life.”

Your eyes drift to the bunny plush hanging from his camera bag—the same one you stitched for him back in Uni.

Then to the photocard hanging on his duffel, still protected by your sun-print case with the tulip charm looped in the middle, over the black and white image you’ve taken, of the boy that will always be in your heart. And finally, your hand falls to his wrist, brushing over the silver bracelet, against the tulip charm—all reminders that once, there was you and him.

When you look up again, your gaze meets his and stills. Like it did when you first met him seventeen years ago, heart caught in a red string of fate you never expected. Now, that same string pulls taut and breaks, your eyes holding the weight of seventeen years you have to let go.

Slowly, on quiet trembling toes, you reach up and wrap your arms around his neck. Holding him with everything that's left of you, with all the love you'll carry for him until the end of time.

He pulls you in immediately—arms slipping tight around your waist, lifting you gently off the ground as if bringing you close is enough to keep you. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, breath hitching against your skin, seeking the warmth that was always enough for him, that will always be home.

You feel the weight of him—all of him—pressed against you like a second heartbeat. It's not enough, never will be. But you hold him anyway. After all, this is the last page of your favorite story, the only fairytale you've ever known.

And so you let go the only way you know how—gently cradling his head, grounding both of you in this moment, your lips pressing the softest kiss to his cheek as your voice breaks into a whisper.

Silence was acceptable. You’ve written that on your list—out of consideration for him, because you love him. Something you thought would be easy to withstand because you love him, like love itself could make you immune to its sting.

After all, silence was all you had during the three years Jeongguk had strayed from your marriage.

But that didn’t mean you’ve liked it. That didn’t mean it didn’t hurt you during those years.

You’d strain for any break in it—a cough, a sniff, even the careless creak of a floorboard. Anything to feel he was still there, still tethered to you somehow. Once, you even found yourself staying up outside his home office, just to hear the faint hum of him on the phone, even if the words weren’t meant for you.

Now, sitting here, you can’t decide if you want him to speak… or for him to stay silent. Either way, the answer will hurt.

The air in the hearing room feels drained, like someone’s pulled the life out of it. The air-conditioning hums overhead, but you’re still sweating, your body chilled in a way that feels bone-deep. Not a creak of a chair. Not the scratch of a pen.

Even the hallways beyond the closed door have gone still, as though the building itself is holding its breath.

Where the fuck was the drama in the other room earlier?

Your own pulse echoes in your ears, counting each second Jeongguk doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. Except for that small, stubborn flex of his fingers over his wedding ring. That last, fragile tether.

You’d told yourself you were ready for this. Have walked through the motions, packed silently the memories between you both. Have gone over the steps in your head until they blurred together.

But none of that stopped the unease curling tight in your chest now, the dread deepening with every second that passes.

“Sunshine.”

The thoughts snap when Jin takes your hand, gently prying it from the hem of his coat, lacing his fingers with yours, the same he’d always done as your stand-in parent. “You know I don’t mind being your stress outlet,” he whispers, the faintest curve of humor in his tone.

“Been doing it for the both of you since Uni.” He glances down at his suit, brushing a speck from the lapel. “But this is Sooyeon’s gift to me for my first trial. I’d like to go home with the coat still intact.”

You stare at him flatly, lips twitching reluctantly.

“I’m sorry,” you breathe, grip tightening on his hand. “It’s been twenty fucking minutes, Jin. I’m twenty seconds from fainting.” You swallow, voice hitching as the next thought breaks loose. “What if he objects? What if he contests? Makes changes?”

Jin exhales, closing his eyes for the briefest second before opening them again. Gaze far from being soft. “Then we move to Plan B.”

You don’t need him to explain what that means. Have mapped out every scenario together, right down to the end of the alphabet, making sure this divorce would go through no matter what.

But the pull in your chest tightens until your breath comes shallow.

“I don’t want to fight him,” you whisper, raw, scraped from somewhere deep. “The list already went beyond what he was supposed to do. So much time has already slipped through our hands.”

Another inhale doesn’t reach your lungs. Eyes shutting down. “I can’t fight him.”

Jin’s hand tightens around yours. You feel the shift in him, the slow drag of his exhale, swallowing the nerves he's been keeping down all afternoon.

“All our plans come to that, Sunshine,” his voice is low, clipped, like he’s holding back the brunt of what really needs to be said. “It’s too late to back out of the fight. You planned all of this. I’m not trying to be–”

“I didn’t fucking want it to get to this, Jin.”

The words rip from your throat before you can stop them. Still in whispers but loud enough to break the hollowness in your chest, the weight of everything you've been holding in.

Your hand slips from his, like your body can’t bear to be tethered to anyone anymore. Not when you’re this close to losing everything.

A tear slips past your defenses.

“Jeongguk was supposed to follow that damn list,” you choke, breath shaking. “Get this over with. This is what he wanted, and I’m just—” your voice breaks, “—just giving it to him.”

“And he did.” Jin doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t raise his voice. But the steel in it lands harder than a shout ever could. Forged not in anger — but in tough, relentless care. “I’m on your side. But I care about you both.” his gaze doesn’t waver. “And damn it, Sunshine—”

His voice cuts, emotion tightening it. “That boy loves you. And you know it. Do you honestly think he’ll let this go?”

There’s a silence that swells — sharp as glass, bitter as truth.

You don’t answer. Can’t. Because you’ve already been bleeding yourself dry trying not to admit it.

And now, standing here in this sterile hearing room with your future hanging by a thread, Jin’s words hit you like a cruel mercy. A truth you’ve spent months burying under paperwork, pushing through every quiet night, pretending it would sting less this way.

But it doesn’t.

It guts you.

You blink, slow and wide, gulp the lump clawing up your throat. Eyes falling to the floor, to the to the tips of your flats, to the tiles, like if you stare hard enough, maybe it can just swallow you whole.

And then—

“No.”

The word slices through the room like a clean wound. Quiet. Steady. But it’s the kind of steady that comes when someone is barely holding on.

You freeze.

So does Jin.

You don’t even realize you’ve been holding your breath until your lungs ache from it.

Your gaze is unsteady towards the sun setting outside, sinking lower now, casting a golden hue that once meant warmth. Once meant hope. Home. Something you and him used to chase like they were promises. After all, you were both each other’s sun.

Now, the light just bleeds across the floor. It isn’t warm anymore. Just a reminder of something breaking. Like a slow goodbye.

You try reading between that one fucking word. The sound of his voice shouldn’t do this. Shouldn’t hurt you this way.

It’s just a no. But one word is enough to ring the questions in your head.

No, he won’t let this go?

No, he wants to stop this divorce?

No, he doesn’t love you anymore?

No, he will fight you?

No, he’s already given up?

It’s a thousand more meanings in a single syllable—and none of them ease the storm in your chest.

“Mr. Jeon.”  The judge’s voice is calm, composed, but careful now. Measured, like she too senses the weight in the room.

“To clarify,” she begins, “is that no as in you are objecting to the divorce proceedings...” She lifts the papers in front of her, the final ones. “...or no as in you have no further statements before a decision is made?”

Your breath catches.

For the first time since the beginning of the nightmare in this room, you look at him—really, fully look. And hope, as much as you hate yourself for it, tries to crawl up your throat.

You search for something—anything—behind those eyes you’ve known since you were sixteen.

A twitch of his mouth. A clench of his jaw. Even the faintest crease between his brows. Fuck, as selfish as it sounds, you’ll even take a tear, one you’ve seen burned in his eyes when you held him in that graveled lot.

But there’s nothing. Nothing but stillness.

Not the subtle pout that comes when he’s scared. Not the quiet fidgeting of his fingers when he’s unsure. Not even the slow blink he does when he’s trying not to cry.

Just silence.

Seventeen years, and this is the one time you can’t read him.

And somehow, it breaks you more than it should.

Your hands are clasped against you but the tremble doesn’t stop. The silent counts in your mind that usually helps ease the unsteadiness just makes it worse now. Even when Jin tries holding your hand again, the pulse races in your ears.

Then—

Jeongguk moves. A small step forward. Past Namjoon, past hesitation. Closer towards the aisle, toward the one line between you that the hearing room never could define.

His eyes don’t lift to meet yours, but they linger around you—searching. Like he’s trying to memorize you one last time. Or maybe hoping you’ll move. Breathe. Speak. For anything that'll show him that this is just another nightmare Seoul is burning into your memories—something you both will fight through.

But you don’t.

And so, his throat bobs. Lips part. Tongue flicks out, swipes across those lips, like he’s bracing for that bitter taste he wish he could avoid.

Then he breathes—

“No objections, Your Honor.”

A sound rips through your chest. Not loud. Not noticeable to anyone but yourself. But it feels like falling—like you just stepped off the edge of seventeen years.

Your eyes fall to the table. To the papers. Your name and signature still in black. His too. Already etched a long time ago, a decision that should’ve gone by easily. But the pain since then, the pain that you have to live with now, him too, is just the beginning of the end.

Leaning toward Jin, hands finally dropping from his, your voice just a whisper—like a prayer at the end of a war.

“He just did.”

The judge’s pen glides in practiced, silent curves—final, assured. Like how all endings should be.

But for a second—just a second—you think you see her hand falter mid-stroke. As if even she’s wondering whether this was the decision meant for today.

As if the moment thickens, unsure whether to breathe or break.

The papers slide into the clerk’s hands. The stamp lands with a dull mechanical thud. It isn’t even loud. Not soft either.

But it’s enough to make your ears ring. Enough to make you hear something shatter deep inside. Seventeen years of love—stamped out. Just like that. Gone with one man’s name that’s no longer yours to carry.

“The court hereby grants the divorce as per the agreed settlement.” Ahead, the judge adjusts her glasses. Her voice lands hollow in the quiet. “This case is now closed.”

No one moves. Not at first. But when they do, it’s wordless. Motion without sound.

Jin and Namjoon step forward to receive the decree, and the paper in their hands might as well be made of fire and glass. You can see it in the way they hold it—like they want to crush it and toss it at the same time.

The opposing lawyers don’t offer any parting words. You would’ve thought they might. After months of tangling arguments, drawing battle lines in meetings you sometimes felt like a spectator in.

For opposing counsels, their points had a strange rhythm — clashing and aligning in ways that almost made it feel like they were building the same case from opposite ends.

But no words were exchanged. Just tight-lipped nods and polite bows. Just the quiet zipping of briefcases, the hush of packed folders. Movements too neat, too careful, like they know one sudden move might unravel everything still hanging by a thread.

You follow Jin out of the door. Don’t remember the steps. Don’t remember the turns down the cold hallway. How you managed to walk through the people passing by.

But you feel it.

Every inch of your body aches with it. Grief nestling into your chest like it’s been waiting. The courthouse’s air no longer suffocates you, but the empty parking lot isn’t any better. The empty spaces should’ve been enough for a little breathing room. But if anything, your head feels like a second away from blacking out.

And by the time Jin unlocks the car, your hand is shaking on the handle. Your knees are paper. Teeth aching from how long you’ve clenched against the sob you still refuse to let loose.

And then—

That voice. That voice stops you just as your fingers graze the door.

“Wait.”

Blinking slowly, as if surfacing from somewhere far beneath, you turn to see he’s there.

Jeongguk stands a few feet away, like he’s been there the whole time. Like his feet never learned how to walk anywhere that didn’t end up beside you.

You hadn’t looked. Couldn’t. Or maybe… maybe you did. And you just couldn’t handle what his face might’ve said.

But your feet move anyway. Maybe it’s memory. Maybe it’s love. Maybe it’s just the last bit of instinct you have left for the man you once gave your life to. Maybe because no matter what happens, Jeongguk will always be a part of you.

His hair is a mess—fingers have run through it too many times.

The yellow shirt you know he picked with care this morning, something he raided the closet for, just because that old blue-stripped didn’t fit him anymore but still managed to fish something out to match you. It’s now wrinkled, twisted, from being clutched on all afternoon like it could stop his heart from falling out.

He stares at you with bloodshot eyes, you can’t tell if he’s still crying or if the tears never really stopped. His hands twitch at his sides. Open, close. Like they’re reaching.

He takes one step closer. Then another. Until there’s only the soft wind between you.

“Uh… wait. Just—wait a second.” His voice is thick. Shaky. Raw from all the things he didn’t say inside the courtroom.

You don’t say anything. Don’t have to. Not when your hands are already clenched into your skirt behind your back just to keep them from trembling. Not when your lips are set in a line so tight, so still, because you know if it quivers—this grief will fall out.

He swallows. Jaw tight. Hands shaking. “I’ll be right back. Please…just…hold on.” And then he runs. Not away. To his car.

When he returns, it’s with the bouquet from this morning—the same field-cut purple tulips from Busan, wrapped in pale paper and memory. The same ones from the surprise he thought would make you smile again, would make you his again.

He holds them out like they still mean something. Maybe everything. “You forgot these.”

You stare at the bouquet, and then at him. The air between you lifts with the weight of what will never be said.

“Jeongguk…” You don’t reach for the flowers. Just grip your skirt tighter behind. Voice hoarse. “That doesn’t…it’s not mine anymore.”

He flinches. Almost like he wasn’t expecting you to say it out loud. But still, he doesn’t back away. Still holds out the bouquet, takes one hesitant step forward.

“It is,” he chokes, voice fraying at the edges. “It is…was…before…”

No words come next. None of his, yours. Not with the way he’s looking at you now—like he’s memorizing you with the last seconds he’s allowed—adding up to the sting in your bones.

You look at the flowers. Really look. And hate yourself recognizing the way the petals are still open, as if it’s still holding the same soft violet promise as they did back home.

Slowly, hesitantly, your fingers circle around the wrapper—just below his. He doesn’t let go. Lets his hand linger too close. Too late.

“I’ll probably toss this out.” The lie sits bitter on your tongue. “Or just give it to Jin. Let him take it to Sooyeon.” You hope it cuts. Hope he backs off.

But he doesn’t.

“Let him give it to Sooyeon,” he just lets out a hollow laugh, lips pulling into a crooked line that looks nothing like a smile. “The hal-abeoji spent all morning picking the best blooms. You’re going to feel bad for wasting the effort of an old man.”

And for some damn reason, that gets you. A breathy laugh—shaky, broken—spills out before you can stop it.

“That’s your go-to?” you whisper. “Guilt-tripping me with hal-abeoji so these don’t go to trash?” So your love for me doesn’t go to waste. The words don’t leave your throat. But they hover in the space between your breaths.

“Desperate times,” he shrugs, hand shifting just slightly, moving to support the bouquet from beneath—finger tips brushing against yours as he steadies it. “Call for desperate excuses.”

You look up. Take all of him in. Memorize it. Every crease. The swollen gaze. The puff of his lips he keeps pressing into his teeth. The quiver he’s trying to hide.

Because you don’t know when you’ll see him like this again—even if it’s a broken version, even if you caused this pain.

And then, before the weight grows heavier, before your knees give out completely—

You finally take the flowers.

But your fingers don’t stop there.

With a movement so small it barely counts as rebellion, you let your hand drift down the stems… until it touches his.

And there, wrapped around the base of the bouquet—wrapped around the same fingers that had once worn your promise—you find it.

His wedding ring. Still on. The skin around a little red from the way he’s been twisting, fumbling around it through the hearing. But it’s as if those marks and burns didn’t matter. Like it’s something he wants to carry after this.

You slide it off slowly. Easily. Carefully.

Without a word, you tuck it into your pocket, clutching onto it for some steadiness as you watch his eyes widen—barely, breath stuttering. His hands now still, gaze fixed on yours, like you’ve taken his last remaining memory of you.

“A-already…” Just one word from him but it was enough to rattle the air between you, the wall in between on the brink of unravelling.

“It’s part of the settlement.” Your voice came out steadier than you felt, eyes fixed on the bouquet in your hands, drifting toward a random pattern on the asphalt—anywhere but his face.

The petal heads are slowly bowing down, maybe from the humidity, or maybe it also senses that any damn hope blooming in them is about to wither too.

"It's not like you wanted it at first, right?" The words tasted bitter on your tongue, each one chosen specifically to wound.

Jeongguk lets out a dry, bitter scoff—not from malice, but from somewhere wrecked and quietly breaking. “At first.” He repeats quietly, gaze dropping to his ring finger where his wedding band used to be, where warmth used to be.

Now, it’s just raw red imprints, reminders of what’s gone.

He stares at it for a long moment, then shifts his wrist upward—exposing the familiar glint of silver. The plain bracelet with the tulip charm, the same one he had made for the both of you. The one small piece of you he’d be allowed to keep.

“Thank fuck this is going to stay,” he mutters, half-laughing through the ache, as if clinging to this one thing can keep him from collapsing.

Your breath catches. Then look down at your own wrist—matching silver, matching tulip. Still there. Still yours.

Yet it burns against your skin. Not because you didn’t want it, but because it’s going to be a reminder that he still has something from the love of your marriage, something you didn’t know until lately. Something that was too late to include in the fucking papers.   

“You’ve always found a loophole,” you tried to laugh, tried to make it sound like teasing, but it slips out broken, a tear slipping down with it. “Damn it, Jeon…”

The whisper slips out before you could catch it, but his sharp intake of breath told you he'd heard every broken syllable. A ghost of his old smile flickers—sad and knowing.

"I…" He pauses, his throat working visibly as he swallowed hard. Hands flexed at his sides, a gesture so familiar it made your chest ache. "I know I have no right to ask." Another pause. Longer this time. Dark boba eyes find yours, refusing to let go. “But why are you doing this?”

You didn't need clarification. Expected the question to come at some point. The weight of his stare, one that hasn’t stopped searching for that trace of promise. For a second, his hand even rises, like he’s reaching out for yours.

But it falls the moment you step back. The silence stretches until you couldn’t bear it anymore. “Take the Paris offer, Gguk.”

The faint remnants of hope, of that stubborn spark that had always made him fight harder when things got difficult—it all flickered out at once. His chest rises—once, sharply—like he’s trying to breathe through the blow.

"I told you I'm not leaving." He says hoarsely, taking one desperate step forward. "It doesn’t fucking matter if we’re done. I’m not going anywhere." His voice breaks when he whispers, “I’m not going.”

Your resolve wavered at the vulnerability in his tone. "There's nothing left for you here," you said softly, each word fracturing as it left your throat. "You can leave this nightmare behind. Chase your dreams. Paris can give you a fresh start, a clean slate—"

"I don't want a do-over!" The words explode from him, the restraints he’s been keeping breaks through. He turns away for a second, like that could hide the pain and the frustration, hands raking through his hair, like that could help him from breaking even more.

"Damn it, baby." The one name that used to cause exploding butterflies in your tummy, clammy hands from giddiness, cheeks aching from smiling too much. Now, it just makes everything hurt.

"I just want you." His voice breaks on the confession. "You're my dream. You always have been."

The words you couldn't say back sat heavy in your throat: And you're mine. You always will be. 

But speaking them would undo everything you were trying to accomplish; everything you had to sacrifice for the future.

You don’t have to say it out loud anyway. It’s in your tears, in the way you’re shaking, in the way your breath keeps catching like you’re swallowing sobs you’ve already buried too deep.

Jeongguk always sees right through you. Always has.

"Leave Seoul, Gguk." Stepping forward, slowly, you reach out, take his hand. This close, you could see the exhaustion etched in the lines around his eyes, could count each unshed tear threatening to spill.

“If you really love me…”  Your free hand brushes his fringe aside—one last achingly familiar gesture. “If you know what’s good for you…” You swallow. “…you’ll leave.”

His grip tightens around yours—just enough to let you know he’s still holding on. Thumb brushing the thin band of white diamonds still circling your finger.

Then his gaze drifts toward your wrist. The silver bracelet you still wear. The same tulip charm dangling like a promise—all pieces of your marriage you hadn't been able to remove yet.

Finally, he looks at you. Eyes burning. “Is that what you really want?” The question comes out fragile as spun glass.

The world seemed to hold its breath around you. Even the wind had stilled, as if nature itself was afraid one breeze would completely shatter this moment.

Your heart hammered against your ribs, each beat a countdown to an ending you’ve prepared to survive but still can’t face now that it’s here. 

“Jeongguk…” you murmur, raw, weakly. “Please.”

Any space between you is gone once he steps closer, resting his forehead against yours. The familiar warmth of him, the scent of his cologne—it was almost too much to bear.

He lets go of your hands, palms cradling your cheeks instead, with devasting gentleness, as if he was trying to film the last memory of home.

His touch is trembling. Reverent. Scared.

"I need to hear you say it." he breathes, firmer this time. Like he needs the words to come out of you to be real before he believes it. “Look me in the eye and tell me.”

But you can’t. Not immediately.

Not because you don’t want to see him. But because if you do, he’ll see more of the truth you’re trying to bury.

He’s already seen too much. Knows this isn’t how seventeen years was supposed to end. Not when he’d finally returned. Not when just a few hours ago, surrounded by the ocean you called home, you promised him, that it’ll always be him no matter what.

Your eyes shut, squeezing back any more tears that are threatening to slip.

Behind your closed lids, you could see flashes of what you were losing—lazy mornings tangled in bedsheets, that first morning when you returned to Busan, that damn pillow wall scattered on the floor, you snuggled against his chest only to fall off the bed, his laughter echoing through the room.

The way he’d hum and protect his precious ingredients while cooking meals for you.

His laughter during the old and new memories you created in that city that always brought the goodness in people. That home that he can no longer return to.

 “What I want…” your voice cracks, barely holding itself together, “is for you to have the life you deserve. The happiness that should have been yours all along."

You opened your eyes, forcing yourself to look at him. “Seoul’s been hell for you, Gguk.” A shuddering breath. "You're being handed a chance to start again. Something you never got after we…”

The words get stuck in your throat. After we lost Ha-yun. The biggest fall of your marriage. The beginning of the end that led you here.

“And now you get to have that new life. You can—”

“That’s not what I asked, baby.” He brushes away a tear you hadn’t realized had fallen, the endearment ripping your chest apart. Tilts your chin up gently, forcing your gaze back to his. “I need you to say you don’t want me anymore.”

The air between you cracks with unspoken words, with years of love and loss and desperate hope.

"Tell me you don't love me anymore, and I’ll take the job. Start packing for Paris right after."

"Jeongguk..." His name falls like a sob, barely a sound. You try pulling away, to create distance before breaking entirely, but his arms circle around your waist, holding you close – not trapping, but giving you one last chance to want him or to lose him.

"Tell me." Forehead still pressed to yours, he continues searching your eyes, your face, trying to read you, to find the truth he always did. His voice remains soft, but the pain between the cracks says everything. "Please."

In your mind, a war rages—every instinct scrams to tell him the truth, to beg him to stay, to believe that your love for each other should be enough to fight through whatever is coming next.

But you'd seen what happened when he lost your little girl—the guilt that consumed him, the way he pulled away from everything he loved. The way loss destroyed him from the inside out.

And you just couldn’t bear to watch him crumble. Couldn’t be the reason his world collapses again.

Time may have healed you both but Jeongguk deserves more than a life bracing for the next catastrophe. He deserves Paris, anywhere where you’re not around. He deserves to build a new life somewhere untainted by the weight of what he’d already endured.

He doesn’t deserve to waste each passing day hoping for the sun to shine again.

Because this time, it won’t.

"I don't want you." The lie tasted like poison on your tongue, but you forced it out with conviction, hoping the way you don’t break from his gaze should be the final blow to push him away.

And when it doesn’t, you step back, break free from his warmth.

Slowly, you reach for your wedding ring. Slide it off with quiet resolve. The warmth lingering on your skin yet the weight when it complete slips off is anything but.

You tuck it into your dress pocket—where his ring already rests.

A pair again, but no longer symbolizes forever in this lifetime.

“Please…” Your voice cracks on the plead, barely audible. “Just go…”

Jeongguk closes his eyes, jaw working as he fights to completely fall on his knees, beg. You see the way they’re barely holding up.

When the tears come, he wipes them away roughly with the back of his hand, not out of anger, but because he’d just lost a fight he didn’t know was even happening.

With one slow breath, one soft, final look at you, he leans forward, places a tender, fragile kiss on your forehead.

It nearly undoes every lie you’d just told.

His lips linger for a moment, before he swallows. “In every lifetime, in every universe,” he places another kiss just by the corner of your mouth. “You’ll always be the home I choose.”

Then he steps back, hands falling to his side. Footsteps echoing hollow against the asphalt as he walks toward his car, each step further away is like pages of a book that’s slowly closing.

You don’t move. Don’t call out. Don’t break down. Just stand there, watch him get in—shoulders heavy, hands stiff on the wheel like he doesn’t know how to drive away from you. But has to.

You watch his taillights grow smaller and smaller until they disappear around the corner, taking your heart with them.

In every lifetime, in every universe, you'll always be the home I choose.

The words echo in your mind even as you settle into Jin’s car. They repeat like a broken record you didn’t mind would play over and over again, even when the courthouse grew smaller in the side mirror, as Seoul’s skyline blur past the windows through your tears.

Jeongguk’s voice follows you. You’ll always be the home I choose.

And you’ll carry that.

Forever.

Escaping the city should’ve been the right thing to do.

Jeongguk knew he should be going back to your shared home—if you could still call it that—methodically packing boxes, sweeping away the pieces of you still scattered in between the folds of his clothes, the corners of each room—start moving forward, escaping the pain that’s settled in his chest.

But instead, he drives around the familiar streets of Seoul, to the corners of the city where pieces of you still flicker behind his eyes. Each turn of the wheel feels like peeling back layers of time, to the spots where your warmth lingers like it never left.

Places where seventeen years once felt like a promise of forever instead of something that’s broken now.

He pulls up against the curb just outside the old apartment.

Still in that unfamiliar structure, paint peeling from the window frames in the same places, those front steps still cracked with age, the railings bearing the same rusty patches.

It looks exactly as it was when you last visited together, after his mother’s birthday, when you’d spent that evening beside each other on the bench just across this very street. Hands filled with red and yellow printed containers—golden nuggets and crispy fries drowning in that sweet barbecue sauce you could never get enough of.

The fifth-floor’s balcony now has someone else’s laundry flapping across the railings. A new tenant probably cursing the same broken heater that gave up every other week—something Jeongguk once tried fixing, only to turn your apartment into negative zero.

Those roaches are likely still haunting them too in the same kitchen corners like they also paid rent. The little guys you used to hunt down like it was a personal vendetta, sadistically torching them with his lighter while he yelled that even pests deserved a shot a life.

And that godforsaken front door lock probably drives the new homeowners insane too, cursing why their keys don’t work on the first try every damn time—when all it really needed was one weirdly angled whack against the latch.

A trick you figured out after one-too-many mornings rushing home to grab your forgotten fabric swatch boards for those brutal 7 a.m. design classes—nearly flunking attendance again because of that stubborn lock.

Even through the madness, a ghost of a smile tugs at the corner of his lips.

Because this was your first home.

The place where mornings always began with the other’s face, and nights ended with shared warmth, even in silence. The place where love grew in small, quiet ways—before either of you dared to admit it out loud but already lived it in full.

His eyes drift to the oddly placed window just near the balcony, the sill dissolving like the watercolors in your paintings, the present beginning to slip to nineteen-year-old versions of you both, where playful bickers and stupid bets became one of the few foundations of your friendships.

"You're cooking lunch for a month straight if I keep this alive for at least a week.” Arms full of the purple tulips, you’d nuzzle your face into the petals just like every day when he’d bring home those little market bundles for you, going out of his way despite his classes ending at 9 p.m.

“No—two months. Triple-tiered bento boxes for my long-ass Wednesday classes.”

Jeongguk had scoffed, fighting back a grin as he rolled his eyes. “I already cook every day, genius. At least come up with a more beneficial bet.”

He moved to take the flowers from you, to set them in your room—where they could actually survive—but you clutched them like he was threatening to scribble again on one of your sketchbooks.

“Excuse you!” You’d spun on your heal, escaping him, to grab that chipped little vase you painted with messy sun rays and swirling blues that somehow captured the essence of ocean waves.

Arranged the bouquet with too much love, flowers from someone who was just your best friend. “I cook everyday too! You like my buttery eggs.”

“Absolutely love them. Was it char you always add?”

“Rude.”

Despite his protests about practicality, his teasing, he’d already moved beside you, helping to position each stem with the same care, fingers brushing yours as you worked together.

“Why do you always insist on keeping these here anyway?” He takes away the wrapper once all the stems are spread out in the vase, folding it to another flower, origami. “Remy's going to end up making them into expensive rat food.” Hands it to you. “The only spot where there’s sun, is in your bedroom.”

You rolled your eyes—god, that same roll he still sees when he closes his eyes—even when it meant you were annoyed at him, it still pulled at his heartstrings.

“Those rodents from Ratatouille didn’t like flowers. And this living room needs them. Your boring minimalist aesthetic is depressing.” You'd stepped back to admire your handiwork, satisfaction written across your features, rolling the folded version at the tip of your fingers.

“Flowers here, from my best friend should bring some actual joy to our home."

The quiet soft smile on your face—pure, radiant, free—begins to fade, the loud horn from behind, from the car whose space he’s probably occupied, brings him back.

The building disappears in the rearview as he drives away, the apartment now just another piece of Seoul’s urban landscape.

The purple tulips spread in that perfectly painted vase of yours—gone. This time, a single purple one just sits lifeless in his passenger seat.

The convenience store is packed, as expected for this hour—half-drunk college kids clinging to each other in laughter, bleary-eyed office workers in loosened ties, and those just wandering in for a quick fix of salt and sugar before tomorrow starts.

This had been your ritual once: late night finals relief runs or those hazy nights when too many soju shots led to desperate ramen cravings.

Jeongguk slips in anyway, quiet as always, sidestepping shoulders, murmuring apologies, muscle memory guiding his feet down familiar aisles.

He doesn’t judge as he passes a basket piled with chips, nori wraps, and tteokbokki-flavored ramyeon—the kind of junk food that shouldn't be eaten this late, not unless you’re dead tired, a little bit heartbroken or just wanting to grab things that were your ex-wife’s favorite cravings.

Jeongguk’s all of them.

Without thinking, his hands move on instinct.

First go the honey butter chips—those yellow bags with the cartoon bumblebee you used to stare at just a little too long because you thought the mascot was "weirdly cute."

He never got it. Said the bug’s eyes shouldn’t be bulging that wide when it knows its own death was coming.

You’d laughed. Said it made you love it even more.

Then come the seafood ramyeon cups. He swipes every single one off the shelf even though he never liked the crab flavor—too fishy, too sharp for his tongue.

But he still remembers watching you scarf it down at 3 a.m., in bunny slippers, in that Iron Man PJ’s he’d gifted you to match him. You, hunched over the steaming noodles, too stressed from Textile History cramming to remember you hadn’t eaten all day.

And so, Jeongguk’s learned to love them eventually, because it’s the only thing you’d actually finish when you were too stressed to notice hunger.

Finally, the Choco Pies—every last one disappears into his basket.

The same ones he used to give you, just to stop you from crying after three straight hours when you convinced yourself Fashion Theory was going to be your Uni downfall.

The same ones you’d stuff into his hoodie pocket before his lighting preset presentation, whispering “eat this before you go mad and start punching your laptop.”

Nothing about this makes sense. But everything about it tastes like a version of home that exists only in fluorescent-lit aisles and fading memories.

Nearby customers, likely eyeing the same brands, shoot him annoyed glances as he clears out the shelves— but Jeongguk couldn’t bring himself to care.

Mutters insincerely anyway. “Sorry…”—before moving on, already reaching for the fridge door to grab every last strawberry yogurt drink.

He pauses—hand still midair, bottle cold against his skin.

Not only because of the memory of you claiming the drink was “breakfast and dessert rolled in one,” swearing it was the perfect protein fix without ever needing to turn on a stove.

But because the freezer doesn’t rattle anymore. Not like it did the last time you were both here. When it was day eleven, twelve, or maybe six, of your list.

Jeongguk doesn’t remember what day it was back then. Didn’t bother counting it back then. Didn’t think he needed to.

You’d said you loved this specific convenience store because the freezer’s rattles were music to your ears.

But he knew, it was more than that. That this place held one of the many memories between you, before the fuck-ups of life came in between.

And now that god-awful sound was gone—fixed. And now he's left with the regret of never telling you that those rattles was a kind of music he loved too.

A couple of canned beers and whiskeys follow in his growing pile, not chosen for preference, but for echo of your voice in the back of his head, teasing.

“They’re not half bad. Don’t give me hangovers. Thanks, Ggukie.”

The petname guts him unexpectedly. Makes him pause for a second; a bittersweet smile tugs at the corner of his lips before he can stop it. He shakes his head at his own foolishness, ignoring the ahjussi nearby staring at him, likely thinking why some millennial was being emotional over convenience store goods.

At the counter, the cashier doesn’t say a word, but Jeongguk feels the lingering stare. Probably wondering why a man in his thirties had bought enough snacks like he was holding a college frat party.

He doesn’t mind the judgy look. Just taps his card, waits for the beep, nods once when the bag is handed over.

Outside, he isn’t surprised to find Namjoon leaning against the hood of his car. Hands in his pockets, concern quietly written on his face.

Jeongguk had known he was being followed since he left the courthouse. Hadn’t cared enough to acknowledge it. Doesn’t now either.

“Planning to eat all that or get indigestion in the parking lot?” Namjoon eyes the plastic bag swinging in his grip, brow raising slightly at the food and drink choices almost spilling out.

“Indigestion sounds like a great choice.” Jeongguk’s voice comes dull, as he opens one of the beer cans, hands it over to his friend.

Taking the drink with a sigh, Namjoon lets the cold run down his hand, not bothering to take a sip. “Please don’t tell me you’re washing these down if you’re heading to your office after this.”

Jeongguk doesn’t answer immediately. Just puts the bags on the hood, pulls out the whiskey bottles, unscrews the caps and slowly tip them over in a nearby trash bin. The streetlights reflect the amber liquid pouring out, the bottles being emptied like a final blow. Like something of a love that can’t be filled again.

“Wasn’t planning to.” Voice even, he seals the empty bottles, slides them back carefully into the bag like they still hold something worth keeping.

“These were the only whiskies she used to tolerate,” he adds, almost absentmindedly. “Said it was something I loved that she could drink. That didn’t trash her as much. But…”

His words trail off, unfinished thoughts drifting as he eyes the alley beside the store. That dim, narrows space just around the corner. Concrete stained with old rain and neon lights flickering faintly beyond. Ghosts of laughter and almost-drunken confessions echoing in between like promises he can’t unhear.

“I’m going to marry you if we’re still single at twenty-four.” You’d slurred the words after tipping the whiskey bottle far too generously into your mouth, handing it over to him with that wide, toothy grin that always made his heart stutter—even when it was alcohol-induced.

“Thought this wasn’t supposed to make you drunk?” He'd taken his own swig, drinking more than he meant to. To keep you from drinking more than your tiny body could handle.

Still, you snatched the bottle back and downed the last of it with a little triumphant gasp.

“I’m perfectly sane, dumbass.” You’d slid down against the bricked alley wall, laughing at your own clumsy legs. “I know what I’m saying.”

He rolled his eyes, muttering something under his breath, but slid down beside you anyway.

Quietly, Jeongguk pulled you off the concreate, eased you onto his lap—like a second nature to keep you warm, safe, to keep you off the grime.

“Then say it again.” His fingers found your chin, titling your face to meet his. “Say it like you mean it. Not just because you’re drunk and finals is frying your brain.”

“Fuck, now you’ve blown it.” You groaned dramatically, head dipping against his shoulder. “Thanks for reminding me I'm still three readings behind in Fashion Illustration and Business Planning. God, I hate everything."

He chuckled softly, cheek resting against your temple. “Wouldn’t be doing best friend duties if I didn’t remind you about responsibilities, right?” His hand found your hair, smoothing it back gently. “Breathe. Sober up, so we can go home and tackle this procrastination together.”

You were quiet for a second.

Then, softly, reached for his hand. Turned it over in yours and began tracing the tattoos across his knuckles like you always did when your thoughts turned too soft to hide.

"I mean it," you said, almost like a whisper. "If we're still pathetically single six years from now, marry me."

Breath caught, heart hammering, Jeongguk flipped his hand in yours, interlacing your fingers like a promise he'd already made but hadn't admitted yet.

"You want to marry your best friend?" The question sounded teasing, but it was laced with all the hope of a future he'd already planned—something you hadn't known yet.

“Sure.” You shrugged, trying to sound casual—but he saw the ghost of a smile slipping onto your lips before you tucked your face lower into his chest. “You’re not ugly. You actually take care of me, remind the things I forget, like packing extra pads during my time of the month.”

"Extra long, no wings."

"Hobi told you that."

"You spend twenty minutes in the grocery store just to clear out that specific brand in the pads section. The routine’s stuck in my head, babe. "

You paused, thumb brushing over the wonkily smiley tattoo on his finger, one you’d drawn when he said you could come up with his next mark.

“Plus, you make Michelin-level food, and never judge my questionable life choices. In some parallel universe, you'd probably make the perfect husband."

Jeongguk gently pulled you back just enough to see your face. A sheepish smile curled across his lips before he could stop it. Arms still loosely wrapped around your waist. “I would?”

The question hung between you in the flickering neon light. The laughter of other drunk Uni kids echoing off the distance.

You reached up and flicked his nose playfully. “Don’t let it get to your head.” Settling back onto his shoulder again, you closed your eyes, voice softening. “But yeah, you could be my husband.”

Silence settled over the alley, broken only by distant traffic and your gradually slowing breath against the crook of his neck, soft snores escaping your lips.

Jeongguk didn’t move. Didn’t even think to. Wanted to remember this moment, this confession, even if it was a drunken one, even if it was buzzed with finals stress and cheap alcohol.

Lips brushing your forehead, he whispered into your hair, “I want to be your husband.”

You didn’t hear it, but he spoke it like a vow anyway. Something he’d confess once his heart would be brave enough to cross over the fine line of friendship and something more one day.

The memory dissolved like smoke, leaving Jeongguk standing near the same alley now. Except, the concrete walls looked smaller, less magical, just another polluted spot between buildings.

But the echo of that promise—the one that had taken exactly six years, just like drunken you had cluelessly manifested, still lingered in the space where his heart used to be whole.

The Insight building rises among the Seoul skyline like it always has—sleek, formidable, a glass-and-gold monument that once filled Jeongguk with pride.

A reminder of how far he’d come—from a kid fumbling with ISO settings in poorly lit classrooms, to a man who turned captured moments into full-blown campaigns that shifted brand identities and set trends before they existed.

A long, brutal, but rewarding journey—built from sleepless nights, rejected pitches, and the slow climb from Editorial Assistant to Creative Director, and now something bigger.

He remembers the time he’d stood by the curb outside this building, nerves crawling under his skin. The same curb he used to pass when delivering layouts as an assistant. The same pavement that once caught the heel of his shoe when he sprinted to get a coffee for a senior who never remembered his name.

But that day felt different. Bigger. Sharper.

It had been pouring that day—not with rain, but with doubt. The kind of tension that came from knowing the next few minutes could either unravel everything he’d worked for or launch him into the life he’d always wanted.

He was sweating through one of the many tailored suits you had sewn for him, nerves eating him alive. You were the one who’d adjusted his lapels, brushing invisible lint off his collar with the kind of quiet confidence he wished he had. 

“You’re going kill it, Gguk. You’ve been building up to this your whole life.”

“Creative Director’s yours. You don’t just belong in that office. You own it.”

“Your portfolio kicks ass, baby. You’ll outshine half of them on your worst day.”

“If anyone tries to steal your spotlight, Jin’s ready with a cease and desist. I will personally set their SD cards on fire.”

“I already made a custom plaque for your desk, by the way. No refunds. Claim it.”

The memory of your voice plays in his head like it’s been recorded in the walls. It follows him now as he walks through the polished corridors, past the interview room that once made him question everything he thought he was good at.

But it had been your voice that held him steady that day. Your faith in him that hardened his resolve. Believed in him more than he ever allowed himself to.

The library floor is dimmed now, employees long gone home and have cleared out earlier in the day, but it still carries the same old smell of archived paper and pinewood polish.

He glances toward the long rows of wooden tables. The same ones he used to fall asleep on while studying past campaigns, learning what worked, what didn’t, what would someday become his signature.

It was also the same place you’d meet him after board meetings—still in your Seora CEO getup, heels in hand, makeup smudged from stress and tears.

You’d slam your bag down, followed him along the shelves, curse the executive board who called you nothing more than a nepo baby. That executive who’d said you didn’t deserve the position when you couldn’t even understand simple fashion forecasts and financial reports.

Then you’d sink beside him and cry onto his mood boards until half the concepts were soaked in eyeliner and grief.

Jeongguk didn’t mind. Would’ve printed five more mockups if it meant you had more surfaces to cry on.

He remembered once, in the middle of your breakdown, you muttered, “I should just quit and apply here. Be your assistant. Obviously, I won’t be as good as Taehyung. I might spill coffee on your keyboard, break a few lenses during your shoots, maybe dump my emotional instability too on your interns. But I’d provide free labor, baby.”

Jeongguk had laughed until he wheezed, told you there was no one he trusted more to ruin his schedule and still make it feel like the best day of the week.

But he'd also told you that those sleazy execs could go fuck themselves—you're their CEO. They should be folding for you, not the other way around. He believed in you just as much as you believed in him.

And even now, standing here again, the memory makes his lips twitch.

Because no matter how far he’d come, how many campaigns he’d spearheaded, how many industry awards bore his name—there was no version of this success story that didn’t have you inked in the margins.

The elevator ride to his floor stretches longer than usual. Each ding of another level passed echoes through the steel chamber like a countdown—not just toward the office that built him, but also the memories it buried.

This building, this job, was his dream once. Still is, in many ways. But somewhere along the way, that dream grew teeth. Took bites out of other things that mattered more.

The nights he poured into pitches. The mornings he missed with you.

The family you both once imagined. Ha-yun.

The marriage that slipped through his fingers anyway.

The sins you've forgiven him for, the guilt he'll never forget.

The ascent tightens in his lungs—not from the climb, but from the reality waiting at the top. This place is no longer just a home for his ambition. It's a reminder of everything he couldn't keep.

Taehyung’s half-done packing, sleeves rolled up, boxes forming a modest wall near the door. He doesn’t stop when Jeongguk enters—doesn’t even glance up. Knows better than to break the silence in a moment this fragile. Knows when his friend needs space more than sound.

His text earlier had done enough.

| K. Taehyung: Already left Daegu. Need to pack my stuff too. See you at the office.

There’s comfort in the quiet rhythm of them working side by side—old campaign folders and strategy decks sealed into a box by the window. Photo frames are missing from his desk, probably tucked away already, including the ones of you.

Only dust outlines remain, faint ghosts of what used to fill this room with color.

Jeongguk moves toward the corner shelf, carefully placing the remaining awards into their boxes—trophies from his first year as Creative Director, framed milestones he’d once stared at with pride, now muted under layers of goodbye.

Even the outdated quarterly reports are still stacked neatly in a folder. He doesn’t need them. But he keeps them anyway. Old habits. Proof that he once made it.

He pauses near the pencil holder, fingers curling softly around a handful of dried-up gel pens—sparkly ones in pinks and purples, your gift from years ago. Utterly useless for memos but he never had the heart to throw them away, even when they dried up.

Next to them, is the mechanical sharpener, offensively pink, embedded with purple glitter. Probably broken now from overuse, but he’d always brag it to the interns, all because you’d slipped it into his desk drawer with a sticky note that read: To keep you sharp but still sparkly. Love you, Ggukie.

He keeps them all. No hesitation.

Because those were the things that made this place feel a little less like pressure and a little more like home.

Sliding into the chair behind his desk, Jeongguk opens his computer. His fingers hover over the mouse—ready to begin the file transfers, the turnover reports, the farewell emails to his team.

Then eventually, reconfirming his flight details. Checking all travel documents are in place.

But just as his hand moves to click, there’s a crinkle beneath his shoe.

He glances down, brow furrowing, and reaches beneath the desk.

A napkin. Faded, creased, half-yellowed with age. And on it, a purple tulip. Drawn with a shaky line and a familiar flourish. His doodle.

It’s from that tiny café in Yeonnam, the one that had your favorite croissants—the one he’d always call “overrated” just to rile you up.

The same place you’d dragged him to on Uni mornings, especially during his 9-to-9’s, when you knew he wouldn’t eat.

Where the staff glared at him for hoarding napkins and doodling dumb things like headless chickens, cheesy quotes, and little cartoons just to make you laugh.

And the same place that quietly became your first stop when the list had just started. What you thought was cruel to him before. But became the start of Jeongguk finding his way back to you.

You’d smiled that day, eyed the napkin, but didn’t catch what was on it with how fast he’d folded it into his pocket. Had only asked if he was going to leave it in the café’s case.

And he’d shrugged. “Maybe next time.”

Jeongguk never did.

And thank fuck for that.

Because if he had, that doodle would’ve been lost in a sea of other people’s lives. Into the case full of strangers’ stories. Scribbles of anything stained with cappuccino marks, and paper hearts from passers who’d moved on.

Thank God it got lost under his desk instead. The sparkles from the gel pen is a little bit faded now, the one you let him borrow that morning, to let him deface another napkin.

But the tulip, it’s still whole.

Still his. Still something of you that he gets to keep.

Jeongguk doesn’t realize how long he’s been staring at the napkin until Taehyung gives him a gentle nudge. The weight of the room has changed.

Most of the office is packed now—his nameplate taken down, his shelves emptied, the history of his career sealed into cardboard. The space that once held the full arc of his ambition—his ascent, his burnouts, his breakthroughs—would soon carry someone else’s name, someone else’s story.

His gaze lingers on the napkin for a second longer before a figure by the door makes him straighten up.

Choi Seung Cheol steps in, sleeves rolled to the elbow, a folder of contracts in hand.

Jeongguk quickly wipes his face, only then realizing a tear had slipped down unnoticed. He forces himself upright, smoothing the front of his shirt, trying to look presentable even if his face is still flushed with emotion.

It’s the last time he’ll face his boss in this office—and somehow, even now, he still wants to show up with whatever dignity he has left.

He rounds the desk and offers a polite bow. “You’re here late, Seung Cheol-ssi.”

“I was just going to drop these off,” his boss replies, lifting the folder slightly. His gaze drifts across the half-packed room. “Didn’t expect you to be done this fast.”

“Yeah…” Jeongguk murmurs, following his line of sight, eyes brushing across every surface now bare. “I didn’t either.”

He takes the folder, flipping it open with practiced fingers, eyes scanning over the pages he’s already memorized.

“Thank you,” he adds softly, “for still considering me. I know I took my time deciding—and confirmed everything at the last second.”

Seung Cheol waves a hand like the thought never mattered. “Even if you took six months, the job would’ve still been waiting, Jeon.” He offers a rare smile, genuine and steady. “There’s no one more qualified for this than you.”

Jeongguk nods once, a quiet exhale leaving his chest as he skims the rest of the documents. His relocation package. Project briefs for the Paris launch campaign, notes about the restructuring of their creative branch overseas, and tucked near the end—details of the apartment arranged for him.

His fingers pause.

A lump swells in his throat when he reads the location: 7th arrondissement. Rue Saint-Dominique.

A heartbeat from the Eiffel Tower.

The same tower you once called “your postcard in real life.”

Back when it was still a dream—just photos and magazine clippings pinned to your corkboard. Even with all the comfort your family’s wealth afforded, you wanted to make that dream yours. Earned, not gifted.

You worked for it in silence—internships, late nights, perfecting presentations until your voice cracked—until one day, Paris wasn’t just a daydream anymore.

You got there, on your own terms.

And when you did, those old clippings came alive.

Hundreds of shots from every possible angle, taken with Jeongguk’s camera. A bit messy, a bit rushed. But he still made sure to capture the golden hours spent walking around the tower. Seora business trips stretched longer than scheduled just so you could linger in the city a little more, walk a little slower, breathe a little deeper without your phone buzzing every five minutes.

Paris became your quiet rebellion.

The city you once promised you’d return to together—not for work, not under pressure—but just to exist in.

A real visit. One where you both could finally catch your breath.

“I want to come back here. Actually stay and eat that fucking croissant without Heejin bugging me that another client is waiting. We’ll take that cooking class in Ferrandi—maybe their overpriced program might finally save me from burning a pot or two. And we’ll get all the macaroons. Every single flavor. No rushing me this time—I’m scanning each row for at least ten minutes, deal with it. Oh, and I’ll finally take that art program I’ve been eyeing since Uni. Think École des Beaux-Arts will still accept me even when I’m forty?”

You said it all in one breath, voice full of hope, hands flailing midair like they couldn’t contain your dreams fast enough.

And Jeongguk could only look at you—completely full. Love softening every sharp edge in him.

“We’ll be back before then,” he’d said, steady and sure. “I promise you that.”

A memory suddenly still clearer than the paper in his hands.

He swallows hard—and that’s when he notices something else.

A second contract. Taehyung’s name printed at the top.

Jeongguk blinks, gaze flicking to his friend, then back at Seung Cheol.

“…Was there a mix-up?” he asks quietly. “I thought—”

“You thought you could run off without your best secretary?” Taehyung cuts in, approaching with a grin that breaks the tension. He pauses beside Jeongguk, nudging him slightly. “In your dreams, boss.”

Jeongguk turns back to Seung Cheol for confirmation, his eyes wide with something close to disbelief.

The older man chuckles under his breath. “Thought you might want to bring someone close with you,” he says simply. “The job might be the same, same rhythm, same grind. But the place is different. The people, the language—it’s not Seoul. And you’ll need all the help you can get out there.”

That earns a quiet laugh from Jeongguk—not loud, not carefree, but the kind of warmth that cuts through his ache. This is kindness that's hard to name, the kind that feels like closure and a beginning all at once.

He glances down at the contracts again, then back at his boss with a half-smile. “Thank you, Choi-ssi. Really.” Then, with a teasing glance toward Taehyung. “I’m not paying for your groceries, Hyung. Paris ain’t cheap.”

Taehyung rolls his eyes with dramatic flair. “That’s why I made sure our contracts included a grocery allowance. You’re welcome.” He lifts a finger for emphasis. “I negotiated like hell for that clause, by the way.”

Jeongguk lets out a breathy laugh, one hand coming up to rub the corner of his eye. He’s not sure if it’s the disbelief or the gratitude—or both—but it sits heavy in his chest, this feeling that maybe he’s not leaving everything behind after all.

He turns to Seung Cheol again, quieter this time. “So… this is really it, huh?”

His boss nods and steps forward, giving his shoulder a firm pat. “Be good out there, Jeongguk-ssi. Make us proud. And don’t you dare put my mentorship to shame.”

Jeongguk rolls his eyes but gives a small, respectful nod. “When I’m done with this campaign, ‘Executive Creative Director’ will be next to my name…” He pauses, lets the corner of his mouth twitch. “...Does that mean I get to start calling you just ‘Cheol’?”

Seung Cheol huffs out a laugh, feigning offense. “Don’t get cocky, kid. I’m still older than you.” He turns slightly, motioning toward the rest of the paperwork. “I’ll leave you to finish up. Go through the documents—let me know if anything needs to be added.”

He glances at Taehyung, half-amused, half-scolding then back at him. “And I mean you, Jeongguk-ssi. No more last-minute edits from your secretary.”

“Aww, come on!” Taehyung groans. “I was going to add a company car. You mean I still have to share with him?” He nods toward the youngest with mock disappointment.

Jeongguk nudges him in the side with a smirk, and then extends a hand toward his boss. “Thank you, Choi-ssi,” he says again, voice firmer this time. “I’ll see you around.”

Seung Cheol takes the handshake with a small squeeze, then steps back. With one final look at the room, he offers a nod and turns to leave, his figure retreating down the corridor and out of view.

And just like that—the office becomes a little quieter.

A little more final.

The drive to the house passes in a blur, like rain slipping down a windowpane—there, and then gone.

Jeongguk’s hands are steady on the wheel, but the rest of him is anything but. He’s driven this route for years, ever since you both upgraded from that tiny apartment to this quiet compound, this bigger home built off two rising careers and one shared goal.

Every corner along the way carries something of you, of him, of a life once lived.

He knows which exact tree Yoongi barfed on during your housewarming—after you'd insisted on strawberry soju, getting rid of the Hikbiki’s he’d brought, since your stomach could only tolerate that specific one from that convenience store by Uni.

He knows which slide at the playground Jimin and Taehyung fought over, insisting their asses could still fit down the swirly plastic made for four-year-olds.

And of course, he can’t forget the night Jin and Hobi staggered into the wrong house—drunk from another party, late to his—which snowballed into an unnecessary online showdown between you and the homeowner, despite the million apologies you offered.

Jeongguk knows how many steps it takes to get to the park you once snuck off to at 4 a.m, just because you had to feed the ducks while Ha-yun kicked restlessly in your belly. He remembers the exact stone bench by the cobbled fishpond where he collapsed after her loss, too broken to walk through the front door, too afraid for you to see him like that.

He must’ve passed that hill with the bench facing the sunrise—the one you found by accident after pulling an all-nighter during a Seora crisis, escaping grief in your own way.

With worry eating at his gut, Jeongguk wandered frantically out of the house, only to find you on that bench, a bit groggy, covered in charcoal sketches—but still beautiful, still that woman he’s always loved, watching the sunrise in complete awe, the rays quietly breaking out of the clouds to give that peace, that hope that lacked in this busy city of Seoul.

He thought it was hard enough, coming home every day after you left with his version of the divorce papers.

Seeing the living room stripped of your scattered Seora reports and his twentieth mood board. The coffee pot untouched, where you used to brew a fresh cup for him, even when he didn’t drink them anymore. The shoe rack by the front door holding only his pairs—no more Jimmy Choos, no more limited-edition sneakers he'd always threaten to steal, those pairs gifted by business partners just for you.

The silence of the car. The loss of a life shared. The final reality that no one will be there anymore to greet him when he pulls up the drive.

But that was nothing compared to this—the cruelness of having to say goodbye to something he never even got the chance to choose. Now it feels like a knife twisting at his chest repeatedly, his heart bleeding out with pain he wishes could just fucking stop. Now, his eyes burn with tears he's already lost count of.

A foolish, desperate, part of him still hoped.

Hoped that one day, you’d walk through that door again with him. Even if this house would just be a second home since he'd dreamed that you both would've settled in Busan, he still hoped that dreams and love could be rebuilt meant for homes.

That new pictures would line the walls of you, him, maybe with the old squad if he earns their forgiveness too—maybe even laughter in the kitchen again. Maybe another blurry film roll of memories instead of the empty ones when pain defined him.

He dreamed of it to come back. He thought it was back. A brighter life, fuller walls. A second chance. Believed in your words, in your voice that all of it was returning.

Now, they're just dreams of someone who’d loved too hard. Too late.

Namjoon and Taehyung follow behind him in quiet step, arms full of boxes from the office—each one holding pieces of his past life, now destined for another.

It’s the first time Jeongguk’s returned to this house since he left for Busan weeks ago with you.

But now, he’s back in the Seoul house. Alone.

And no one says a word.

They know better. How this moment is too fragile for him. How each step Jeongguk takes feel like it’s crushing something invisible beneath his shoes. The air heavy with memories too loud to speak.

His chest tightens as he unlocks the front door, heart already pulled in two directions—one tethered to the past, the other dragged toward a beginning that tastes far too bitter to celebrate.

He already expects the silence of this dead house. Knows there’s nothing left for him here now, except deciding what pieces of this life he’ll take with him into the new one.

So when he hears faint voices, the rustle of movement inside, his heart races. Not from worry that someone might’ve broken in—no.

This house’s safety was the first thing Jeongguk checked on when looking at options with you.

What worries him now—is that this home, one you built together, is disappearing while he's still learning how to live without it.

The way you didn’t hesitate to take his wedding ring at the courthouse. Jeongguk knew you were going to get started with everything else that followed on that fucked up settlement. Like you were already two steps ahead, halfway through the conditions before the stamp could even dry up.

He just didn’t expect it was going to happen this soon.

Some foolish part of him hoped you might’ve spared him a little mercy with the rest. That your love for him might’ve given him a little time to breathe.

But it looks like even that last flicker of hope had gone out. Hope now is just a cruel reminder that you're no longer his.

When Jeongguk sees them, the boxes in his hands slip from his grip. Hits the floor with a thud that doesn’t even register compared to the sudden drop in his chest.

Hobi stands by the dining room archway, carefully picking up the frames on the nearby table, wrapping each one in thick brown paper, tucking it into what must be his third sealed box on the floor.

Jimin’s crouched under the staircase, cradling the larger photo frames, layering them with bubble wrap like they’re priceless artifacts instead of everyday memories in seventeen years.

They both look up when they hear the squeak of his shoes. Freeze when they seem him—motionless in the entryway. Neither of them says a word.

Jeongguk’s gaze drifts toward the wall beside the garden entrance. Heart clenching, palms trembling. Sweat forming even with the cold taking over his every nerve.

There it was—your wedding portrait. Framed in soft dusk, petals of purple tulips suspended midair like they’d bloomed just for that moment. You were laughing, caught mid-step in that silk and tulle that floated around you like a ripple of water, eyes closed, joy untouched.

And him—just slightly turned, bouquet of tulips in hand, eyes crinkled, staring only at you like nothing else existed.

He remembers how the wind had picked up right then, tugging at your hair, at his, the breeze carrying ocean salt and Gwangalli’s scent—the place of all beginnings. That moment was supposed to be the start of forever. You had promised him that.

And Jeongguk had believed you. Believed in that day. Believed in the way you looked at him in that portrait like he was your whole world. This stillness, caught through a lens, held the feeling of being chosen—of being someone’s always. Of being yours.

Even now, with the vow broken, with you no longer his—this portrait still held something so full of love. So beautiful. So full of promises that, to him, would always mean forever.

Two movers in plain uniforms are already propping up a ladder beneath the wedding portrait. They move slowly, respectfully. Silent as they unhook the frame from its place on the wall. From its home. From his.

Jeongguk runs. How, he doesn't know. He just moves—fast, angry, panicked. He reaches them, snatching the portrait from the strangers with no care for consequence. "Don't. Fucking. Touch. That.”

The ladder wobbles behind him, one of the movers flinching as Jeongguk storms past them, to Hobi. Without a word, he rips the frame from the older’s hands, harshly tearing away the brown wrapping paper like it’s strangling the image beneath. He sets the frame back on the table with trembling fingers.

“This is too soon.” His voice cracks — not loud, but enough to shatter the quiet.

Hobi steps forward, tentative. “Gguk-ah…” Tries to reach out—one hand, soft, gentle, but Jeongguk brushes past like he didn’t feel it at all.

“No, hyung.” He’s already moving—to Jimin now, shoving him aside with more force than necessary. Knocks over some boxes along the way but his focus is fixed on grabbing the photo from his hyung’s hands.

Your face pressed against his arm, wind in your hair, eyes squinting with laughter. The first trip to Busan to see the vacation home.

Jeongguk had opened the sunroof and rolled all the windows down, too eager to wait, too full of hope. Both of you still reeling from the email that the house was finally ready. Couldn't bother to pack properly— just threw bags in the trunk that day and hit the road.

That day you told him it felt like the first chapter of a new book.

He marches toward the wall under the staircase and hangs it back up with shaking hands. “Stop—stop taking my home apart!”

He drops to the floor like gravity’s doubled its weight, ripping the tape off boxes with reckless urgency.

Photos spill out —

— You and him in your Uni graduation robes, arms wrapped tight around each other, joy bleeding into the frame, while the squad goofs off behind you — Jin pretending to swap your caps, Jimin mid-jump, Yoongi with his signature scowl, and Hobi trying to squeeze between you both.

— The first New Year’s Eve with everyone, in this very house — your families laughing, cheeks flushed from wine and warmth, sparklers in hand. You’d dropped yours too early, startled by the flame burning faster than expected, shrieking before collapsing into Jeongguk’s chest with laughter.

— Jeongguk pressing a kiss to your temple on Seora’s rooftop, that first company anniversary with you as CEO, still in your heels, still in disbelief.

— You pressing a kiss to his cheek the night he was named Creative Director of the Year — lipstick smudged slightly against his grin, eyes full of pride only you could give him.

— You standing in front of the nursery mirror, hands cradling your belly when Ha-yun first began to show. Jeongguk kneeling down, forehead pressed to your stomach, his whispers back then still clear in his mind, ‘I’m fucking scared but I swear on my life, I’ll do everything for you and your Eomma.’

He plants each one back where they belonged. Some crooked, some bent. But it’s enough to make this house a little bit of a home. Even for a while.

Jimin’s throat bobs. They’ve seen Jeongguk at his worst. After Ha-yun. After the hospital. Abandoning everything in life that once had meaning to him, including you. The fear of not being enough. Trying too hard to get back up only to get pushed by demons he couldn’t shut out.

They thought that was rock bottom.

But this? This is something else entirely. This is a kind of broken that can’t be pieced back together. Not in this lifetime.

“Gguk, stop.” Jimin kneels down beside him, tries to hold his wrist still — but Jeongguk’s hands keep going, trembling too much to care. A tear slips down Jimin’s cheek. “Stop making this harder for you.”

But Jeongguk yanks his arm away. Shoves a box into the far corner. Goes for another. When the tape doesn’t budge, he claws at it, doesn’t care his hands burn from forcing it apart. Just rips until the cardboard finally opens, revealing more photos he put back in place.

“It's barely been a few hours,” he mutters, breath catching. He wipes his face roughly with the back of his hand, like it’ll help him keep it together Voice breaking. “You couldn’t fucking spare me just one more day?”

Hobi moves toward him. Gently nudges Jimin aside. His voice is quiet, firm, the way only a hyung’s can be when love and grief twist together. “We can’t do that, Gguk. I’m sorry.”

Jeongguk looks at them — really looks. And throws the nearest empty box across the room. It hits the wall with a dull thud.

Neither of them flinches. Had already expected this reaction from their maknae. But it didn’t mean it didn’t hurt them any less.

“Are you?!” he snaps. “Because if I fucking mattered, even a little—” His voice cracks in between, breath ragged, “—you wouldn’t be doing this.”

Taehyung finally steps in. Crosses the room in measured gentle steps, places both hands on Jeongguk's shoulders. Hopes the gesture is enough to say that it's okay to break but he doesn't have to push everyone else away.

“Gguk,” Taehyung says quietly, like the softness alone might be enough to cushion the fall. “Stop. It’s not their choice.”

And for a moment, Jeongguk almost softens. Almost believes he can lean on someone again.

But then his gaze flickers—lands on one of the boxes he’d knocked over earlier. Namjoon is quietly picking it up, trying to restore some order. And just as he lifts it, a photo slips out.

A polaroid.

You and him at Jin’s wedding, mid-chaos, still being the menaces the oldest among your group has to bear even into married life. You smearing cake across the groom’s face, fingers sticky with frosting, your grin shining like the sun as always. Jeongguk adding to the mess, frosting completely covering his fingers that are placed under Jin’s jaw.

The photo just another memory now, which brings him back to the reality that’s tearing him in pieces.

“But they’re not stopping it either!” Jeongguk snaps, shoving Taehyung away, already staggering toward the fallen print.

He lifts it gently, hands trembling, and sets it on the nearest table—anywhere that isn’t a box sealing away the only life that ever felt like his.

And just when things couldn’t get worse, he sees the movers again—back at it, picking up where he last left them. Wrapping the wedding portrait like it’s just another piece.

“I said keep your fucking hands off that!” Jeongguk rushes forward, shoves them aside, plants himself in front of the frame, shielding it like his body alone might be enough to keep the memories from slipping away.

His fingers lock around the frame behind him, holding it tight against his spine—like it’s the last thing in the world still keeping him steady. Still his.

Hobi walks toward him slowly. There’s no judgment in his eyes — only a deep, aged sadness. A kind of knowing. 

“Hand it over, Jeongguk.” Voice gentle, like rain on glass. But it lands like a blow anyway. “Don’t make her subpoena this.“ His hand slowly moves toward the portrait behind. “She wouldn’t want that.”

Jeongguk doesn’t answer. Doesn’t look at him.

His gaze drops instead—slow, hollow—to the floor, fingers unclenching around the wedding portrait with quiet surrender. The motion is soft, but it feels like the skin of his palm is being peeled away as his hyung takes it from him—one of the last captured pieces that ever meant forever. That ever meant you.

Jimin comes beside him again—wraps his arms around him, not to hold him back, but to hold him together. To offer the quiet warmth of a brother who’s still there, even when everything Jeongguk’s done screams he shouldn’t be.

He’s always been their maknae, alongside you.

And Jimin has loved you both—looked after you two, along with the rest of the hyungs, before either of you knew how to navigate the world on your own.

Just because Jeongguk’s made reckless choices, wrecked more than he could ever rebuild—Jimin still cares. Just as much as he always did.

“You’ll be okay, Gguk.” Jimin cradles him close, hand firm at the nape of his neck—not harsh, just grounding. “I promise you, we’ll all be okay.”

Then Jeongguk drops to his knees. Arms wrapped around the older’s legs like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered.

“Please…” he whispers. His gaze flickers upward—first at Jimin, then the rest of the hyungs now surrounding him. “I just want more time.” The boba eyes that used to light up a room now drown in helplessness. Fear.

Then he lets go. Bows until his forehead touches the floor, tears spilling freely onto the tiles. “I’m begging you.” Dirt smears across his cheek, but he doesn’t even flinch. Doesn’t care.

“Please.”

No one says a word. No one moves. The house—once a witness to their stories, their shared laughter echoing off the walls, the arguments that shook its foundations, the moments that built and broke them both—now holds only Jeongguk’s shattered pleas. His sobs fill every hollow space, raw and unrelenting, like the walls are absorbing the cracks in his heart one by one.

Jimin’s arms stay wrapped around him, meant to steady the younger, to anchor him to something—anything—but even he begins to falter. Each time Jeongguk’s voice cracks, each tear that soaks through his shirt, it feels like something inside him is shattering too.

And just when it seems the universe couldn’t be crueler, the front door slams open. Another figure barges in—completely unaware of the wreckage he’s stepped into.

“Three phones each, and none of you could fucking answer?” Yoongi’s voice slices through the quiet—sharp, gruff, familiar.

But the second his eyes scan the room and land on Jeongguk crumpled on the floor, his words stutter to a halt. “…Shit.”

Jeongguk doesn’t lift his head. Doesn’t flinch. His gaze falls instead to the keys in Yoongi’s hand—to the sun keychain hanging from the loop. The same one that you’ve dropped, cracked, taped back together, but never let go off because he’d given them to you.

His eyes flicker toward the driveway, where your car sits waiting.

And then he moves—suddenly, desperately—ripping himself away from Jimin’s hold. Snatches the keys from Yoongi, the bundle nearly slips through his sweat-sicked grip, trembling, but he still holds on. Because it’s yours. He bolts outside. Toward the car. Toward the flicker of hope clawing its way through his chest.

Maybe you came back.

Maybe you wanted him again.

Maybe Busan was still waiting. That you both could finally go home again.

Maybe this was the part where you changed your mind.

But when he yanks the door open, there’s nothing but Yoongi’s things. A doctor’s coat. A half-empty water bottle. An unopened cigarette pack.

Not you. Not even your scent.

Just the absence of everything he needed.

His knees buckle.

He collapses onto the driveway, stone biting through the fabric of his jeans, through skin he no longer feels. The keys slip from his fingers. Not far. Just enough. Falling with a soft clatter against the stone driveway. A sound so small it shouldn’t hurt—but it does.

The cracked sun keychain, hanging onto the last tape you’ve wrapped around the tiny ball of yellow falling onto ground—finally splits down the middle. The adhesive that once held it, like it held the love that once kept you both, fails. Gives up.

His forehead presses against the car door, the cold metal grounding nothing but the weight of another dead end.

And in that moment, it all clicks.

Yoongi wasn’t here to bring you home.

He was here to drop off what used to be yours.

Hobi presses the box closed, firm but slow, while Jimin tears a strip of tape that cuts through the silence like a blade. The last of the frame is finally wrapped and tucked away. The rest of the circle stays frozen in place, no one daring to breathe too loud, let alone speak.

But even just sitting there—watching seventeen years of history sealed shut, picked up by the movers, by some strangers’ hands—feels like a punch to the gut.

A love the five of them once quietly envied. Not because they were in love with you. No.

But because the way fate brought you and Jeongguk together had always felt…cosmic. Like the universe realigned its orbit, moved the sun just to bring some light, some warmth, some love into both your lives. How Jeongguk, of all people, found someone who mirrored his wild, his softness, his fire.

Not even Jin and Sooyeon—with their quiet, stable love, with their son waiting at home—could come close.

It wasn’t the perfect love—no. They all witnessed the dark times of your marriage.

But it was a rare love. A love—no matter the catastrophe of life—always found its way home. What always looked like forever. What they all thought would outlast the rest of them.

But now, it’s reduced just to cardboard and packing tape.

And none of them had a say.

“Tape shouldn’t be that fucking loud.” Yoongi mutters from the corner, fishing a half-crushed cigarette pack from his coat pocket, pulls a stick out. Clicks his lighter once, then again. “I’ve heard flatlines quieter than that.” He exhales, jaw tight. “I brought Ha-yun out with a flatline.” He scoffs low, voice gravelly, bitter. “But this, is breaking my fucking eardrums.”

No one reacts to the bite in his words. The cruelty hanging in the air. Understands—at least trying to—that everyone’s too hollow, too spent—clinging to whatever composure they have left. All running on fumes, barely holding themselves together, let alone each other.

“Respectfully, hyung?” Jimin snatches the cigarette midair, stubs it out on the ashtray by the coffee table. “Your voice is the flatline.” He steals the entire pack poking out of the older’s pocket, throws it carelessly across the coffee table. “You really came barging in like your big doctor brain couldn’t piece together why none of us were answering?”

“Well sorry,” Yoongi snaps back, already moves towards the neglected pack, reaches for another stick, gets up to move away, before it gets yanked away again.

“It wasn’t in her fucking memo that he was going to be home this soon.” He shoots daggering looks towards Namjoon and Taehyung now. “You two couldn’t have dragged him to a bar? Anywhere but this nightmare?”

“Excuse me?” Taehyung rounds on him, eyes narrowed. “We didn't know shit about what the three of you were planning behind our backs.” Voice wavering, not from fear, but from fury barely kept in check.

He glances at Hobi and Jimin, jaw clenched. “In case you forgot, Jeongguk’s your friend too. She’s not the only one who gets a say.” Eyes flashing in anger. “Next time you want to rip someone apart from the inside out, loop us in, so we don’t destroy your precious plan.”

“Watch your mouth, kid.” Yoongi’s already moving, face unreadable but clearly on edge. “Namjoon knew. Should’ve told you.”

Namjoon finally lifts his head from where he’s been still, eyes tired. He exhales slowly, like he’s aged five years in five minutes.

“Not this.” he says tightly. “Not the fact that she was going to start immediately.” He leans back slightly, jaw ticking. “Don’t expect me to help you heartless bastards shatter him even more.”

Yoongi’s composure cracks then. He takes one sharp step forward, nearly closing the distance—

But Hobi’s voice cuts through it all, sharp as a blade. “All of you. Shut the fuck up.”

The box in his arms slams to the floor with a thud that silences the room. No one breathes. He doesn’t yell again, but the weight in his tone is enough to buckle stone.

“Jeongguk’s coming down any second,” he mutters. “He doesn’t need this shit right now.”

Taehyung lets out a bitter laugh under his breath, glancing away. “Now you care about Gguk’s feelings.”

The line barely lands before Hobi steps forward, eyes darkening, fury climbing through his clenched teeth. “You want to repeat that?”

But he doesn’t get to. None of them do.

Because Jeongguk is already there. Already standing just behind them, near enough to hear it all.

His voice is quiet—numb. “Enough.”

Their heads turn. The world stills.

He walks past them slowly, movements dull, detached. There’s no fire left in him, no resistance, just a man moving because he has to. Because what else is there to do now?

In his arms is a plain box. No wrapping. No labels. He sets it gently on the table in front of them.

Inside:

Several hard drives—some scratched along the edges, others worn from years of being plugged in and pulled out. A few still carried silly stickers: Iron Man, Bibble from Fairytopia, some barely clinging on, faded but stubborn. One or two even had your initials marked in colored Sharpie beside his.

All of them held folders upon folders of moments Jeongguk never had the heart to delete.

Flash drives—tiny, easy to lose, but heavy with history. Your voice in old video clips. Laughter echoing from first apartments. Birthdays. Christmases. Jimin’s first concert, where you both screamed like fools. You tugging at his sleeve in blurry, badly framed selfies—just a few among many maxing out every last byte.

His laptop—screen cracked and replaced more than once. From Uni days spent cramming edits. From that time you punched it in frustration when he tried (and failed) to teach you an RPG. From when he slammed it shut too fast the night you nearly caught him editing your portraits.

That laptop had lived a dozen lives alongside you, its gallery brimming with moments that spanned your youth.

Seventeen years of you—of both of you. The smiles, the mess, the sun.

Everything Jeongguk ever tried to hold onto, thought would be forever—now has to be given up.

“Please,” he says again, softer this time. Not to plead. Not to argue. Just for silence. “Just…stop.”

And for once, they do. No more arguments. No more biting words or sideways glances edged with blame.

One by one, they find their places around the room. Corners. Steps. Edges of the couch. They give him what he needs—presence without suffocation.

Close enough to feel the unspoken promise—that despite the damage, despite the silence, they were still here.

Just like you made them swear they'd be.

The quiet that settles isn’t peace. It’s heavier. Dense. Like the walls themselves are holding their breath, unsure whether to brace for another explosion—or pray for once, nothing breaks at all.

The movers slip out with their final load, and only the echo of their footsteps lingers.

Jeongguk doesn’t move. His gaze lingers on the faint red band around his finger. Skin where a ring used to live. Where love used to live. It’s fading now, just like everything else.

Yoongi settles beside him without ceremony. He doesn’t speak right away—just watches him for a moment, then gently places the amber drink into Jeongguk’s hand like it weighs nothing.

“Before you collapse on us,” he murmurs, voice lower than usual. A small attempt to stitch something light into the moment. “I’m already off the clock.”

Jeongguk almost smiles. Almost. The scent alone reminds him of the next chapter he didn’t even get a chance to decide to write the plot on.

He sets the glass down on the table instead—quietly, carefully. Then, from the scattered remnants of Yoongi’s earlier mess, he picks out a half-crumpled cigarette. Lights it. Takes a long drag.

“Don’t want to get banned from the flight,” he mutters, the smoke curling from his mouth. “Only one more place left for me. Can’t have that dumping me too.”

Jimin’s weight sinks into the floor beside him. “Are you really going?” Eyes already glassy with the kind of softness only he could wear. The kind their maknae used to find comfort in.

Jeongguk doesn’t answer at first. He just exhales, smokes, breath mingling in the air. “It’s what she wants… right?”

The words land heavy. Not accusatory, just tired.

His gaze lifts, sweeping over the room—to the people who were once his constants, searching, still, for a truth no one is ready to give.

“I know I’ve been an asshole.” The sticks dangles lazily between his fingers. “To all of you. To her.” A breath. Another drag. “I know I don’t deserve anything from anyone.”

He stares down at the stray ash that’s fallen on his jeans, flicks it away. “But I’m still hoping…that someone could give me one honest explanation.” His voice cracks slightly—just enough to sound human. “Anything.”

The room doesn’t answer. Not right away. A few glance down. A few look away.

It’s not guilt. It’s something closer to restraint. Because even if most of them resented him—for the damage, the distance, the pieces he left behind—to them, they still remember that kid who once beamed liked the sun. Whose bambi eyes carried all light and hope in the world.

And no matter how much they tried to protect you… they loved him too.

Jeongguk’s eyes find Hobi. Then Jimin. The ones he knew you trusted with all your unspoken confessions since they stumbled into your life.

The same two who stayed up with you until 2 a.m.—listening to every giddy ramble when he first confessed. Who cried harder than your Eomma on the wedding day. Who barged into this house, breathless, with mismatched socks, not even ten minutes after taking the first test, when you found about Ha-yun, as if they were the ones becoming parents.

The same two who never left your side—not when you lost her, not when the light began slipping from your marriage.

Jeongguk knew if he needed answers, it would be from them. The ones who were there through every joy, every fracture, every time your world revolved around him. The two who stood by your side the longest.

“Did any of you know this was what she planned to do?” His voice isn’t sharp—just quiet. Bruised. “Did any of you know she was going to leave me?”

None of them answer. Couldn’t. Don’t need to. The ache in their silence says enough.

It’s Yoongi who breaks it. Knew the young ones needed his help even when they don’t say it. He exhales slowly, cigarette between his lips.

“We did.” Another drag. The tip burns orange in the dim light. “From the beginning, she intended to go through the deal.” He glances at Jeongguk, eyes searching for a reaction—but finds none. “Thirty days. Said she was going to finalize the divorce after.”

Jeongguk lets out a low chuckle—bitter, barely audible—but it’s there. Not out of mockery. Just the kind of sound you make when you know you deserve every ache…and yet, it still fucking hurts.

He doesn’t reply. Doesn’t argue. Just takes a final drag, flicks the ash aside, and lights another cigarette hoping to burn everything else in him.

“All she wanted was to feel loved by you again,” Yoongi shifts slightly, tone even but laced with a weight he rarely shows, “Even if only for a little while. She didn’t want to trap you, Gguk. Didn’t want to lock you in a life you resented.”

Jeongguk’s voice barely strung together. “I never once didn’t want her in my life.” He lifts his gaze to them, raw, pleading. “It was—you knew what it was hyung.” He tries to find someone—anyone—who’d believe that maybe, just maybe, it hadn’t all been a lie.

“What I did to her... to all of you... it’s unforgivable.” His hand runs through his hair, slow and tired, fingers unsteady. “It wasn’t enough—but I was trying. I was. I thought I was finally getting it right. We were...”

“I know, kid.” Yoongi gently reaches for the third cigarette Jeongguk was about to light. Doesn’t scold. Just sets it aside quietly. “We all thought that second chance was finally happening between you two. Thought she was finally—”

“Putting herself first,” Hobi finishes, soft but clear, stepping in before Yoongi could slip with something neither of them had the right to share. His voice holds something wistful—like hope that came too late.

“When she kissed you at the trams, when she asked you to go to Busan…” He moves closer, perching on the armrest of the couch beside Jeongguk, like gravity had pulled him there. “It felt like she chose herself. Chose you. That’s why we were celebrating all those damn posts.”

He huffs a humorless laugh, like he’s trying to make it lighter—but it doesn’t land.

“Because something changed,” Jimin adds quietly, meeting Jeongguk’s eyes, not flinching. “In you. In her. We saw it. All of us did.”

Yoongi stubs his cigarette out now, turns his body fully toward Jeongguk, gaze steady and honest. “We knew everything, even after what she intended to do if it got finalized,” gaze stead and honest. “But we thought she changed her mind. When she told us you were finally going home together…”

Jeongguk turns then—eyes glossed over—as if trying to find the one person left who might say it differently. “Hyung?” he asks, voice small. Directed at Namjoon.

Namjoon’s expression falters. His shoulders drop slightly, the weight of guilt catching up to him before his words do.

“I didn’t know she was going to start this soon.” He swallows. “The moment Jin-hyung and I exchanged your signed agreements... she told me what she planned.” He stares down at his hand, clenched faintly.

“We talked about how to make it as painless as possible, if it came to this. What she wanted for you after.” His voice cracks. “I didn’t tell you because Jin and I—we were trying. We fucking tried to fight her. I swear, Gguk.”

His gaze falls back to Jeongguk. “I knew it was a mistake the first time you called me in. That’s why I still fought for you.”

Jeongguk’s lips twitch with the memory that creeps in. Something sharp behind the softness.

He remembers that day. The long pause Namjoon gave when he read the words: irreconcilable differences. How he asked once, twice—“Are you sure about this?” How he warned him to think it over again—to consider what he was letting go of, the aftermath, the weight of consequences long after the ink dried.

And how Jeongguk answered—in spite, in anger.

Still, the universe gave him time. The papers were delayed. Campaigns poured in one after another, flooding his schedule. He couldn’t find a single day to pick them up from Namjoon’s office. Even the fucking weather felt like a sign—pouring storms every time he tried.

Like the world already knew—this divorce wasn’t meant to happen.

Not between two people who still loved each other, even through the nightmare of it all.

But Jeongguk, still pushed through with the first version—had the papers delivered to him instead. That stupid version of him who started all this mess, which led to this regret he has to live with.

Jeongguk breathes out, scoffing at himself. “I didn’t even hesitate to sign the first one.” He shuts his eyes tightly, trying to hold back the ache. But the tears come anyway. “You knew, yet you didn’t stop her when she finally called,” he says, voice raw, cracking, “when she said she was really doing it after all.”

Namjoon closes his eyes, jaw tightening. “When I first met with her and Jin,” he says slowly, “I could tell she didn’t want this.”

“Her hands were always trembling when she wrote down her plans. Her voice would shake halfway through a sentence.” He looks away now, shame etched deep into the curve of his brow. “She even postponed meetings. We thought that meant she was changing her mind.” Another pause. “And then she took you to Busan. That—that wasn’t in our talks.”

There’s a brief silence. Then—

“You mean to tell me…” Taehyung cuts in, incredulous, strained. “You all knew she never planned to stay with him. But none of you knew she fucking lied about changing her mind?” He steps forward, disbelief twisting in his features. “That you didn’t know she was still planning to go through with it anyway?”

Jeongguk gives a slight shake of his head—like a quiet signal for him to stop—but Taehyung doesn’t. Can’t.

“I get it. I wasn’t part of this family from the start,” he says, biting back the rising emotion in his throat. “But I was there.” His voice grows louder. “I watched them fall in love. I watched them fall apart. I helped all of you try to put them back together during our last trip to that house.” He turns away, fists clenched. Anger too raw to mask. “I could’ve helped Gguk from this shit you’re all causing him if I—”

“We didn’t know about Busan!” Yoongi steps in now, exhaustion etched in his voice. “Even after all the shit Jeongguk put her through, even when he deserved every ounce of hell—” He softens. “We still believed they were it. We hoped in the ocean too.”

“That’s why I didn’t tell you,” Namjoon adds quietly, gaze settling back on Jeongguk, gentle but pained. “We believed in her. In you. Busan was supposed to—”

“Supposed to,” Jeongguk echoes, voice sharper now as he lights another cigarette and stands abruptly. He takes a puff. Then another. A bitter chuckle escapes. “And now, it isn’t.” He exhales, smoke curling like a wall.

“What good is telling me now that you believed she was going to stay,” he snaps, “when you still let me walk into that fucking courthouse today without a clue?” He turns then—eyes blazing, all softness wiped clean. “You were my lawyer, Joon.”

Gone is the “hyung.” Gone is the friend.

“You were legally bound to tell me everything.”

Namjoon’s jaw clenches. “I didn’t know until the last minute.” His voice rises—not in anger, but desperation. “I swear on my license, Gguk. I didn’t fucking know. Jin-hyung called me right as you both arrived in Seoul. Said it was happening. To meet him in court.”

He steps forward, reaches out—but Jeongguk jerks away before the touch can land.

“I tried calling you,” Namjoon says, voice softer now. “Your phone was off.” He exhales like it physically hurts. “It was already too late.”

He drops the cigarette on the floor—stubs it, lets it mark against the tiles. Doesn’t care what damage it does to the home he once shared with you.

Jimin approaches, arm wrapping around him gently. “I hope you won’t drown yourself in the dark, Gguk.” A quiet pause, lightly squeezes his shoulder. “I hope you don’t think she never loved you. That we never loved you, after all this… after everything.”

Jeongguk gently pulls away. He turns, faces them all. No more anger. Just bare, bone-deep exhaustion.

“I know she still loves me.” He leans back against the staircase railing, sinking down onto the steps. “She’s never stopped.”

His gaze drops to his wrist, to the bracelet still there—silver still shining, unscratched, unchanged. Still intact. Still theirs. Unlike the marriage that’s slipped away from him.

“When I looked at her in that parking lot… I knew she was lying. Saying she didn’t want me? Fucking liar.” A small, broken laugh escapes him. “She’s always been a terrible one.”

Everyone remains quiet—lets him voice out this ache that’s been building in his chest, pressing against his ribs, clouding every breath.

“The only time she lies is when she’s performing for the board. Her partners. The press.” He smiles faintly, the kind that wilts before it reaches his eyes. “Even then, she sucked at it. Always came home after, ranting to me about how she wished she could just slap them with glitter and make the world a better place.”

Because that’s who she was. Bright. Unfiltered. Hopeful to a fault. A soft laugh breaks out among them. Brief. Fleeting—before sadness settles in again.

“And I think that’s what hurts the most.” His voice lowers to a whisper. Eyes closing. “That I know she still loves me.” A single tear slips past. “And I still don’t understand… why she walked away even though she does.”

“Why didn’t you fight for her in court, Gguk?” Taehyung speaks gently, careful with his words. “Why’d you let her go?”

Jeongguk breathes in slow. Exhales shakily. “Because I saw how tired she was.” He swallows hard, blinking through the blur. “It was like... she was done fighting. Not just with me, for me. With herself.”

He wipes at his face, harshly this time, as if the weight could erase the pain. “I still tried. Pushed. Told her she was all I wanted. Tried to fight against whatever it was that made her pull away from me.”

Silence stretches for a moment. Only the distant hum of the trees outside filters in. Every unspoken truth tethering in between.

“But she looked at me... and begged me to go.” He covers his face, cries out loud, sharp, all the years of brokenness wetting his hands. “And I—” his voice cracks, “I didn’t want her to suffer more.”

No one moves. No one speaks. Because there’s nothing to say when someone’s heart is crumbling in front of you, piece by piece.

Jeongguk pushes himself up, unsteady. Lets out one last scream—muffled by his palms, but loud enough to shake the room. “It’s over.”

He grabs the stubbed cigarette from the floor, tosses it into a nearby trash bin. A sliver of care still slipping out.

“You got what you came here for.” His voice is low again, dulled. “Just leave this house alone for tonight.” He starts clearing the coffee table, empty glasses clinking together. “There might be more photos in the basement studio—I don’t know. Come back for it whenever. You all have keys anyway.”

Hoseok steps forward, reaches out gently. “Gguk—”

But Jeongguk steps back, pries away. “I’ll pack up. Stay at the Cheongdam apartment until the flight.” His words come slower now, like every syllable is weighed down. “In case she wants to come here herself… she can take her time.”

And just like that, the house remains still.

“I’ll stay out of her way. I promise.”

The home they built now just walls, echoes, and the taste of heartbreak that still clings to the air.

Summer had always been the season of beginnings.

Where most people saw it as a break, a heatwave, a stretch of slow days and melted popsicles, you saw it as the backdrop of all your wildest, happiest firsts.

You were eleven when you first experimented with a pair of dull fabric scissors and chopped your hair in uneven layers. It earned you a flying slipper or two courtesy of Eomma, who gasped like you’d just set fire to the family portrait.

Still, it turned out better than you thought.

That summer, you experienced your very first bougie hair treatment and spa day—your mother’s extravagant way of rescuing her ‘little princess’ and restoring her back to peak prim and proper.

There was also that fashion phase—the one where your closet looked like a war zone between plaid and paisley. Somewhere in the family albums is a polaroid of you in flared floral pants, a checkered halter top, and unmatched socks.

Unless Jeongguk has stolen it—one of many he used to stash away as holiday card blackmail.

That era, loud and chaotic, was also how you began to understand fashion wasn’t just impulse. That style was intentional. That colors, balance, and form were choices—lessons that shaped your love for Seora and your place in it. One mismatched summer at a time.

But more than that, summer was when you were born.

When you met the love of your life.

When you said yes to forever.

When your whole world—your real timeline—began.

The season has always held that sort of magic for you. There’s something about the way the sun stretches across the sky—bright, golden, impossibly kind. Like a warm hand coaxing you forward. The way it wraps you in light, not too hot, not yet harsh, just enough to remind you that you’re alive.

That something beautiful can begin again.

Even after all this time, summer still feels like home.

Many sunrises have passed in almost the three decades of your lifetime.

You’ve watched countless of them to know where are the best spots, what time exactly some cities’ have them, or the secret places to get that same scenic view with fewer crowds.

From the wild bursts of pink, red, and fire-orange that streaked across the skies in Queenstown—when you and Jeongguk had stayed up all night in your camper van, limbs tangled under too many layers, whispering and giggling over gas station ramen and half-burnt marshmallows.

To the slow, reluctant rises during Seoul’s biting winters, where the sun barely showed up, buried behind stubborn grey clouds or maybe just urban pollution.

On those mornings, the two of you would grumble at the heavens like impatient children.

“Mr. Sun is slacking today,” he’d joke, and without thinking twice, you’d both grab coats and gloves and run all the way to Haneul Park, chasing whatever slice of light the city could spare.

Back then, the idea of “just a little more warmth” had always felt like enough.

You’ve always dreaded slow sunrises. To you, they’d always meant something was resisting the start of a new day. That hope was dragging its feet again. That the light wasn’t quite ready to come back. Have always been a little dramatic thinking that way.

But here—here in Busan—slow sunrises are different.

Here, the way the morning stretches open feels gentle. Forgiving. Almost like the sky knows you need more time to breathe.

There’s a quiet magic in how the first blush of orange peeks over the horizon, spilling across the sea in soft waves. It’s never loud, never rushed. Just a promise easing its way into the world.

The yellow creeps in soon after, mixing with the pale blue and gentle grey until the whole sky seems to exhale with you.

Then comes the pink and purple—your favorites—that kisses the clouds, and you smile, childlike and light, like the sky remembered to dress in your favorite palette today.

And finally, when that single dot of warm gold breaks fully into the sky, burning through the last traces of grey. A perfect, quiet triumph. There it is, you think. There’s that hope again, pushing through even when it’s slow to rise. Even when the night tried to linger.

You shift slightly beneath the thick picnic blanket, careful not to wake him.

Jeongguk is still curled around you, chest pressed to your side, arm slung protectively across your belly. His breath fans over your collarbone, steady and warm in the early morning chill.

The rooftop is quiet, save for the hum of the sea beyond your home and the distant rustling of wind slipping past the fairy lights around you. There’s salt in the air and comfort in your bones.

Your eyes flicker between the sunrise and the man wrapped around you like he’s guarding something sacred.

And maybe he is.

This moment—this—is the kind of morning that deserves to be sealed in amber and tucked away forever. The weight of his arm. The feel of his heartbeat against your ribs. The press of his leg tangled with yours. The curve of his nose, nuzzled instinctively closer to you, even in sleep.

You wonder if your body’s become a map he memorized long ago—one he could still trace blindfolded, even now.

Every soft inhale, every twitch of his fingers, every flutter of lashes, every crinkle of his nose, you take it in, eyes lingering just a little bit longer. How could a single person carry this much of your world in him?

For a moment, your throat tightens – but you smile through it, smile like your chest isn’t aching beneath the surface.

Because it’s his warmth that’s wrapped around you. Because it’s this sun you’re watching rise. Because for now—for this sliver of morning—you have everything.

There’s that familiar groan—the one that sounds more like a grumble pressed into your skin—the slow nuzzle of his face burying deeper into your chest like he could physically block the morning from arriving if he just tried hard enough.

And then the slow, stubborn shift: the way his leg instinctively tightens around your thigh, how his fingers flex slightly against your waist, a lazy protest. As if his body’s fighting to stay tangled with yours just a few seconds longer. Just like always.

You’ve memorized every part of his waking patterns.

The short breath he lets out right before cracking his neck to one side, the flex of his arm that makes his bicep press just a little harder into your ribs, the barely-there furrow of his brows before he sighs like life is too early for this.

Seventeen years, and he still wakes up like he’s trying to stay in a dream with you a little longer.

And then, predictably—softly—comes his favorite line. “Good morning, baby.”

It used to be his marriage habit, the first thing he’d say each morning—back when all your world knew was comfort and kitchen mornings and sleepy forehead kisses.

But now… now that he’s found his way back to you, it means something else.

It means still. It means again. It means I’m home.

“Hi.” Your voice is barely above a whisper as you look down at him, smiling into the gentle mess of his hair. Lips brushing over his forehead in a kiss that says everything you don’t need to say aloud. “You’re up just in time.”

He groans again, stretching like a lazy cat as he untangles himself from you—only to crack his neck so loud you wince, even as your eyes sneak down the line of his bare back.

There’s that scatter of veins tracing his muscles, the ripple of his spine in motion, the soft strength of the man you’ve always loved.

But what catches your gaze are the purple marks that bloom like soft peonies across his chest and shoulders—your marks. Left not in hunger or heat, but in something far deeper.

A reminder. A vow written in kisses and skin. A quiet promise: I’ll always be with you.

When he catches you staring, he smirks proudly, standing tall for just a second so you get a full view.

“Really outdid yourself,” he brushes over one of the deeper ones near his collarbone like it’s a badge of honor. “Should I wear a low-cut shirt to brunch?”

You swat at him with a pillow, laughing, and he drops back beside you without hesitation, pulling the hoodie over his head before instantly curling around you again—this time fully clothed but no less warm.

His limbs tangle with yours like a cocoon, one leg hooked over both of yours, nose tucked under your jaw.

“Thought my bones would be frozen when I woke up,” he mumbles into your neck. “Expected a bit of stiff neck too.”

You hum, stroking his hair. “But?”

“But,” he sighs, fingers curling between yours, “it’s the best sleep I’ve had in months. Not a single sore muscle.”

Even as you tease, you’re turning his wedding ring slowly on his finger, like it helps anchor you to this moment. “Even after sleeping on literal concrete?”

“It’s not concrete,” he whispers, placing a kiss just under your jaw. “It’s our rooftop. Our home. Nothing gets warmer than this.”

You tighten your arms around him.

He squeezes back.

And then you both go quiet—settling into that soft hush only mornings like this can hold.

The sunlight has fully begun its crawl across the sky now, stretching across the horizon like golden ink spilled over the sea. A few birds cut gently through the stillness, gliding past in slow arcs above the water, and you watch them go, your eyes flicking between the sky and the boy who still clings to you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear again.

His thumb traces the inside of your wrist. You draw gentle circles over the back of his hand. It’s easy. It’s sacred.

And then, almost too softly to hear,

“I want to—” “I want to—”

The word tumble over each other in surprise, you both speaking at the same time.

You blink.

He laughs.

And without hesitation, you smile at him, nudging his nose with yours. “You first.”

His eyes never leave yours as he sits up straighter, fingers still threaded tightly with yours despite the subtle tremble in his grip.

There’s something almost boyish in his expression—the way he bites back a grin like he’s afraid you’ll see too much too soon. That familiar dimple makes its appearance, deepening shyly at the corner of his lips, the very same one that used to send your sixteen-year-old heart into freefall.

“I want to take you somewhere,” his voice comes soft but laced with excitement, almost like a secret he can’t wait to share.

“Funny,” brows knit together, curiosity curls around the edges of your lips, the teasing lilt in your voice unmistakable. “I was going to say the same thing.”

“You’re seriously trying to outdo me in the surprise department, huh?” His eyes widen a little in surprise, crinkled with amusement. “Do I get to know where we’re going this time?”

“Only if you tell me yours,” you counter with a smirk.

He huffs a laugh, one hand reaching up to gently smooth your wind-tossed hair. His thumb lingers along your cheek, warmth blooming under his palm.

“It’s…” he starts, then falters, face crumpling adorably as he leans forward and presses his forehead to your chest with a groan. “Shit. I can’t say it without giving away too much.”

You laugh softly, fingers brushing through his hair. He lifts his face again—his smile tender now, shy but glowing. “You’ll figure it out when we get there.”

“Then…” You mime zipping your lips shut, shoulders trembling with stifled giggles.

He rolls his eyes with a fond groan, pinching your side just enough to make you squirm. “Brat.”

“Romantic.”

He leans in, pressing a gentle kiss to the tip of your nose, then your lips—slow, sweet, reverent. “Let’s get ready,” he whispers against your mouth. “Dress into something nice.”

You raise a brow, grinning. “Isn’t it a little early for broody, fancy husband energy?”

“It’s exactly the right time for your fancy, romantic husband to spoil his wife,” he nudges your nose with his again before rising to his feet and tugging you up with him.

Blankets are carried first, soft from the night before, the scent of sea breeze and candle wax still clinging to the fabric. The remaining tea lights are blown out one by one, their smoke curling into the early morning air.

You begin untangling the fairy lights draped along the railings—but before you can make it halfway, Jeongguk’s already behind you, gently nudging your hand away.

“Let me,” he says, determined. “You did enough.”

He tries to gather everything in one go—your little rooftop dream from last night bundled awkwardly in his arms. Blankets on one side, dinner bowls on the other, and the stubborn string lights draped over his shoulder like tangled tinsel. There’s a grunt, a quiet muttered curse, and then a low groan when the lights coil around his neck again.

You stand by the door, holding it open, watching him with a heart too full for your chest. There’s amusement, of course—you always laugh when he fumbles like this—but there’s something tender, too.

The kind of still moment where love just… rests. Where it breathes and hums quietly in the background. Like you could pause here and stay for a little longer, watching the man you love trip over fairy lights and stubbornly refuse help, just because you made something beautiful for him.

“Baby, you’re going to drop those candles,” you step in to grab one of the little box tucked under his below, rescuing the bowls too, just as it teeters out of his arm. “This was the last from the ahjumma in Mangwon.”

Jeongguk gasps like you’ve snatched away a sacred relic. “No! These literally unblocked my sinuses when I was twenty-five.”

“Ah yes,” you slip past him toward the stairs, holding the door open with your foot, “the twelve days of Jeon snot. How could I forget?”

“You were testing out new vendor scents in our bedroom.” He trails behind you, arms full and huffing dramatically. “Swear, one of them smelled like a citrus detergent factory combusted.”

You bark out a laugh, eyes rolling as you both step into the kitchen. “That citrus blend was part of a limited edition line from Chanel’s vendor. We were lucky to even get a pitch from them for Seora’s autumn show.”

“And I’m still proud of you,” His lips find yours in a brief, tender kiss. “But a billion-euro company should probably stop inventing perfumes that trigger the immune system like trauma.”

You’re already moving toward the sink, sleeves rolled up, starting to rinse the bowls when suddenly—his hand snatches one mid-wash.

“Hey!” you protest, turning to him.

“I’ve got this.” He gives you a firm, playful nudge toward the stairs. “Go. Freshen up. Get dolled up for me.”

You narrow your eyes. “Don’t you want to shower together?” voice lilting, teasing. You step close, fingertips lightly dragging along the collar of his shirt, brushing against the edge of a faded mark you left the night before. “It’s environmentally responsible, you know. Saves water.”

Jeongguk freezes. Swallows. “Baby…” Eyes flicking down then back to you, and you swear his ears flush a shade pinker.

You lean up on your toes, plant a soft kiss on his cheek. “See you in a bit, Gguk.”

And then you’re gone, skipping up the stairs with a grin, leaving him flustered and fuming in the most husbandly way.

Behind you, you hear him grumbling, muttering something about you being dangerous before he returns to scrubbing bowls like they’ve personally offended him.

Once the kitchen is cleared, you catch a glimpse of him again—this time in the living room, quietly putting the throw pillows back in place, smoothing them out with absentminded care.

You linger for a second at the top of the stairs, peeking behind the wall just to watch him move.

There’s something sacred in the simplicity of it. Something safe and warm in the way he settles into your home like he’s never left. Like this was always how it was meant to be.

And then, just like that, you disappear into the bedroom—heart warm, cheeks still smiling—readying yourself for the kind of day only someone who loves you could dream up.

You don’t take long in the shower like usual. No deep conditioning, no lavender body scrubs, no lingering under the heat.

Just quick, practiced motions. A little more water than needed. A little less time than you would’ve liked. Even the skincare’s just a few dabs of your usual moisturizer but even that feels too much.

Kept telling yourself it’s because Jeongguk will be upstairs any minute now—and you want to look pretty when he walks in. Not flawless. Just… lovely enough to match the way he looks at you.

Foundation after foundation, you swipe them on with fingers that move from muscle memory… only to wipe them down seconds later, dissatisfied.

Everything feels wrong. Too pale. Too heavy. Too unlike you.

The bottles line up in front of you, like you’ve wronged them with how much you’ve wasted, while you equally glare them down with how useless they were at the moment, the price tag on each bottle becoming meaningless for their purpose. Quietly, you blame expiration dates that don't exist.

You’re not carless enough to use anything past due, but you know – your skin’s not taking them in like they used.

It’s the Chanel one, tucked safely in the corner of your drawer, that finally settles onto your skin with some grace.

Just enough glow to soften the hollow under your eyes, though it can’t quite mask the quiet pallor underneath. It'll have to do.

Then comes the barest touch of blush. Just a little color. Just something to warm your cheeks. Your favorite pink Dior that used to bring out the soft roundness of your face, the kind Jeongguk once called “dangerously squishable.”

You can almost hear the chorus of your squad whining in Uni, “Yah! Let me squeeze her one more time!” like your face was campus property.

Jin was always pinching like a parent that's too fond of their child.

Hobi prodding like you were one of his event mood boards that would come to life if he'd poke a little longer.

Even Yoongi – dead ass cold grandpa – cooed over the “cutest cheeks in the cafeteria” when he’d drown in his pharmacokinetics flashcards.

Until Jeongguk would swagger in late with two milk cartons – banana for him, strawberry for you – and a glare made for war, swatting Jimin’s hands – the last of the squish monster – away with a, “Hyung, you trying to flatten my girl’s face?”

From the blush or the boy – who was just your best friend back then, who called you ‘his girl’ one too many times – you never really figured out which.

Back then, you’d flush even harder.

Now, the longer you stare into the mirror, the more you notice how even your favorite shade of pink doesn’t sit the same anymore.

These days, the blush barely clings, the fullness of your cheeks traded for sharper lines, the bones beginning to show where softness once lived.

And your last hope to bring a little life for now, that gloss – sparkling, strawberry-tinted, the one from the GS25, the one Jeongguk used to nibble off your lips without shame when you were in your reckless twenties.

You smile, soft and quiet, at the memory. He’d once bought ten tubes in case they stopped selling them. Claimed he didn’t want to "risk a national emergency."

But you knew he just enjoyed wiping them off you just as much as he loves seeing it on you.

You pause. Just for a second. Let yourself feel the small ache of love.

When you head for the closet—one that’s held dresses of memories throughout your life—you immediately spot that familiar yellow dress.

It hasn’t been touched in years, but the soft cotton still shines with the same warmth it had when you were sixteen, on that summer-lit afternoon when Jeongguk first looked at you like you were something holy. Like something worth crashing into.

Puffed sleeves, airy fabric, still a little wrinkled at the waist, still carrying the faint scent of summers past—yet somehow, it reminds you that this was the beginning of everything.

When something new, something forever, stumbled barefoot into the sands of Gwangalli.

Slipping it on again, even after all these years, you half expect it not to fit. But it does. More lose even, draping over your frame. But it still makes you feel like that sixteen-year-old girl with a heart too big for her chest.

Jeongguk once told you it made you look like a soft drop of sunlight. His sunlight. Swore you shined brighter than Busan’s sky that day.

You’d laughed and called it your “overripe banana” phase—but you wore it again anyway, a few more times that same year, after he said, dead serious, "I love bananas."

And you remember teasing him back with a grin, “So you love me?”—half-joke, half-hope.

Back when everything teetered on the thin line between best friends and something more. Something neither of you had the guts to name yet, so you stayed in that space where it was safe. Familiar. Where being each other’s person was enough—almost.

He only laughed, that stupid boyish laugh that still made your heart skip then, and before you could look away, he raised his camera and snapped a photo of you—like he hadn’t already taken a hundred that day.

“Maybe I will,” he whispered behind the shutter.

It makes you wonder now—did your forever start there, quietly, in the spaces you didn’t notice? In the snapshots he took, the near-confessions you both let pass?

You blink.

Come back to yourself.

The room feels heavier now. But you move anyway.

Crossing the floor, you pull out the old soft-leather bag from under the bed—hidden in the corner for a while now. Has been there since you’ve brought it to Busan. The papers tucked inside are sealed, exactly how they were when you got them. Untouched since then but not forgotten.

You don’t open it. Don’t have to. Know exactly what’s in there. Everything that’s been waiting quietly for its turn.

The moment your fingers curl around the strap, your throat goes tight. Palms clammy. Breathing uneven. There’s a weight that comes with holding something final.

But this isn’t the time to break. Not yet.

So you swallow the swell behind your eyes. Keep it together. Needed to.

And you’re thankful you keep it together—because Jeongguk steps in just as you’re setting the bag on the dresser and attempting to braid your hair.

Your fingers fumble through the strands, baby hairs springing free no matter how tightly you twist them back. The slight tremble in your hands doesn’t help, nor does the sharp pull that runs down your arm every time you reach too high.

The teasing you expect from him never comes. No smug grin, no playful comment about how “you and your war with your hair have gone fifteen rounds.”

Instead, you catch him in the mirror—leaning against the doorframe, expression softened into something warm enough to steal your breath.

“My love…” he says quietly, like the words have weight, like they’re meant only for this moment.

You abandon the braid and turn to face him fully, offering a small twirl. The skirt of your yellow dress flares and catches the faint breeze drifting in from the open balcony. “Fancy enough?”

He walks toward you slowly, like there’s no rush, like there’s nowhere else in the world he’d rather be.

Hands finding your waist, he leans down, kisses you softly, smiles against your mouth before pulling back just enough to murmur, “It’s perfect. You’re perfect.” Thumb brushing over the cotton at your hip. “Is this the same—?”

You nod, cheeks warming under the weight of his gaze. “Same one. Thought it’d be tighter but… it’s actually loose.” You tug the fabric playfully at your chest, nose wrinkling. “Boobies have their own ventilation system now.”

Jeongguk cracks up, head tipping back, laughter rumbling out of him, before he hugs you closer, eyes still crinkled with amusement. “Boobs look fine, baby. You look fine. Actually…” His tone softens, then glances down at the dress again. “Think you look even prettier in it now.”

The sudden sincerity hits harder than expected. Makes you hide in his chest, mumbling, “Was trying to match it with a braid. Hair’s being mean today.”

Jeongguk leans back enough to look at you, then gently takes your hand, guiding you toward the dresser. “Just something simple, hmm?” he eases you onto the chair.

His fingers sift through your hair with slow, deliberate care, separating the tangled strands, smoothing them out. “Or do you want my signature fish-braid?”

You pout exaggeratedly, catching his eye in the mirror. “Good luck pulling that off. Hair’s shorter now.” It sheds more than usual too. You almost say, but swallow the thought, fumble with the hairbrush on the dresser instead.

“Doesn’t matter.” He leans down to kiss the crown of your head. “You taught me well.”

His fingers move deftly, twisting and weaving with surprising precision, each motion steady and sure like he remembers every lesson you gave him back when he insisted on practicing with your hair for fun—pulling too tight the first few times until you yelped and smacked his arm, only for him to grin sheepishly and promise to do better.

He did, too.

By the fifth attempt, he was braiding like he’d been born to do it, looking far too pleased with himself while you secretly marveled at how much patience he could pour into something so small… simply because it was yours.

The memory makes you sigh and lean back slightly, relaxing into his touch.

“This is nice,” you admit quietly, shoulders dropping as the tension drains away. “If you ever switch careers, Seora’s hair-and-makeup team could use the extra hand.”

He scoffs good-naturedly, securing the end of the braid with a hair tie. “No thanks. I only do my wife’s hair.”

He lets a few face-framing strands fall loose on purpose—clearly proud of himself—before leaning in to kiss your cheek.

Meeting your gaze through the mirror, he smiles, dimples deep and eyes soft enough to make your chest ache.

“You’re so beautiful.” His hands slip over your shoulders, palms warm and grounding as he leans down, resting his chin lightly against the crown of your head. “My wife.”

You catch the way his voice softens on those last two words—the way his eyes glisten in the mirror, boba-wide and glassy, shining even brighter against the sunlight spilling through the sheer curtains, turning them into into something that looks almost too full to hold.

“Planning to be sentimental all day?” you turn to face him, fingers lacing with his. The warmth blooming between your palms is almost enough to still your heart for good. “Or are you going to get ready too?”

“Right.” He lets go, reluctantly, chuckles low and nervous, still caught somewhere between awe and disbelief. “Now I have to match this major throwback. Look equally pretty. Think that striped button‑up will still fit me?”

The shirt’s memory is still clear to you to this day. Know it’s somewhere in the closet too.

If you had your yellow dress on when you first met, he had that blue striped button‑down— half untucked, sleeves rolled like he hadn’t even bothered trying but still somehow looked annoyingly good in it.

You used to think stripes were ridiculous, the kind of print that made people look like walking pedestrian crossings.

But Jeongguk? He managed to pull it off, even with creases in all the wrong places and a size too big because, as he shamelessly admitted later, he’d stolen it from Junghoon’s closet and never gave it back. Said the shirt made him look more older, sharper, hot – even if it shouldn’t have mattered to a sixteen-year-old.

And every time your mind drifts to that shirt, it pulls you straight back to Gwangalli—your sandals sinking into warm sand, the sea breeze tugging at your dress, and him standing there with a camera slung around his neck, tilting his head to frame the horizon.

You remember the pause—the moment when he looked away from the waves and found you instead.

Even if you spat endless curses at him, accused him of things that weren’t even true, what weighed more was how the whole world felt too small to hold the way his eyes lingered.

Jeongguk’s worn that shirt a couple more times after, though somewhere along the years the buttons began to strain, puberty and stubborn workouts doing what Junghoon’s shirt never signed up for.

And so it stays in your memory the way it fit him then—careless, oversized, a little wrinkled, and somehow a piece of your own beginning too.

“Don't think the shirt will hang on this time,” you tease, poking at his stomach before brushing your fingers along the hem of his hoodie. “You’ve outgrown your brother. Those buttons will pop and poke my eyes, and I’d like to keep both visions forever, thank you.”

Jeongguk raises a brow at you, gaze turning smug and playful. “Is this your way of admitting you look at my chest?”

“And if I do?” You squint at him, smirk pulling at your lips, tracing lightly over one of the tattoos across his arm.

“What are you going to do about it? Because if you’re willing to toss your plans for today, I’m willing to just stay home and…” You lean in, eyes glittering with mischief. “…bring on round two of last night.”

His jaw drops, lips parting in surprise, brows shooting high. Speechless—completely caught off guard by your sudden boldness, which only makes you laugh harder.

With a playful push to his chest, you shove him toward the bathroom door. “Go shower. I’ll start the car. Don’t take long, baby.”

“Unbelievable,” he grumbles dramatically storming into the bathroom, the door slamming shut behind him.

Your laughter trails down the hallway, soft and unrestrained, bouncing faintly off the walls as Jeongguk’s muffled voice follows from behind the bathroom door.

The playful grumbling is clear, the words going around something like: ‘Shibal!’ ‘My wife’s a fucking menace!’ ‘I’m going to slip on soap, and die in here.’ ‘What a happy way to leave the world’.

It only makes you laugh again, quieter this time, the sound lingering even as you reach the bottom of the stairs.

And then, for just a second, you pause by the front door.

The house is still—the kind of stillness that doesn’t feel empty.

It’s full of the morning light spilling across the floorboards, full of the scent of last night’s candles lingering faintly in the air as it sits neatly on the center of the kitchen counter where’s Jeongguk’s arranged them, full of the sea-breeze scented picnic blankets that’s in the laundry basket by the staircase.

Your gaze sweeps slowly across the space, tracing every familiar corner, every detail you’ve lived and loved in.

His leather jacket hanging on the coat stand by the door front door. Your Hello Kitty lunch bag resting on the dining table. The pile of carnival plushies spilling lazily from the sofa like Busan decided to keep souvenirs for you both. The ridiculous shark hats from the aquarium’s gift shop placed neatly on the shelf – between the books – just by the patio door.

You breathe it all in. Let it settle deep in your chest.

A home alive with memories, with love, with him.

And only when your lips lift in the smallest smile—soft, content, the kind that says everything without needing words—do you finally reach for the handle and step outside.

The door clicks shut behind you, quiet and steady. Like a heartbeat.

Jeongguk’s surprises were usually easy to guess. Not because he was predictable—far from it—but because after all these years, you’d gotten good at piecing together clues, spotting the patterns in his little schemes.

Like that time years ago when you’d stumbled upon a neatly printed itinerary sitting right on top of his chaotic mountain of campaign files.

You hadn’t been snooping—just looking for one of the Seora prints he’d shot for you back then.

But there it was, plain as day, “Osaka” and “Sapporo” bolded at the top, followed by flight times, day-trip lists, and highlighted stars over the Kaiyukan Aquarium and a resort reserved for the Sapporo Snow Festival.

He tried denying it, mumbling something about an overseas campaign he was covering for a colleague, but you’d seen right through him. It was too much of a coincidence, especially when you’d just told him a week before how badly you wanted to see those exact places for the holidays.

But this time? You’ve got nothing.

You know Busan like the back of your hand—well enough that even if someone flipped the map upside down, you’d still find that one tucked-away art shop where you used to buy your favorite sketchbooks, or the little store where Jeongguk bought film rolls for his camera, even if it was buried deep in the sketchiest part of town.

Yet today, every road he takes feels just unfamiliar enough that you’re tempted to sneak a look at the signs flashing past. Not that you can really focus.

Because every time you start to, Jeongguk reaches for your hand and kisses your knuckles mid-drive, or leans in to sneak a kiss during red lights like he’s determined to derail your guessing game.

“Didn’t know this was a kidnapping,” you tease, poking at his cheek in mock annoyance. “Should probably call Jin, let him sue you.”

Jeongguk snorts, eyes flicking from the road to you with that maddening mix of smug and fond. “Then I’ll call Namjoon-hyung to back me up.”

“That’s not fair.” You yank your hand back with a dramatic huff and cross your arms, sulking like a child. “We’ve been driving in circles for almost an hour. Your wife’s already assless. Pretty sure it’s gone flatter with every passing minute.”

He bursts out laughing so hard he nearly swerves, one hand shooting out instinctively to steady the wheel. “Baby, stop—you’re going to make me crash us.”

You catch the way his free hand reaches over to tuck a stray strand back into your braid, the motion so natural it slows your sulk for a heartbeat.

But of course, he can’t resist adding, “And for the record? You’re not flat. Pretty sure I’ve made it very clear how much I love grabbing—”

“Shut up!” you shriek, fumbling with the radio until music blares so loudly it practically rattles the windows.

Crouching low, face burning, forehead dropping to your lap, as if ducking could somehow hide you from your husband and his insufferable teasing. “God, you’re so annoying!”

He casually reaches out and lowers the volume back down. “Now why are you suddenly shy, hmm?” voice still carrying that smug tilt you know too well. “Where’s my menace wife from earlier? The one who nearly made me drop the soap this morning?”

“Just drive,” you mutter, keeping your gaze firmly on the passing blur outside your window, suddenly the unknown scenery became more interesting. “I’ll shut up—and stop asking—if you do too.”

And he does.

For the next stretch of road, it’s only the soft music of your shared playlist filling the car, the kind that’s been carried across different drives, different cities, different versions of the two of you.

Jeongguk hums under his breath sometimes, a low vibration that blends into the melody, and you can’t help but sing along when the chorus of one song swells—one of the old ones you both used to mess around with back in Uni.

Back when Jimin would let you and Jeongguk crash his recording class for fun, tossing you both in front of an open mic while he pretended to scold but secretly recorded your voices harmonizing perfectly anyway. Even joked that you should just quit your dream careers, be a trio idol group with him instead.

It was ridiculous, chaotic, perfect—and now, all these years later, it still feels like home, even in the quiet of this car.

The drive slows, almost unnoticeably, until you feel the weight of the turn, the ease with which Jeongguk glances at the rearview and shifts gears.

And then you see it.

At first, it doesn’t fully register—maybe because there’s a new stretch of a sunflower field along the road, vibrant but unfamiliar. Maybe because the parking lot has been expanded, its angles different, newer. Or maybe because there’s finally an arched sign over the entryway, carved with the garden’s name, something that definitely hadn’t been there when he first brought you here for your twenty-third birthday.

But the second the breeze sweeps through the open window and carries that scent—the rich, heady sweetness of purple tulips, layered with morning dew and sun-warmed soil—it’s as if everything collapses into recognition.

And the sight…

It’s almost unreal.

The fields stretch endlessly, oceans of violet and lavender swaying with every ripple of wind, the sunlight catching each tulip’s curved edge so they shine in dozens of shades—bright lilac at the tips, deep wine at the base, soft mauve flickering in between. A moving canvas, alive, breathing, beautiful in its quiet persistence.

You don’t even notice Jeongguk pulling the car into park. Don’t register the engine cutting off or the door shutting on his side. You’re still staring, starstruck, like the sheer immensity of it won’t let you blink.

It’s only when your door clicks open and his shadow falls over you that you turn.

He’s there, arm outstretched, palm steady, patient, waiting. His smile isn’t big or teasing —it’s something softer, quieter, as though he’s holding back the words that would give away how much this moment means to him too.

Taking his hand, he helps you out as though you might stumble. And honestly, you might. With how this moment stops your heart, you might just trip over the graveled lot.

“Surprise, my love,” he murmurs, lips brushing against your temple, arm circling around your waist. His touch is warm, sure, guiding you forward, until your shoes hit the grass path leading into the field.

“This is still here?” Your voice wavers despite the laugh you try to tack on at the end. Looking around, your eyes wide, throat tightening with the kind of tears that sting and soothe at the same time. “The flowers… they’re still the same.”

“They are,” He says simply, but steady and proud with the way he squeezes your hip, like he’s been holding this just for you.

One of the staff members approaches him, holding a bouquet so large, it looks like it was pulled straight from the field—a lush armful of purple tulips wrapped in cream paper, tied with a pale ribbon.

Jeongguk accepts it, thanks them, and without pause, turns and offers it to you. “For the love of my life.” No theatrics, just those words, with quiet conviction in his gaze that unravels you completely.

You hide your face behind the bouquet, half-laughing, half-sniffling, because it’s easier than letting him see the way your lip trembles, the way the fullness in your chest is spilling over.

He doesn’t tease. Doesn’t try to peek around the flowers, or coax your face out. Just waits, strokes slow, reassuring lines across the back of your hand as you clutch the stems like they’re the only thing anchoring you to the moment.

God, you think, pressing your forehead against the cool paper, how can anyone be loved like this and not break open just a little?

And with that thought still lingering, Jeongguk’s hand slips into yours again, leading you towards one of the narrower paths cutting between the rows, lets you step ahead of him.

“Walk slowly,” he’s already slipping his camera strap over with practiced ease. “Sun’s perfect here.”

You glance back, amused. “Another photoshoot?”

He grins—wide, boyish, exactly the kind that makes his dimple cut deep. “Baby, my sixteen-year-old best friend’s here again. Think I’d pass it up?”

You groan playfully but follow anyway. Know there’s no stopping him. “Your sixteen-year-old best friend who looked like a banana with puffy sleeves.”

“And I told you,” he counters, crouching slightly to adjust his lens. “I love bananas.”

The tulips sway with each breeze, petals brushing against your fingertips when you reach out to steady yourself. The air smells of sun-warmed soil and faint sweetness—fresh, clean, untouched—and for a second, you’re back to that day he brought you here for your twenty-third birthday.

“Remember where you stood?” Jeongguk asks, voice softer now, less teasing.

“Near the center,” eyes scanning the expanse of purple around, you spot the little rise in the field where the flowers curved toward the sky. You walk toward it instinctively, the hem of your dress brushing against your knees, flats sinking slightly into the dirt.

“Same angle?” you ask, smoothing the fabric of your dress.

He lifts his camera, looks through the viewfinder, then lowers it again—just long enough to take you in with his own eyes first.

“Yeah,” he says quietly, and for a second too long, neither of you move.

Then the shutter clicks.

Once. Twice. Three times.

Jeongguk shifts to his right, capturing you in profile as you push a stray strand of hair from your face.

“Still so pretty,” he murmurs under his breath, probably meant for himself, but you catch it anyway.

“Still so sappy,” you tease, but your smile doesn’t fade even as you look away, toward the horizon.

He keeps shooting, adjusting angles, finding new spots where the sunlight hits the petals just so, making the whole field glow like it’s been painted.

At one point, he tugs your hand gently and leads you to where the tulips dip lower, creating a small hollow where the flowers frame you completely.

“Stand there.”

“Bossy,” you mumble, but comply anyway, glancing down as you tuck a tulip behind your ear.

Jeongguk exhales sharply—half a laugh, half disbelief—before snapping the picture. “You realize you just recreated your own birthday shot, right?”

You blink, and then it hits you.

This spot where the sun shines the brightest. The tulip tucked behind your ear. The wide expanse of purple around you.

“It’s the same,” you whisper, fingers brushing the petals near your temple.

“Almost,” Jeongguk corrects, lowering the camera. “You smile softer now.”

That one makes you pause.

Before you can say anything, he moves closer, slips the camera strap over you, lets it rest around your neck.

“Your turn,” placing his hands on your shoulders, he guides you into position. “I trust my favorite photographer intern to get my good side.”

You laugh, partly because you remember all the failed photos you’ve taken of him in the past—mostly blurry, sometimes just half his face—and partly because he’s looking at you like none of those mattered. It’s still the one he kept over any final edited shot over his jungle of perfectly coordinated folders.

Raising the camera, you frame him standing amid the flowers, sleeves rolled, hair slightly mussed from the breeze, sunlight glinting off his earrings.

You take the shot, lower the camera, but your gaze lingers on him instead—on that soft smile, those dimples, those round orbs that look at you like you’ve always been his whole universe.

And then Jeongguk moves. Without hesitation, he sinks down on one knee, fingers finding your hand—the one still wearing both the engagement and wedding ring he placed there the day you promised him forever.

“Take the shot, baby.” He whispers, quiet, steady, though you can feel the faint tremor in his hands, just like when he first proposed in this very field. Eyes never leave yours.

And for a moment, it’s almost like time folds back in on itself.

You press the shutter. Lower the camera. Glance at the preview.

The photo is simple but achingly beautiful—your intertwined hands centered in the frame, his figure blurred in the background but still enough to make the focus clear: the promise you made, and kept, through seventeen years of love.

But you don’t linger on the screen. Because the real image—the one you’ll carry long after this moment ends—isn’t in pixels or print.

It’s the man still kneeling in front of you, looking up at you like you’re both still twenty‑three, like the years in between were only a heartbeat, and time itself had been kind enough to bring you here again.

"Come here,” you whisper, letting the camera fall gently against you. Taking both his hands, gently pull him up. He rises, body flush against yours, breath caught between soft laughter and love.

And when you kiss him—sweet and slow and full—it’s like pressing your heart into his lips, letting the years between your first forever and this one melt away under the sun.

His hands cradle your waist. Yours slip behind his neck, fingers brushing his hair, and for a second, everything is quiet again. Just you, him, and years of something unshakable.

Then, as if pulled by the same thought, you both turn toward the picnic that’s waiting ahead.

It isn’t what you expected—but then again, nothing about this morning has been.

Set just beyond the edge of the flower field, the blankets are spread wide across the soft grass, anchored by a vintage picnic basket and two stacked wooden crates acting as side tables.

From here, the sea of purple tulips still stretches in view, bobbing gently beneath the warm sun. The rays seem to kiss the tops of each bloom, casting soft golden glows across the petals—like light tracing the outlines of your happiness.

Your favorite strawberry-stuffed croissants sit neatly on delicate ceramic plates, a thermos of freshly brewed coffee nearby still letting off slow curls of steam.

There’s fruit too—handpicked strawberries, peach slices, and Jeongguk’s bananas chopped in heart shapes. A soft lilac-checked throw is laid over the main blanket like he couldn’t decide between cute or romantic, so he gave you both.

“Do I get to know when and how you arranged all of this?” brows raised, you tear a piece of croissant and offer it to him. “We were together the whole time yesterday.”

“Let’s just say I snuck a few phone calls while you were setting up the rooftop.” He chuckles softly, leaning in to take the bite from your fingers. “Had to be a little sneaky to keep up with my very sneaky wife.”

He feeds you back a sliver of peace, his smile curling softly at the corners. “Luckily, the owner still remembered me. Was willing to help with a few last-minute arrangements.”

“Still can’t believe this place is here,” your eyes scan the view again, breath catching a little as you take it all in—the flowers, the picnic, the thoughtfulness. “Didn’t they say it might be closing the last time we came?”

He rubs the back of his neck, gaze dropping shyly to the spread between you. “A donor stepped in. Said they didn’t want the place to disappear. Meant a lot to someone.”

You don’t need more details. The way he brushes nervously over the tattoos on his knuckles, the sheepish dimple rising with his smile—it’s enough. Your chest tightens, heart swelling with a kind of ache that’s too big for words.

“No… Jeongguk. Why—”

“This is where you said yes to me,” he says gently, taking your hand in his, fingers lightly tracing the rings that have never left your finger. “Where you agreed to be my wife. I couldn’t let it vanish. Not when it holds everything we began with.”

The corners of your lips wobbles with a laugh that mixes with a choked sob. You reach up and flick his forehead gently, half play, half overwhelmed. “This must’ve cost a fortune. I... I don’t even know what to say.”

He meets your gaze then—soft, sure, eyes steady like he’s anchored to this moment. “I’d buy you the whole world, time even, if it meant I could give you every piece of happiness back. A second chance at our best memories.” His voice drops to a whisper, brushing over your skin like wind through petals. “If I get to be the reason you feel free again. Loved again.”

You look down at your hands, at the rings that have weathered years with you—your engagement, your wedding, and everything in between.

And for a heartbeat, you let yourself believe this really is forever, even if not in the way you once imagined.

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” your voice hushes with emotion, “that proposal… that day here. You never told me how long you’d been planning it. Back then, you just smiled and said I’d find out someday.”

He squeezes your hand, brushing his thumb against your knuckles.

“Then maybe today’s that day.”

He stays silent for a while.

It’s not uncomfortable—just quiet, like the world knows to give him this pause. The scent of purple tulips sways in the breeze, petals rustling softly around you like the whisper of old stories waiting to be told. The hush that fills the space between you is gentle.

His quiet makes you nervous. Not because you’re afraid, no. But because in the all the years you’ve been together, this is the one story you never got to know.  

And you want to know it—more than anything.

You already love every chapter before this, and you can feel it in your bones, that this one, might be your favorite.

Jeongguk takes his time. Breathes in the nerves as if he’s proposing all over again. The tremble in his hands, the nibbles on his lips, the few times he’s fluttered his eyes, it’s all familiar to you. Have seen this same thing that night on your twenty-third.

Beside him, you just sit there, let him have this. Don’t ask again. Hands tightening around his to give him that steadiness, that safety you hope he’ll never forget. Your heart quietly brimming.

“When you first agreed to be mine…” His voice finally breaks through the stillness, low and thoughtful. His gaze is on the tulips, but his thumb brushes yours, grounding him. “Remember our old apartment?”

You nod, not interrupting, letting him go at his own pace.

“When I finally stopped pretending we were just best friends—when I confessed?” A soft huff of a laugh leaves him, shaking his head at the memory. “That was the moment. That night, when you looked at me like you’d been waiting for me to say it first… that’s when I knew.”

You blink, breath catching. “That long ago?”

“Maybe even before that…” he murmurs, voice soft—almost lost to the breeze.

But his eyes aren’t on you.

They’re lowered, fixed on your hand resting between his. On the rings safely wrapped around your finger. The same rings he's always treated like sacred things even when he’s lost his way.

You don’t miss how he’d touch them as if it they’re the only things, besides you, that keeps him grounded.

It’s like he’s seeing it all again—every version of you he’s loved across the years. Every moment that led him here.

He exhales quietly. A small, shaky smile curves his lips.

“But if we’re talking timelines… yeah.” Finally, his gaze lifts, steady now, anchored in yours. “When I confessed back then, it wasn’t just because I wanted you to be my girlfriend.” His thumb brushes gently over your knuckle. “I already wanted you to be my wife.”

There’s a pause. A long one.

Then, quietly, like a promise he’s already fulfilled—

“That was the night I knew I wanted forever.”

Your eyes fall to the rings on your finger—the engagement band in delicate white diamond curling like water into a vine, a thin rose gold framing the diamond teardrop center; the wedding ring beneath it, just in the same white diamond, etched with tulips and tiny leaves, all encircling towards the sun in the middle.

And under the soft glint of sunlight spilling over this field—this place where it all began—they shine like they’re blooming with you.

“This ring was hidden since then?” your voice comes barely above a whisper.

“Not physically. Not the one you're wearing.” He chuckles, boyish and bashful, dimple peeking out. “But the idea, the design? That lived in my head for a long time. Drew it and saved it in a final folder you’d never think to check.”

He lifts your hand, brushing his thumb over the ring. “Kept it hidden like it was some state secret. You had no idea how close you were to finding it some nights.”

“Name one.”

“When I was on that video call with the Venice client,” he says, eyes narrowing at the memory. “They needed one of the raw shoot prints, and I couldn’t step away mid-pitch—so I asked you to check my desk. Forgot I left the ring sketches mixed in with the campaign drafts.”

“Ah,” you laugh, instantly recalling it. “You almost threw your laptop across the room when I got near those folders.”

“Mhm.” He hums, amused, still a little haunted. “The client might’ve muttered a few things in Italian—don’t know, don’t care. Operation Proposal almost got tanked.”

You nudge him gently with your shoulder, smiling. “Bet you were nervous as fuck when you finally got this.” Lifting your hand slightly, the engagement ring catches the sun—letting the moment catch you, too.

“Oh, absolutely.” He laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Almost dropped the ring when the store handed it to me. Thought they were going to kick me out and revoke my right to ever touch diamonds again. Years of nagging them about every little detail, every vine, every curve—and there I was, butterfingers McGee.”

You laugh, cheeks aching from smiling. “And here I thought I was the clumsy one.” There’s a soft tear collecting in the corner of your eye.

“I was going to ask the love of my life to spend forever with me. Cut me some slack.” He grins, flicks your cheek playfully. “Getting the ring was just step one. The rest? The planning. That was the real panic. You already witnessed how I choked during the proposal speech.”

You do. Remembered each word between sobs, choked laughter, nervous stutters. Other than your wedding vows, his words that day still remains like a favorite part of a novel you always highlighted in pastel purple.

Because it is.

His words are your favorite lines. He’s your favorite. Your only one.

Jeongguk leans back on his hands, staring up at the soft stretch of sky. “Finding this place was the hardest part. I had a mental breakdown trying to get it right. Swear I blacked out from the stress. Hobi-hyung had to step in and talk to the owners for me during the phone call. Yoongi-hyung tried to CPR me?”

You giggle. “Grandpa did not suggest to have his mouth on yours.”

“Okay, yeah,” Jeongguk laughs, part amused, part disgusted. “He told Jin-hyung to do it. Like that’s any better! But he didn’t think twice. You know our old abeoji—one runny nose slips and he’s prepping to airlift us to Seoul General and bring in Yoongi with a whole oxygen tank.”

“Dramatic abeoji,” you murmur, shaking your head fondly. “But... you still managed to pull it off. I wasn’t even expecting anything that year—let alone a proposal.”

“I remember.” His voice softens. “You didn’t want to celebrate. Said you were tired. I’d just started as Creative Director. You’d just taken over Seora. We barely saw each other.”

The breeze carries a thread of silence between you again, but this one is different—warm, nostalgic. Like you’re both watching younger versions of yourselves stumble toward something beautiful.

“But I wasn’t going to let that birthday pass with just takeout and Marvel reruns,” he says, reaching up to brush your fringe out of your face, fingertips grazing your skin. “You deserved more. So I started looking. With the ring already in my drawer, I asked Taehyung and Hobi to help.”

You smirk knowingly. “Let me guess—Milan, Amsterdam, Paris, and probably Berlin too?”

“Yup.” He laughs. “You know how bougie those two are. Jimin-hyung even booked the Olympic Hall. Wanted me to put on a show for you.”

Your jaw drops. “No…”

“Yep. Full concert, fireworks, backup dancers, sun and tulip lightsticks with his brand on it? The whole deal.”

“That would’ve ended up on every gossip headline, and Eomma would've skinned us alive for making a PR mess.”

“Exactly.” He grins. “Told them no. That you hated loud gestures. That you deserved something quieter. Something that felt more like... you.”

He pauses, drawing in a breath. “So I kept looking. Might’ve crashed my laptop more than once. But then this place came up in some obscure forum thread. Like the universe finally decided to bring me peace and end my sleepless nights. And when I saw the photos, I just…knew.”

“Knew it was the one.” you murmur, hand finding his again.

“Knew it was the right one.” He squeezes gently. Then moves in closer, wraps his arms around your waist, rests his chin on your shoulder. “The first time I stood in this field, I could already see you here. Could imagine the way you’d light up. Your favorite flowers, somewhere quiet, soft, safe. It felt like you.”

You blink fast. Didn’t want to cry more than you already did since arriving here. But God, it’s hard.

“Of all the places we’ve been,” you say slowly, “this one is definitely in the top three. Not just because of the tulips, but… because it’s a place you found thinking of me.”

“I’d go to the ends of the earth just to find something that reminds me of you.” Jeongguk tilts his head slightly, voice brushing your ear. “Even if it’s a shade of purple, or a quiet road no one notices.”

There’s a pause. Not one born from sadness, but from fullness. From the weight of a love so carefully kept alive.

You slowly pull away, just enough to face him. Cup his cheeks in your palms, feel the way his skin warms beneath your touch. His lashes flutter, breath catching just a little like he’s never gotten used to the way you touch him.

And for a moment, you just look at him—eyes to eyes, like all your quiet promises are written between the lines of his face.

So much love. So much life.

You lean forward, gently resting your forehead against his, eyes fluttering closed. “Thank you,” voice barely holding steady. “For thinking of me in every way… for keeping me in your heart.”

His hands find your waist, anchoring you closer, but you feel his breath catch—just as yours threatens to slip.

“Thank you,” you whisper, this time more fragile, “for bringing me back to one of the roads that lead us to forever.” You press a kiss to his forehead—gentle, lingering—before you pull away just enough to meet his gaze again. Eyes locked. Soul steady.

“Now…” you smile, soft and sure, “…let me take you where we all started.”

And with fingers intertwined, the two of you rise. The tulips sway behind you. The wind carries what’s left of your laughter. And the road ahead waits quietly—ready to return you to the beginning.

The drive to Gwangalli doesn’t take long. You’ve done it enough times to know every shortcut by heart, every scenic detour that wraps around the coastline and steals your breath as if it were the first time.

The sea always had a way of pulling you in like that—constant and new all at once.

Unlike your husband, who earlier took the longer route to the tulip garden just to distract you, to keep his surprise intact, you take the familiar one now—the same road that weaves too many speed bumps for your liking, the same one where traffic always piles up before the beach even comes into view.

The same road his mother once drove down to pick him up—when he stuck his head out the window, waving back at you with all the energy in his lungs. Back when the both of you were still all beginnings and blurry promises, still figuring out what forever could possibly look like.

And even though it’s the faster way, the drive stretches long—only because Jeongguk refuses to leave you in peace. Like he’s getting his own petty revenge with how you equally annoyed him during the drive to the garden.

"Where are we going?"

"Somewhere.”

"That’s not an answer, babe.” The tulip tickles against your cheek—one he’s sneakily stolen from your bouquet.

"Jeongguk,” you warn.

“Just give me a hint,” he grins, poking your arm with the flower, then traces it along your nose. “If I guess right, you have to kiss me.”

You don’t reply. Just roll your eyes, and swat him away. He gasps, dramatically clutching the tulip like you’ve committed a grave crime.

He keeps it up until you hit the bend between Igidae and Millak-dong, but by the time you’re halfway past the seafood street, Jeongguk has slumped against the window. Tulip still clutched in hand. Mouth parted slightly. Asleep.

Maybe it’s the water activities from yesterday finally sinking into his bones. Or staying up too long on the rooftop with you last night. Or planning the entire garden morning like he wasn’t running on empty.

Whatever it is, the moment his breathing evens out, you don’t even try to fight the fond smile creeping on your lips.

Pulling into a spot near the end of the beach lot, you leave the engine idling for the air to stay cool, and crack the window on his side just enough for the breeze to slip through.

And then, with one last glance at the man still curled in dreams beside you, you step out. Walk down to Gwangalli’s pier—

The place where the story really began. Where the sea breeze first pulled him into your world. Where love came barefoot and laughing. Where seventeen years ago, Jeon Jeongguk accidentally found forever in you.

The pier hasn’t changed much since your last visit.

The same lone boat still bobs at its mooring, its mast permanently bent—likely a scar from one too many storms—while that faded Barney T-shirt still flutters from the top, exactly where you once saw the owner and his little boy hang it for fun.

A couple of luxury yachts still claim their spots along the dock, polished and proud, though years have quietly slipped by since you first stared at them with wide, sixteen-year-old eyes.

There’s more life along the beach now.

A handful of new cafés have opened, their windows spilling the smell of roasted beans into the salty air. A few small bookstores, some with hand-painted signs and others with more vibrant neon displays.

Then there’s a pastel-painted ice cream parlor, its walls glowing with a huge rainbow cones stacked and scattered over the pink and blue backdrop.

You recognize the designs immediately—the same whimsical swirls and patterns they used to print directly on the cones wrappers back when the shop was nothing more than an ice cream truck parked along the roadside.

Back then, the moment its jingle floated through the air, Jeongguk would bolt before you could even say hello, coming back with three towering scoops of his beloved mint-choco.

He’d hold it out to you every time, eyes gleaming, insisting—just try it once.

And every time, you’d wrinkle your nose, refusing to let “toothpaste-flavored dessert” touch your tongue, sticking to your classic strawberry rainbow cone instead.

He’d always pout, then somehow manage to lose half his ice cream to the heat, mint-green rivulets melting down his fingers while you watched in smug amusement.

Further down, is the clam restaurant your mother adored—the one she told you your father brought her to once life had finally allowed them a little luxury.

You’d taken Jeongguk there a few times too, only to learn it had been one of his parents’ favorites as well.

Your mother-in-law always chasing down the clam pasta while your father-in-law and Junghoon made it a mission to drain their highballs before the food could even touch the table.

But it’s the shoreline that stops you.

That one exact spot—dead center where Gwangan Bridge stretches across the horizon—where the tide crashes harder against the rocks, curling faster between your toes.

The mural behind it is still there, though it’s grown over the years: the old weirdly grinning smiley faces now joined by sweeping, colorful waves, as if the wall itself has been breathing new stories.

And it’s that spot you see that tugs back to the memory of beginnings—your sixteen-year-old self with sand on her ankles and salt in her hair, just wanting to see her father’s hometown again, to breathe in the place where your parents found each other, to lose herself in another summer.

Instead of just the sea breeze and the water rushing over your feet, fate handed you a boy—sixteen, with floppy hair, wearing a striped shirt stolen from his brother, and a camera swinging from his neck. That boy who’d stumbled into your life without warning, grinning like the sun had let him in on a secret.

He’s older now, he’s your husband now, the years etched into him in ways that only make him more yours, but the look is the same.

Like he still knows that secret.

Like he’s still the best thing the tide ever brought in.

There’s just the hum of the pier and the soft press of sea wind curling while you’re here alone now.

You close your eyes for a moment and let the sounds settle—the quiet slap of waves against the dock, the creak of ropes tugged by the tide, the distant laughter drifting from the beachside cafés.

This place has held so many versions of you, so many memories, the beginning of all.

The girl who came here chasing salt air and sunsets, letting the wind decide the direction of her thoughts.

The girl who stood barefoot at the edge of the pier, watching the tide roll in like it might carry something new with it.

Back then, you thought life would stretch on in long, golden summers—always another season to find yourself, always another chance to start again, always having more time to see more versions of yourself.

And somewhere in between, you learned how much of yourself this place had quietly kept.

The quiet, stubborn parts. The ones that wanted more than comfort, more than routine. The parts that wanted to feel alive, even if it meant the ache of leaving, the ache of staying.

Then came the boy.

The stranger with a camera and a smile too big for his face, who seemed to belong to the ocean as much as the horizon did.

The best friend who became something more, the hand that fit in yours like it had been waiting all its life.

The man who asked you to be his wife in a tulip field, and you—without hesitation—said yes, because forever felt real enough to touch.

The thought sits—not heavy, but warm, like sunlight you want to keep on your skin just a little longer. You don’t need to name the future to feel it in your chest, beating in time with every small, ordinary joy he’s given you.

And here you are again, the years folding in on themselves like the tide pulling in and back out. Not all of it the same, but enough of it familiar that you can close your eyes and almost believe nothing’s changed.

You don’t hear him at first. Not until his arms are around you, drawing you back against him like he’s keeping you home, where you belong, where you’ve always wanted to be more than anything else.

A slow kiss finds the curve of your neck, unhurried, his breath warm where it lingers.

Jeongguk stays there for a moment before resting his chin on your shoulder. You place your hands over his, fingers curling until you’ve locked him around you completely, as if that could keep him—keep this—just a little longer. His heartbeat thuds steady against your back, and you breathe in sync, wrapped in a stillness that feels safe, whole, and quietly yours.

“We’re really going through time today.” His voice is muffled against your shoulder, but you feel the smile curving there—warm, familiar, curling into your chest like it’s got roots. “Almost didn’t recognize the place when I woke up. Thought you’d abandoned me in the middle of nowhere.”

You laugh softly, head dipping back against his chest. “Place has gotten more crowded since then,” you fingertips brushing absent circles along the arm he’s got wrapped around you. “But it hasn’t changed that much.”

“There’s this weird-looking sculpture by the entrance.” He lets go only to step beside you at the railing, taking your hand in his. “Not sure if it’s meant to be waves or something they just dumped in the parking lot.”

“It’s waves,” you say with a quiet grin. “The plaque literally read, ‘Through high tide and calm, Busan remains.’”

“Didn’t have time to read it.” He leans his head against your shoulder as you both face the water. “Just wanted to see my wife.”

A pause hangs there, steady and full, until you break it with a small laugh. “Remember when I accused you of being a stalker?” You point toward the far end of the beach where the tide slaps harder against the rocks. “It’s right there.”

“You were ready to call the whole of Gwangalli’s security, even the district’s police, I think.” Jeongguk laughs, eyes crinkling. “Thought I was going to juvie at sixteen.”

You drop your head to his shoulder, shoulders shaking. “It was so fucking embarrassing when you said you were getting shots for your portfolio. I wanted the waves to just swallow me whole.”

“It was cute. Didn’t expect all that rage from a five-foot-tall teen.”

“That five-foot teen wished she never spent her summer vacation in Busan after you said it so shamelessly.”

“I’m glad you did,” he says, softer now, turning to face you fully. “Would’ve never met the love of my life if you haven't.”

Your breath catches—not just from the words, but from the way he says them. “Did you know…since then?”

“Mhm.” He draws a deep breath before continuing. “Might not have understood it fully back then. Didn’t know it was love already. Just knew that this girl in a yellow dress, who yelled but still smiled and let me take her picture, made my hands shake every time I looked through the viewfinder.”

“That’s a bit poetic.” You giggle, tucking a loose strand back into your braid. “You were kind of bossy after I let you take my pictures, though. Said I wasn’t cooperating enough, even though you were the one begging for a favor.”

“That was called panicking." He chuckles, glancing down at the water before lifting his eyes to the horizon, dimples flashing. "My hands were shaking so much I had to redo half the shots. Couldn’t keep them steady when you smiled.”

You give him a teasing look, softened by the affection in your eyes. “Thought you said it was the heat making your bones burn.”

“Yeah, that too.” He laughs with you, the sound easy and familiar. “Seventeen years, baby. We’ve come a long way since then.”

“We did.” There's a second of comforting silence before you nod toward a point farther down the beach. “Even got married just a little over there.”

His gaze follows your finger, and his smile comes slow, full of memory. “Where you became my Mrs. Jeon.”

“Where you became my forever.” You lean in, pressing a lingering kiss to his cheek. “The waves were loud that day—like they knew we wanted the water close. But I swear, Hobi yelling over every minor detail was louder.”

Jeongguk throws his head back, laughing. “God, I can still hear it now—‘Jeon, your tie’s crooked.’ ‘Jeon, stop sweating, you’re ruining your makeup.’ ‘Is that concealer on the lapels? Bring in suit number two.’”

You join in, mimicking Hobi’s voice. “‘Sunshine, smile more, you’re getting married, not walking into a soap opera.’ ‘Yoongi, did you feed the doves vitamins?!’ ‘If that altar arch moves one more time, I’m tossing it into the ocean.’” You pause, shaking your head with a grin. “Why was he so dramatic? Why was everyone so chaotic?”

“Please.” Jeongguk rolls his eyes, still smiling. “The squad wouldn’t be the squad without the theatrics. Where do you think I got it?” He pauses, grin widening. “Remember when Jin-hyung threatened the pastor because the wedding script wasn’t in a ‘romantic enough’ font?”

“Poor pastor hid in my suite for twenty minutes.” You smirk. “Let’s not forget Jimin harassing your brother’s band to rehearse the entrance song eighteen times because they didn’t ‘hit the right note.’ I could hear that tune all the way in my suite. My ears almost bled.”

Jeongguk shakes his head, still laughing. “Might’ve been why Junghoon-hyung quit music altogether and joined Appa’s company.”

“But despite the chaos…“ The laughter softens, leaving something quieter between you. You lift your joined hands, the sunlight catches on both wedding rings. “We still got these. Still became husband and wife.”

“Still got to call you mine. Forever.” His voice is low now, almost reverent.

June 13th, 2016—your birthday, your wedding day. The day you got to call Jeon Jeongguk your husband. It had been chaotic, stressful in ways only love can survive, even though your friends wouldn’t let you lift a finger for the planning.

And still, if you could, you’d relive it a hundred times over—just to see those faces smiling back at you, to see the man you love at the end of the aisle, hands trembling, eyes glassy, but lit with a warmth that welcomed you into the next chapter of your life.

“After that day,” you say softly, as though speaking too loud might disturb the memory, “I thought we’d get nothing but sunshine and rainbows. Just love, and happiness, filling our days.” A faint smile tugs at your lips. “Guess that’s what younger me believed.”

You don’t have to look to know he feels the shift in your tone. The way his fingers close tighter around yours says enough—the slight dampness between your palms, the pulse that quickens against your skin.

“And we did,” you go on, eyes finding his. Sadness laces the edges of your voice. “For a while. Until she came along… and then we lost her.”

“Babe…” His voice is thick, but before he can say more, you shake your head gently.

“I never blamed you,” you tell him, brushing your thumb over the back of his hand. “Never saw you differently for choosing me over our daughter. I told you that, over and over. Tried to show you—despite everything—that nothing could change how much I loved you. How much I still love you.”

The air stills between you, the waves below soft and steady.

He stays quiet, letting you speak.

“But…” You let out a small, shaky laugh, swiping quickly at the corner of your eyes before tears can spill. “Reminding you all the time… suffocated you, didn’t it?”

His hand comes up, brushing the tear you missed. Eyes wet too, apology written in every line of his face. He doesn’t speak – can’t. Only swallows hard.

You mirror the gesture, fingers catching the single tear that escapes down his cheek. “I’m sorry for making you feel that way. I’m sorry if I was too much—if I kept making you see what you thought you’d broken. What you’d lost. Maybe if I’d given you the space you needed… maybe you wouldn’t have thought about divorce. Maybe I wouldn’t have lost you. I’m so sorry, Jeongguk.”

He shakes his head slowly, as if rejecting the words outright, and pulls you in—arms winding around you, his chin brushing your hair. “None of it was your fault, my love.”

He presses a kiss to the side of your head before easing back, eyes locking with yours. “Everything I did… it was because I was drowning in everything I couldn’t undo. I didn’t know how to stand back up, how to be the man you deserved—the boy you fell in love with right here on this beach.”

“I didn’t want that version,” you whisper, gaze fixed on your joined hands. Anywhere but his eyes, because you can’t bear to see them breaking. “I just wanted you. Every broken part, every regret, every bit of who you were becoming. Just you, Gguk.”

“I know…” His thumb strokes over your knuckles, voice low. “I know, baby. Realized it too late, but I did. I’ve always wanted you too. I just…didn’t know how to stay without breaking you even more.” He draws in a breath, holds it for a second before speaking again.

“But the divorce papers…” you murmur, trying to pull your hands free, but he tightens his hold. “The first one—you signed it the moment it was finalized. I saw the date, the faded signature. Like you didn’t hesitate.”

His gaze drops, not from shame, but because the truth still stings.

He nods slowly. “I didn’t. And calling it one of the stupidest things I’ve ever done wouldn’t even come close.” He pauses, shoulders rising and falling. “I thought leaving would give you peace… give you the chance to start fresh without me weighing you down. Because I was… weighing everyone down. That’s why our friends—our family—fell apart. They tried so hard to hold us together that it broke all of us in the process.”

You remember.

How every dinner in your home ended before it began—Yoongi or Jin setting plates down only for everyone to finish in minutes, hurrying away so you and Jeongguk could have ‘time.’ Meals going cold because neither of you had the appetite to eat, let alone talk.

How Jimin’s check-ins for his album outfits turned into sudden visits from Jeongguk at the same building—to be there for test shots, though Jimin was already halfway across the globe. Leaving you both to stumble through another awkward conversation until you were late for your own meetings, risking major deals in the process.

And most of all, your last trip here in Busan. Hobi and Jimin’s idea to get everyone together before another overseas project.

It had started well.

The boys in their ridiculous floral shirts and fish-print trunks—Jimin’s doing, of course—making you laugh until your cheeks hurt. You remembered that day on the yacht. Jeongguk’s idea, though he denied it; said it was Jin’s. Swimming together in the open water, careless for a while. Dinner on deck where he peeled shrimp for you, cracked crab shells like it was second nature.

But the normalcy never lasted.

You had to leave early for a meeting in Seoul, the boys staying behind in the vacation home. A drunken snake-and-ladders game later, Jeongguk winning easily to everyone’s groans but still praising their maknae for being good at everything even at dumb board games.

Everyone except a tipsy Yoongi, who muttered that Jeongguk was good at everything… except keeping his marriage alive.

You didn’t hear it then. Only learned about it months later, when Jimin—half-drunk in another catch-up—let it slip. Told you about the shouting match that almost ended in fists, if not for Jin and Taehyung stepping in.

After that, there were no more family dinners. No more movie nights. No random grocery runs.

Just distance.

You ease away from him, leaning against the rail, eyes on the steady churn of the waves.

“So much was broken,” you whisper, twisting the rings around your fingers, the same safety net like it is to him. “So much time had gone by.”

A breeze passes before you ask, softly, hesitatingly. “The first version…when you signed it—did you ever regret it?”

He turns with you, gaze following the horizon. “Every fucking day.” The words are quiet but heavy, his hands trembling slightly on the railing. “I thought it would give you freedom from the pain, give everyone a clean slate. I thought if I disappeared from everyone’s lives, it would make things better. But—”

“But it didn’t,” you finish for him, finally looking at him even though his eyes stay fixed on the water. “At least not at first. Our family’s still not together. Hobi’s still torn between rooting for us or tearing your head off.” The corner of your mouth curves faintly.

“He should tear me apart.” He lets out a soft laugh, head dipping. “Maybe finish that fist fight for Yoongi-hyung too.”

“I’d like to see them try.” Your fingers drift up through his hair, an instinctive act of comfort, one of the ways you always let him know that you’re with him, always on his side, no matter what. “I still remember those upper cuts from your boxing classes. Think I could use them if they even tried.”

That pulls a real laugh from him, dimples deepening. “Those classes ended with you breaking your right pinky, baby.”

“Eh.” You shrug, throwing a couple of mock punches into the air. “I’d break the left one too if it meant you’ll be okay.”

He catches one of your hands mid-swing, pressing a slow kiss to your knuckles before your voice gentles again. “Divorces are supposed to be the end. But somehow, it became… the start for us again, didn’t it?”

Jeongguk doesn’t have to ask what you mean—has always understood the space between your words.

“Your list,” he whispers it like it’s something sacred, something that fixed the broken years between you – because it did. “The conditions.”

You breathe in, then slide your arms around his, head leaning against his shoulder. “When I made that list, all I wanted was to feel loved by you again. To have some time with you. Even if it had to be on paper.” Your eyes drop to the waters below. “I never meant for it to make you feel trapped. Or obligated. I’m sorry.”

He shakes his head, hand landing gently overs yours, a quiet refusal against your regrets.

“At first, it felt like punishment—not because you were forcing me, but because it reminded me of what I used to do for you without a thought… and how I just stopped.” Thumb brushing over yours like his own way of an apology. “The list made me realize how far I’d let myself drift. How much of an asshole I’d been, that you had to write down the ways you wanted to be loved again.”

The breeze moves between you for a few seconds before he leans in, kissing you once on the forehead. “But that list was the best thing you ever did.”, Softer, on the lips, “It led me back to you. To us. It brought me home.”

Gratitude swells in your chest, your gaze softening on him. “It’s been more than thirty days.” You pull out your phone, showing the date—the day you received the revised, signed divorce papers with your conditions. “Do you realize that?”

His brows lift in genuine surprise, a soft laugh escaping. “Time really went by?”

You nod, smiling faintly as you slip the phone back into your dress pocket. “Surprised you didn’t notice.”

Suddenly the birds drifting past him seemed more interesting. Even the new fishing boat that’s easing into the dock—its crew shouting over one another in a familiar, chaotic rhythm. Anything to keep your breathing even.

“You’re usually the one making sure every second on the clock counts.”

“For my projects back then, yeah.” He exhales slowly, a wry smile tugging at his lips. “In my field, chances don’t come often. And when they do, you give everything or someone up there will toss you out and find the next best thing.”

He reaches for your hand, lifting it to his lips. His mouth brushes over the fingers wearing your rings—gentle, lingering—like it’s both a vow and an apology. “But with you, it’s different. Time feels… different.”

You tilt your head, half-smiling. “That’s a bit cliché.”

“But it’s true.” His thumb strokes along your knuckles, eyes never leaving yours. “It’s not that I take our time for granted—I’d never do that. It’s just…” He pauses, voice lowering. “With you, I don’t feel like I have to count the seconds. It’s like every moment is already forever. You’ve always made me feel like we have all the time in the world.”

It’s the words you’ve been longing to hear from him, in those years when he drifted. When you wished he’d be by your side during those dark times, those nights when you had to go to bed alone or those mornings where you wish it’s him you first see when the sun rays peek through the curtains of your room.

But there’s a tightness in your throat as he speaks. The same clench in your chest that you can’t name just yet.

So you let him make you feel everything you couldn’t get in those three years that went by. Let yourself feel the sliver of love and happiness even if it’s just this once.

You let him go on.

“You promised, you’d always be by my side. Have proven time and time again – even though you didn’t have to – that no matter how fucked I am, how much I screw up and no matter what life throws at us, you’re still going to be the woman I fell in love with.”

His hand tightens around yours, like he’s letting you know that he’s here now, and he will be just as much as you’ve been there for him since the beginning. “And I’ll always hold on to that promise. Hold on to all the time you give me. I’ll always be grateful for that.”

You step closer, sliding your arms around him, letting yourself sink into the warmth of his chest and the steadiness of his heartbeat.

“Thank you,” you whisper, voice brushing against his collar. “For choosing me again. For coming home with me.”

Silence folds over you, gentle as the tide. Your gaze drifts past his shoulder to the far stretch of beach, where a young family of three chases one another along the shoreline, their laughter carrying over the water.

The sight lingers, tugging something deep in your chest—something you’ve kept buried until now.

“Do you think Ha-yun would’ve loved it here?”

The question slips out before you can stop it, her name tasting both sweet and raw on your tongue. You’re almost afraid to move—afraid that saying it aloud might shatter the fragile warmth wrapped around the two of you.

You’ve talked about her before, back when the loss was still fresh. Not for a while though… not until recently, when the heaviness between you had begun to ease, when you could look at each other without flinching from the ache.

Still, part of you hesitates—because no matter how much you’ve healed, her name is still a thread that can unravel you both.

And yet… when you look up, Jeongguk’s gaze meets yours without a flicker of discomfort. There’s only softness there. Warmth. Peace. The kind of look that tells you he isn’t bracing for pain this time.

You tilt your chin toward the beach, where the family is laughing over a lopsided sandcastle, their little one walking through tiny tower, knocking over some just as one gets built, their joy spilling into the air.

“Busan has always been more peaceful—for you and me,” he says quietly, following your gaze. “I think it would’ve been the same for her.”

“She was spinning around in my tummy like Everland’s carousel when we first came back here,” you murmur, a faint smile pulling at your lips. “After we found out we were expecting her.”

He chuckles under his breath. “Our daughter… just as excited as her Eomma about the water.” Eyes drifting toward a cluster of rainbow umbrellas farther down the shore. “She’d have run straight to that spot—more seashells there. More chances of finding Mr. Krabs, too.”

You nudge him lightly, the corner of your mouth lifting. “And then I’d have to run after both of you, because you’d be nagging her endlessly about hygiene and dragging her home for a scrub-down at least five times a day.”

He scoffs, flicking your nose with a grin. “And you’d help her escape the tub just to sneak back here and dig for Patrick Star instead.”

“Obviously. Wouldn’t be the cool Eomma if I didn’t help our princess pull little schemes against her Appa.”

He squeezes your side gently. “You’d be the cooler parent even without the schemes, baby.”

The laughter fades into a quieter moment, the waves filling the space between you.

“Do you miss her?” you ask, your voice softer now.

His arm tightens around you. “Every day,” he says, the words catching on a breath. “It might’ve seemed like I didn’t care, but God… there wasn’t a second I didn’t think about what could’ve been. How much I wish she was here with us. How I wish she was running wild around the house, filling every corner with light—and probably breaking one of our dumb sculptures along the way.”

You huff out a soft laugh. “Wouldn’t you have baby-proofed the house?”

“I would,” he admits with a crooked smile, eyes glinting at the thought, thumb stroking over your arm absently. “But I’d still put another sculpture somewhere… just to watch her knock it over again. She’d be that chaotic gremlin who finds amusement in anything. Just like her mother.”

You swat lightly at his chest, a mock glare giving way to fondness. “She’d probably be just as chaotic when our parents start fighting over her on the weekends.”

“Weekends?” He laughs outright, head tipping back. “Baby, they’d take turns every other day. We might not even get to see her during the week.”

“Let’s not forget our friends,” you add, pausing as if to picture it. “They’d be stocking up on premium earplugs to survive her screeching—but knowing them, they’d set it as their alarm tone because they love her too much to miss it.”

“Everyone would’ve loved her.” His smile softens, dimples fading into something quieter. “We all did – do – even when she couldn’t be part of our lives. They were all ready to open their home to her in Seoul, if she’d been with us.”

The sight tugs something deep in your chest when you glance up at him.

You see the father he would’ve been—the patience, the joy, the fierce love that would’ve come so naturally to him. You see how much he has always loved your family, even in the years when he was breaking apart. It’s almost too much to hold, that ache of knowing Ha-yun would have grown up in the safest arms.

“They were,” you say softly, voice gentling into something deep within. “But she should be here. In Busan. This is home. Where our family should’ve been.”

“She should,” he says, eyes fixed on the horizon. After a moment, his arm slips over your shoulders, drawing you closer, resting his cheek against your temple. “If there’s one place our little girl belongs, it’s where we began… where we returned… where we’ll always be.”

He looks up toward the sky, like he knows your little one is just beyond the clouds, listening, waiting.

“Nothing in this world can replace you, Ha-yun-ah.” Voice lowering, carried like a prayer. “Your Eomma and I love you. We miss you everyday. And if we’re given the time and the chance to build a family again… I hope you’ll still watch over us. Protect us. And your hyeongje jamae, when that day comes.”

The wind moves around you both, carrying the sound of the waves and the far-off laughter of strangers—threads of life still weaving through this place you’ve claimed as your own.

Somewhere in that sound, it feels like her laughter could be there too.

Your fingers curl slightly inside your pocket, brushing over the smooth surface you’ve been keeping there all day.

The patterns behind pressed into its case bumps at your fingertips, its charm brushing against your knuckles—both familiar and strange, like a secret you’ve been carrying.

Tracing against the edges slowly alone steadies your heart for just a bit.

You ease away from his arms, just enough to see him, to give the moment its own space. The sun spills between you, and for a breath, you almost forget what you’re supposed to do, get lost with the way Jeongguk looks at you, has been looking at you all the day.

Still, your hand slips from your pocket and opens in front of him.

He blinks at what rests on your palm. Surprise flickers first, then soft confusion. “Babe… when did you—” Caught somewhere between disbelief and something deeper, his voice breaks.

You take his hand and lay the small gift on it, his fingers curling instinctively around the case.

The black-and-white image stares back at him—his head tilted back like nothing in this universe could bother him, dimples deep like Busan’s waters, eyes crinkled mid-laughter like joy is all he’s ever known, fringes falling over his brow, messy, but just in the right place, just like how it did when he was sixteen.

The face on the image is a little older now, but still holds the same beauty and warmth you’ve known since the beginning.

The photocard protected with your pastel yellow sun-patterned case, like it’s meant to keep it home, safe, its silver tulip charm hanging in the middle, stopping just above the eyes on the image like it’s something that man can look up to even when he can’t see you.

“Guess your photography babbles at the studio stuck after all,” your smile comes shy but your gaze steady on him. “See? I can take a pretty picture sometimes”

He looks down again, thumb brushing the case, pausing on the tulip charm like it’s a piece of you. “You’ve taken… God, a thousand pictures of me. But—” He swallows hard, words stuttering as though they can’t keep up with what he’s feeling. “But this…” His brows draw faintly together, a small, helpless smile pulling at his lips even as his eyes gloss over.

You watch him—the way emotion knots itself into his expression, the faint tremor in his grip. There’s a brightness to him in this moment, a kind of happiness that feels both fragile and certain, and it’s all you can do to hold it still.

Your hand settles over his, covering the card, and your other finds his cheek, brushing away the tear that’s slipped free.

“A thousand pictures of you,” you voice comes barely above the waves. “Different versions of you over seventeen years…”

Pausing, you sweep lightly over his skin, searching his face like you’re memorizing him all over again. Wanting to keep this image of him till time will allow. The quiet carries your next breath.

“But this… this is the Jeon Jeongguk who looks like the boy who came into my life.” Your lips curve faintly. “The best friend who promised to protect me. The boyfriend who became brave enough to love me. The husband that returned and became my home again.”

Your fingers slide down to his jaw, holding him there as if to anchor him in the moment. “I’ve loved every version of you,” you say, softer now, “and I’ll love every version that stumbles into me—even in a different timeline, a different lifetime.”

Gaze dropping briefly onto the card in his hand, you find his eyes again. “But this… this will remain forever. I just wanted you to have something that will never let you forget who you are to me.”

There’s a world of words balancing on the tip of his tongue, a lot he wants to say. You can see that with the way the nerves bob down his throat, every time he tries to open his mouth yet none of it comes out.

But you didn’t need to hear another speech of how you’re the only one he wants, the only one he’s choosing. You’ve known for a while now. Have felt that without a paper dictating him, but it’s still something your heart can’t hear him say out loud.

So when he does. “I love y—”

You cut him off with a kiss, slow and unhurried, your tears mingling in the press. Feeling the peace, the love and the home all at once. It lingers—not just lips meeting, but the kind of closeness that feels like you’ve folded time itself between you.

When you finally pull back, forehead still resting against his, you whisper, “Keep this somewhere warm, okay?”

For a moment, the only answer is his quiet exhale, his cheek nuzzling against your hand, his still holding the photocard like it might disappear if he lets go.

You let yourself look at him—really look—one last time before the tide changes. Before the storm hits. The sky is starting to fold into gold behind him, and you carry that image with you as the afternoon begins to slip toward whatever comes next.

3:16 PM.

The numbers on the car’s radio glow sharp and merciless, ticking away like a countdown you never agreed to.

Outside, the passing landmarks of Busan blur into a string of farewells you didn’t ask for—familiar shop signs, the curve of a side street you’d once taken to chase sunsets, a pier that still smelled faintly of salt and grilled squid in the summers.

Each one strips another thread from you, and the road feels longer for it.

You tell yourself you’ve prepared for this moment. That the weight in your chest shouldn’t be heavier than it was yesterday, or the months before.

But every mile out bleeds something from you.

Every shift in scenery—from the warmth of narrow coastal lanes to the colder, wider highway—feels like watching the shutters close on a home you can’t return to for a while.

Then the final arch disappears in the distance—BUSAN IS GOOD—its colors still as bold as the first time you drove under it together, laughing at how it sounded more like a promise than a slogan.

Your breath stutters. The wheel shakes faintly beneath your grip.

For a moment, you think about turning back, about pretending you have more time, about holding on to the illusion that life might still be fair if you just ignore the road ahead.

Jeongguk is still asleep. You’re thankful that he is. His head rests against the window, lashes low over his cheeks, one hand curled loosely around the photocard pressed to his chest as if it were a talisman. The other is laced with yours across the console, warm and steady, the only thing anchoring you to the present.

You hold on tighter, as though that alone might keep you from splintering.

It’s only when you crest the slope toward a gas station that his seat shifts. He stirs, voice hoarse and low.

“Where are we?”

You reach across, smoothing his hair back before he can sit up. “Go back to sleep, my love,” you whisper, leaning in to brush your lips over his. “I won’t take long.”

His smile is slow and drowsy, his head sinking back into the recline. “Mm. Wake me if you get tired, yeah? Or we’ll end up in circles again—and not the fun kind.” His eyes crinkle faintly at his own half-asleep joke.

With a small smile, you press a kiss to his forehead before easing your hand from his, stepping out, the door shutting softly behind you.

You move through the motions—unlocking the pump, setting the nozzle—but your hands won’t keep still. The rhythm you’ve done a hundred times stumbles. Numbers blur on the keypad. Your card slips through your fingers once, twice, before finally sliding it in right. By the time the nozzle clicks off, you’re gripping the handle too tightly.

“Fuck. Keep it together,” you mutter under your breath, low enough not to carry through the glass.

Your phone buzzes. Where are you? We’re waiting.

The message burns on the screen. You slip the phone back into your pocket, glancing toward the car where Jeongguk sleeps—still clutching the small gift you gave him like it might keep the world from moving forward.

The air tastes different now.

The road will take you where you’re meant to go, but not where you want to stay.

The moment the urban air hits, you regret rolling the windows down.

You’d told yourself it might help—let the wind carry the tension out, let you breathe something that isn’t this ache—but Seoul’s air is heavier.

The mix of car fumes, cigarette smoke curling from some punk in their sedan, the sharp tang of asphalt baking under the sun… it makes you dizzy.

At the first red light, you almost welcome the stop, needing the stillness if only for a few seconds.

Seoul was never unkind to you. This city also had its beginnings.

Your mother building her legacy with Seora. The years you and Jeongguk survived Uni’s chaos together, both graduating with honors in programs that shaped the rest of your lives. Where careers took root and the squad, your family, found their way into your bubble. The city where you started your own family, got your baby girl, and for a short time, held that dream in your womb.

But it has never been Busan. The air doesn’t cling the same. The streets don’t hold your laughter in their corners. And for all the moments Seoul also gave you worth holding on to, it still weighs more with nightmares you wish that could be undone.

Losing your daughter, your husband in those years, your marriage, and all the smallest pain in between. The streets where you and Jeongguk used to buy baby things even before you knew what your child would be. The park you stopped visiting because the sight of the playground was too much. The building where people would be brought in and out in stretchers, wheelchairs, the echo of raised voices and doors closing.

You’ve healed from them. It took a God damn long time for you to heal. You’ve learned to walk through those spaces without unraveling anymore —but some scars tend to slip through when you’re this close.

And now, one building looms ahead.

You’ve driven past it countless times on the way to Seora, catching the outline in your peripheral, never letting yourself linger too long.

But you always knew you’d end up here with him.

The stone steps, the pillars standing tall, that awful hexagon in the middle with the blue background that still looks like it just got slapped on there—for some excuse of a slight color with the rest of the building's white facade, the polished metal letters catching the afternoon light—they’ve been waiting for you.

You steer into the more private lot, away from the main road, away from lenses and strangers who might recognize you.

But the cold doesn’t go away.

If anything, it feels like your blood freezes just with the shadow of the structure, in the echo of Jeongguk’s tires on the nearly empty asphalt. Even just seeing the gold plaque glinting in the distance, marking the way to the main hall, makes your breathing uneven.

The two gentleman waits by the entrance, their suits pressed too sharply, their ties knotted with the kind of precision that feels impersonal. Each carrying a briefcase that looks too clean, rehearsed, as if they’ve never been dropped or scuffed by real life, even though you know you’ve scraped a few doodles on of those cases back then.

You imagine tossing them into the nearest dumpster, watching the contents scatter—papers, pens, contracts—like they could be undone just by hitting the ground.

The tears you’ve held since leaving Busan finally break, slipping free before you can stop them. Head dropping against the wheel, you press against the leather until it leaves an imprint. Your hands grip the rim so hard, you’re sure something will snap any second.

No one rushes you. The men keep their distance.

Jeongguk still sleeps beside you, unbothered, face slumped on the seatbelt across him. Lips slight parted, breathing in and out in a kind of peace that’s finally settled within him since his return.

You watch him for a moment, almost envious of that calm. How it softens him, makes him look younger, untouched by the weight waiting outside the car.

Taking a deep breath, you reach for the crumpled tissues in the cup holder. Don’t care if they’re clean. If it would cause one too many breakouts after. Whatever they smear across skin doesn’t matter—not when your chest feels like it’s breaking apart inside.

The old leather bag waits in the backseat. You pull it forward, slinging the strap over your shoulder. The bag is light, almost weightless, but the story inside it is heavy enough to drag you down.

You step out into the quiet of the lot. Round to his side. Your fingers find the door handle, but you stop—just looking at him.

Brows furrowed like always, like he's still trying to look through the viewfinder even in dreamland. The crinkle of his nose when the cold gets to him. Lashes resting on his cheeks. The faint imprint of your photocard still on his shirt.

For a moment, you let yourself memorize him like this.

Then you open the door slowly, the hinge creaking too loudly for the quiet you’ve wrapped yourself in.

Reaching over, you nudge him gently, fingertips brushing his arm like you’re afraid to wake him too quickly. The gesture is simple but it carries all the weight you’re trying to hold back.

Jeongguk stirs, blinking slow against the parking lot’s lights, voice still heavy with sleep. “We’re here?” His lashes lift, eyes finding yours through the haze. There’s a softness in the way he looks at you—unguarded, almost boyish—and it presses warm against the part of you that’s already breaking.

You can’t answer. Not yet.

Instead, you lean in, unclip his seatbelt, and hold out your hand. He takes it, still trusting, still unaware. The cool air greets you both when he steps out. The quiet thud of the door closing feels louder than it should, rattling somewhere in your chest.

He turns—and freezes when he sees Jin and Namjoon walking toward you.

You watch the way his throat bobs, eyes flicking between them and the muted signage in the distance. You can see the question forming before he speaks.

“Hyungs…? What—” His voice cracks, the words stumbling over each other. “What are you doing here?”

You glance at Jin and Namjoon—just enough to remind them to keep silent, of what you’d agreed to—then turn back to Jeongguk. His hands are trembling when you catch them. You hold on like it might steady you both.

He tries to pull away, but you keep your grip.

“You’ll be okay,” you whisper, voice soft enough to hide how it shakes. How it hurts. How you have to keep going. “I promise.”

He shakes his head, glancing around as if looking hard enough might change the scene in front of him. Like he might find an exit. Like maybe if he flutters his eyes enough times, he might wake up from this nightmare that’s slowly raining down on him.

But the sign ahead—Main Courtroom Entrance—stays exactly where it is. You both still remain in the same parking lot, surrounded with nothing but empty cars, lots and your lawyers that are waiting, to move forward.

“What…” his words hitch, drags over the air. “What the fuck are we doing here? Why aren’t we in Busan? This isn’t—” his voice falters. “This isn’t home.”

You swallow down the sting in your threat, the wetness in your eyes. Breathe his name. “Jeongguk…” It tastes like goodbye in your mouth.

He pulls away sharply this time, stumbling back until his shoulders hit the car door. “Don’t—” his tone is low, raw—“don’t call me like that. What happened to ‘baby’? ‘My love’? ‘Babe’?” He turns toward the others, eyes pleading. “Namjoon-hyung… Jin-hyung… stop this.” Head bowed down, the last word drops like it’s been pulled out of him. “Please…”

And then his knees give out. The sound of him hitting the pavement is heavier than it should be. The cracks on the lot makes your eyes close, hold in your breath, like it would help shut out the pain breaking in front of you.

He’s begging now—at both your lawyers, looking at them in hopeful desperation to use their power to undo everything that’s about to happen. Looks at them as their maknae, as their friend, hoping the sliver of family left between them is enough to help him.

“Please…” he whispers again to them—but the way his voice breaks, you know that last plead is meant for you.

Dropping with him, the scrape of the asphalt bites through your skin. You wrap your arms around him, pull his head to your chest, cradling him like maybe you could protect him from what’s about to burn you. Even though you know you can’t.

“I’m so sorry,” you whisper into his hair, the words breaking apart in your throat. A single tear finally falls down your face. “I’m sorry.”

Keeping him steady, curled into you, your palm presses to the back of his head.

His breaths come uneven, catching every few seconds like he’s swallowing something too sharp to speak aloud.

The space around you feels muted—the sound of traffic from the street ahead is distant, the shuffle of Jin and Namjoon’s shoes against the pavement barely registering.

If you close your eyes, you could almost pretend you’re still in Busan. You could pretend this is just another morning where Jeongguk cooks you breakfast, while you try to steal his ingredients mid-process, where you’re both cuddled in bed, just dwelling in each other’s warmth.

But when you open them, the pale stone of the building stands fixed, the glass doors fogs up from being left ajar, the light inside, golden, usually something hopeful to you, is anything but in this moment. The weight of it settles over you, certain, immovable.

Jeongguk’s hand fists weakly in the fabric of your sleeve, like he knows this is it, knows you might let go.

You don’t. Not yet.

Pressing your cheek to his hair, you breath him in, memorize the exact warmth of this moment, because you know it’s going to be a while before you feel him again. See him again.

Behind you, the door opens with a slow deliberate swish. The cool air-conditioning from the halls travels faintly across the lot.

No one rushes you. No one tells you to move. But the stillness itself is a summon, and you both know it.

You loosen your hold, just enough for him to lift his head. His eyes are red, lashes wet, confusion and hurt written into every line of his face. You smooth his hair once, try to crack a smile, hope it’s enough for him to understand that you’ll both be okay.

Hope. That’s all you can hang on to now for the both of you.

The hearing room feels colder than the hallway you walked through to get here—though you barely remember that walk at all.

Your mind is too fogged with the weight of what just happened outside, with the image of him unraveling still fresh behind your eyes, and the ache you’re forcing yourself not to give in to.

The air is cool and muted, carrying the faint scent of old paper and polished wood. Light spills from the tall windows, something you thought might soften the room.

But it only stretches across the floor in pale, sterile lines, making the space feel even more lifeless.

The high walls stand with quiet authority, but to you, they feel like they’re pressing inward—on you, on him—trapping the cracks running through you both.

You sit at the table to the left, still unmoving since you took your seat beside Jin. His presence steady but closed off, the way it gets when he knows there’s nothing left to say.

He tried once, probably giving one last shot to stop whatever stupid path you’ve decided to take since the beginning.

But just with a quiet, “Are you okay?” – and when you couldn’t answer without your vision blurring, he finally lets the silence stand.

Across the aisle, Namjoon rifles through papers, his voice low as he attempts the same with Jeongguk.

But Jeongguk doesn’t respond. Can’t. Shoulders squared, but posture taut, like he’s bracing for something he still hopes won’t come.

The distance between you is only a few feet, but it might as well be an ocean—a whole book of love, loss, and the fracture you’re about to seal in writing. The final chapter.

Your eyes stay on him. The stillness of his hands—no restless bouncing knee, no absentminded cracking of knuckles, no chewing at his lip until it’s raw. All the nervous tells you know by heart are gone.

He just sits there, staring at the shelves of hardbound law books like reading them might hand him the key to undo all of this. As if understanding the rules could stop the verdict already hanging over both your heads.

Beside you, Jin’s gaze follows yours to the maknae he’s loved like his own brother since university. You see a flicker of pain crease his brow, the clench of his fist, the effort it takes for him to stay still when every instinct is telling him to reach across the room.

But he doesn’t. He can’t. Not when he’s trapped by generational obligation. Bound by law, by the role you’ve asked him to play.

“I’m sorry…” you murmur, your eyes still on Jin—sorry for putting him here, for making him carry pieces of this with you. For all the things that are still coming, in this final moment of your marriage with his friend, and for every decision he can't interfere with after.

When he turns to look at you, there’s a softness in his eyes that says, It’s okay. It’s not your fault.

But it’s layered with something else—something quieter—that asks if your apology is truly for him, or for the man across the room who’s already breaking in ways you’re too afraid to picture.

The door opens with a low creak, cutting through the quiet. The clerk steps inside, her voice clear and even as she calls, “Case number 2025–421. Jeons.”

The name brings chills to your skin. The name you’ll hear for the last time. The name you’ll carry till the end even if today, even if for now, you’ll have to say goodbye to it.

You stand when Jin does, your chair legs scraping against the floor. The sound irritates you in a way that makes you want to throw the chair at the absurdly fancy windows but force yourself to stay calm, composed, just like you’ve prepared yourself to.

Across the aisle, Jeongguk rises with Namjoon, the sound of both movements echoing faintly in the cold room. His eyes find yours almost instantly—like he can’t help it—and for a moment, everything else blurs out.

No words pass between you. Just the weight of all the history condensed into a glance—something unspoken that says, I’m still here, even as the space between you feels wider than it’s ever been.

Then the moment breaks when the clerk steps aside, and the judge enters.

“Good afternoon,” she says, settling into her chair, adjusting her glasses as her gaze sweeps over the file in front of her.

Your palms dampen almost instantly. In moments like this—moments too big for your chest—you’ve always had Jeongguk’s hand within reach, your anchor.

Now, you have nothing to hold on to but the edge of the table.

“We are here to finalize the dissolution of marriage as per the agreed terms,” she continues, her voice even, professional. She glances briefly at the papers, then back at you both. “You have filed for an uncontested divorce and submitted a signed settlement agreement.”

Uncontested. Signed. The words ring in your ears like an alarm you want to shut off from those mornings back in Uni when you pulled off an all-nighter for a midterm or a final. The words fall heavy into the space between judge’s sentences.

Uncontested without a choice. Signed because it’s what will be better for him. The thoughts get stuck in your throat – you make sure it does.

You glance toward Jeongguk—catch the way he keeps his chin up, but know it’s just a front. Know the second he tilts his head just slightly, a quick crack of his neck—a habit you remember from old nerve-ridden moments, that he’s just keeping himself from breaking down even more. In front of untrusting people.

The judge’s attention shifts to him. “Mr. Jeon, please confirm—this is your signature on the settlement agreement filed with this court?”

Namjoon slides the document toward him.

Jeongguk stares at his name printed in bold, final black ink. Compared to the years before, when you’ve imagined, when you knew, he’d sign immediately on the first one when it got to him, now, he stares at the entire paper longer than he wants to. Like it’s something that should’ve never gotten to him in the first place.

Adam’s apple shifting, his fingers brushes the paper as though touching it might make it less real. “Yes, Your Honor.” His voice is steady but you recognize the thin tone cracking between the seams.

“And do you confirm you have agreed to these terms?”

His jaw tightens. There’s the briefest flicker in his eyes—hesitation, something almost like refusal, regret that he ever did, but his word comes out anyway. Comes out with restraint. “Yes.”

The judge’s gaze shifts to you, the same expression she’s given him, firm, professional but still, it makes you feel like your knees were about to give in.

“Mrs. Jeon, please confirm—this is your signature on the settlement agreement filed with this court?”

Jin slides the document toward you, the same way Namjoon did for him. The pages are cool under your fingertips, too smooth, too neat for what they hold.

Your signature sits there, just the same when you’d first sign them, with the same heavy heart, with the same tremble in your hands, still with that unaccepting thought that your marriage was coming to an end. The blank ink’s a bit faded now, but inerasable, already carved into something you can’t undo.

You force yourself to draw a breath—slow, controlled—before you speak. “Yes, Your Honor.” The words scrape their way out, quieter than you meant, but you don’t correct yourself.

“And do you confirm you have agreed to these terms?”

Across, Jeongguk’s watching you now—not openly, but from the corner of his eye, like he’s bracing for you to take it back, to say no, to fight for this, to fight for him.

Your lips part, and for half a second, you almost do.

Fingers curling against the edge of the table, nails biting into the wood hoping it might keep you steady but it doesn’t.

Jin notices your hesitation, almost speaks up but you shake your head, hold on to the hem of his coat instead, give him that look that says, We move forward.

Swallowing hard, tasting salt at the back of your throat, it finally comes out, “Yes.”

The word lands heavier than it should, as if speaking it out loud seals something inside you for good.

The judge flips a page, the rustle breaking through the low hum of the air vents.

“For the record,” she begins again, voice steady but distant, “the parties have agreed on division of assets as outlined in Exhibit A. There are no dependent children involved in this proceeding.”

Your hold against Jin’s coat tightens. The memory of your last conversation with Jeongguk just hours ago, in that pier of your beginnings echoing loudly in the silence, in this cold room that’s making it harder for you to breathe. The judges words in between fades out for just a second.

Until—

“No amendments have been made since the agreement was signed.”

You see the flicker in Jeongguk’s eyes at that last line—no amendments. It means nothing has changed.

This is the same paper he signed months ago, the same paper he had forgotten, the same he thought wouldn’t matter anymore.

Not when he finally returned home. Not when the love you’ve longed for has made its way back without those damn conditions telling him what to do, how it should be done and when it should be done. Not when the brokenness had finally healed in him, when he finally remembered again who you were to him.

The judge looks up, scanning both your tables. Silence falling upon her as if she too could sense that this was something that shouldn’t be happening.

You don’t know. Maybe your thoughts, your senses are getting worse by each passing second, but you swear you see the hesitation from the table ahead of you. Like she’s ready to toss out the documents signed by two people who clearly love each other.

Still, she continues, grounded, her tone remaining the same as it was from the moment she greeted you both.

“Before the court enters final judgment, do either of you wish to make changes, raise disputes, or object to the finalization?”

The question hangs in the air, heavy enough to press into your chest.

Jeongguk doesn’t say a word. Neither do you. Jin nudges you gently against your side. You catch Namjoon doing the same to his shoulders.

It’s just the faint sound of mumbled voices outside the room, fading through the hallway. There’s screaming that’s coming from another room, probably a case gone wrong, probably another dramatic day in court. You’d take those screaming over the silence hanging over you in this moment.

Before the judge could repeat her question, you force your voice through it, mouth dry. “No. Your Honor.”

Gaze fixed at the windows behind the judge, you follow the sun dipping lower now, skies turning into your favorite shade of purple, pink and orange. The last sunset you’ll see with him, even though he isn’t by your side anymore just like how you both used to watch one of your favorite moments of the day go by.

You avoid his gaze, knowing if you look at him now, you might unravel.

The judge’s eyes shift across the aisle. “Mr. Jeon?”

He still remains firm with his silence. Throat working. You sneak a glance to see the muscle there tighten, loosen, then tighten again. How he’s holding on to his ring again knowing it’ll be gone if he says yes. The moment he says yes, it’s done.

Jeongguk has fully turned towards you, hoping. Still searching for answers you never gave him the moment you helped him out of the car. The moment you pulled away after giving him that last safe and comforting embrace that you hope he’ll carry till the end of time. He’s still searching for the love he knows you carry for him. That promise.

But you don’t give him anything—not a nod, not a shake of your head. Not even the mercy of meeting his eyes completely anymore.

He waits a heartbeat too long.

The silence stretches, pulling every nerve taut.

Filters and final edits were never really your thing. Too many options, too many tweaks that always ended with a headache and the feeling that something had been lost in translation.

Even back when Instagram only had seven presets, you were already overwhelmed—and now? You can’t even be bothered.

Final cuts were too crisp, too clean. The emotions always seemed to get swallowed under all that polish.

Jeongguk’s edits stayed authentic—his final selects often barely a shade apart from the raws—but even then, you still preferred the chaos. The imperfect charm of the very first click. The rawness. The pulse.

So, you sift through the photos, choosing from the ones you captured on your phone—when they were hung on the drying line, half-developed in trays, or still blinking back at you from the camera screen.

In a few frames, Jeongguk’s tattooed hand holds the camera while you take the photos. You leave them in, of course.

Carefully, you start gathering your favorites.

One of Jeongguk collapsed into the couch, head thrown back, laughing with his eyes shut, arms flopped under him like he’s given in to joy completely. It makes your lips curl unconsciously.

You remember that moment—it was one of the last photos you took before your cheeks began to ache from smiling too much.

Then there’s the one where he tried to channel his inner Calvin Klein and long lost calling. Brooding. Jawline cut sharp, his gaze lazy and knowing, half-lidded as if he knew the lighting was working in his favor.

You definitely took a few extra copies when those got developed—thirty, to be exact. Didn't tell him about. Will never tell him either, or you’ll never hear the end of it.

Next, you pick the frame where you’d unexpectedly fallen into his lap, legs wrapped around his waist. His jaw hangs open in the shot, frozen mid-laugh, caught between surprise and amusement.

You giggle, quietly, remembering how he looked at you after that— like you pulled the sun closer just to keep him warm.

There’s another: the two of you on the couch, your legs draped over his, arms slung around his neck, pressing a kiss to his cheek. His eyes are closed in the photo, dimples deepening where your lips land.

You pause, just for a second.

There’s something in that frame—something full and warm. The kind of photo you don’t just see but feel. It makes your chest ache in the gentlest way, like it’s too full of everything you never had the words for.

That one’s already on your lockscreen, the center of the collage of favorites.

And then, there’s that photo—the one you didn’t even know existed until it loaded in the preview: you on his lap, hands tangled in his hair, lips molded to his, eyes closed, wrapped entirely in each other.

You’re not sure when it was taken. Must’ve been an accidental press, a knee grazing the shutter. But you’re grateful it happened.

Because that photo says it all.

The love you still carry. The warmth that never left. The way he held you like he’d never forgotten how.

And maybe—just maybe—it’s proof that even when no one’s looking, you still find your way back to each other. Every time.

The photos are barely up on your personal Instagram when the notifications begin. Likes, comments, the usual suspects.

With such a small, carefully curated following—and a followers list just as selective—you knew they’d see it right away.

They always did when it came to you.

@ iamurhope: Miss Ma’am? 🤨

@ chimochi: STOP! THIS IS SO FREAKING CUTE! Also, pls post Gguk in 4K. I know he’s trying to be Calvin’s next model. The boxers were boxering @ iamurhope Stop being a buzzkill.

@ dryoongles: Feels like Uni all over again. P.S. pretty sure that’s my mug coaster in the background. Bring it back.

@ jinisthelaw: Husband and wife material right there. Not even mad you’ve outdone Sooyeon and I 🥲

@ taetaehyung: I’m not crying all the way in my hometown. Okay, I’m crying. Fucking finally! 😭

@ marktuan: Congrats, partner. About time 🙂

FaceTime lights up almost instantly. Hobi’s name flashes first, followed by a request to join from Jimin, but you decline with a smirk and whisper to no one, “Not today, clowns.”

And because of the declined call, of course, you know what comes next. Your group chat with Hobi and Jimin lights up like fireworks, their messages – full of demanding questions, banters and tease – flying in faster than you can tap.

| Hobes: So. Who kissed who this time? If it was you, PLEASE don’t fucking run away again.

| Chimmy: If you do, go to Hobi Hyung’s condo. I’m renovating.

| Hobes: My pantry’s out of stock. Sorry.

| ☀️: Nice to know you both have my back🖕🏻

| Chimmy: Always. 😉 So, are you gonna answer? How far did you get? First base? Second? Third? Or did Gguk’s 🍆 finally make a homecoming? You are home. Makes sense if it did. Deets, babe.

| Hobes: I just barfed my caviar. No one wants to know how far they went.

| Chimmy: I do. If you don’t, respectfully Hyung, leave the chat. Love you. 😘

| Hobes: You get lost. Besides, I doubt they even made it past first. Our girl runs like track & field from a kiss.

| ☀️: Okay, rude. No one ran this time. And no. Just… second?

| Hobes: Why is there a question mark?! You LYING? Why are you lying? When did you ever lie to us? When did you lie to me? We’re siblings from another mother. I bought you pads in Uni. No wings. Why are you like this. 😭

| Chimmy: Thought I’m the dramatic one. Babe. Be honest. Did you go all the way or not?

The TV continues to play on low volume, Captain America: The Winter Soldier filling the room now. It’s your favorite part—Steve and Bucky, fists flying, friendship on the line, Cap in civilian clothes, muscles on full display, heartbreak lingering in every swing.

With a final sigh and one last message to the group chat, you type:

| ☀️: no.

Then you close the app, lock your phone, and toss it aside onto the couch.

The screen still buzzes with more questions, emojis, and probable chaos—but your focus stays on the movie. Half drooling over Cap’s muscles. Half aching for Bucky’s broken memory.

You shovel another the last remaining of breakfast into your mouth and mumble, “America’s ass, but with trauma.”

On‑screen, the quinjet roars overhead as Steve Rogers and Sam Wilson free‑fall toward the Lemurian Star.

You squeal when Steve’s ripcord snaps open—every muscle in his shoulders flexing in slow motion—then flop backward on the couch, hugging a throw pillow like it owes you rent.

So absorbed in Cap’s gliding entrance, you barely register the front door until keys jingle and a low chuckle filters in behind you.

“Should’ve guessed you’d cue up Winter Soldier the minute I stepped out.” Jeongguk tows several grocery bags inside, hair wind‑tousled, black button‑up rumpled in the most distracting ways.

He nudges his shoes neatly onto the rack before lifting a brow. “What’s that—watch number … fourteen?”

You tone down the volume long enough to smirk. “As many times as you’ve ugly‑cried during Endgame, that’s what.”

He huffs—manfully, of course—then leans down to plant a quick kiss to your forehead. “Those were heroic tears.”

“Uh‑huh. Wussy tears,” you tease, eyeing the grocery haul. “Please tell me you’re opening a soup kitchen, because that is not a two‑person shop.”

“With the way someone nuked half a dozen eggs and inhaled all the milk last week?” He lifts one bag in evidence—bok choy peeking out, tofu neatly stacked, strawberries boxed like jewels. “Consider this preventive maintenance.”

You watch him drift into the kitchen—precision incarnate—alphabetizing condiments, lining produce like an art director on set. Sunshine slants across the floor, gilding his shoulders; the house hums with quiet contentment.

“Better stocked than sorry,” he calls over the counter, washing cilantro with that absurd chef’s flourish. “What’ll it be for lunch, baby? Jeon à la carte—K‑fusion, Italian, world tapas—choose your fighter.”

“Just movie snacks,” you reply, unlocking your phone to check the confirmation for the reservations you’ve booked for today—another surprise in the queue.

Instead, you find only Hobi’s last dramatic text still blinking. You smile, tuck the phone away. “And go light—we’re heading out soon.”

“Finally going to tell me our next stop?” he’s already slicing fruit into impossibly even cubes.

He doesn’t bug you further when you don't answer. Knows better than to interrupt your TV date and your favorite scenes, most of the times.

Steve has just landed on deck, shield ricocheting, mercs scattering. The first bruise is blooming above his collarbone—equal parts grit and Greek statue—and, predictably, a tear stings your eye.

Jeongguk re‑enters with a plate – tuna sandwiches cut into hearts, neatly fanned strawberries, and two miniature cups of ramyeon popcorn he must have invented on the spot.

He sets the tray on the coffee table, thumb brushing the tear before it falls.

“Wifey, are you crying over delts again?”

“Battle scars,” you sniff, already stealing a strawberry. “And shoulders.”

He chuckles, sinking beside you as Cap runs into Bucky’s knife for the first time – the past meeting the present in one breathtaking clash.

“Scars and shoulders,” Jeongguk echoes softly, draping an arm around you. “Guess I’d better keep both safe, huh?”

The tide hushes against the sand beyond the four walls of your home; inside, you trade one sandwich bite for his popcorn cup, Cap and Bucky dueling in vibrant, muted tones—a quiet promise that the day still has adventures left to claim.

The movie becomes the only sound filling the living room, save for the occasional crunch of snacks spread across the coffee table—most of which Jeongguk is steadily demolishing, while you remain completely absorbed by the two men dominating the screen.

Every time Steve Rogers flexes too hard or delivers a noble speech that sounds like it came from a wartime poster, you sigh loudly and melt further into the couch’s armrest.

“Babe, I’m literally downing all the tuna sandwiches here,” Jeongguk whines beside you, holding up one of the heart-shaped halves in one hand, a strawberry wedge poised in the other like it’s a peace offering.

You take a bite from the sandwich, eyes still locked on the screen where Cap is giving Bucky that look—the one that screams: I’m not leaving you behind. Even if you try to stab me again.

“Are you actually listening to the dialogue,” Jeongguk asks flatly, nudging the strawberry closer, “or are you just hypnotized by the pecs again?”

“Can’t it be both?” Blindly chomping down on the fruit, you sigh dreamily. “God, he’s so noble. That self-sacrificing ass. Those blue eyes. But then there’s Bucky—the angsty bad boy with memory loss and a bionic arm. Ugh. Who do I even pick?”

You fling yourself dramatically onto Jeongguk’s lap, grabbing the remote and cranking the volume up like your life depends on it.

“How about me?” he deadpans, brushing your hair back like he’s been personally betrayed. “Me and my poor, neglected ramyeon popcorn cups?”

“I’m married to you,” your fingers find his, lifting them to press a kiss to the tattoos across his knuckles. “I picked you nine years ago. And the years before that when I said 'yes' to being your girlfriend. Stop being dramatic.”

“Then give me attention.” He leans over you, smothering your face with kisses—cheeks, nose, forehead, even your chin—until you’re laughing too hard to resist him. “And the ramyeon,” he adds between kisses. “It’s been patiently waiting.”

Grabbing a few popcorn pieces, you munch on them. “So clingy, geeze.” Then turn back to the TV, laying comfortably on his lap.

Jeongguk still showers you with endless kisses, still whining for your piece of attention. “FYI, I know Chris Evans' workout routine. Could totally get bulked like him. Just say the word, and you'll get Captain American at home."

"Captain America, Temu version?"

He gasps dramatically—of course he would—starts attacking you with deathly tickets. "Take that back!"

Laughing hysterically, stomach aching, you almost roll off the couch if it he hadn’t caught you, just to get back to the insufferable tickling. “Okay, okay, you win. Stop!”

He does, but hands remains unmoving by your sides, ready to attack. “Say I’m the only sexy man in your life.”

Deadpan, you look at him. “You’re the only sexy…oh Lord, can’t even say it without cringing.”

Jeongguk looked like he was literally on the verge of tears, boba eyes looking at you sadly, full, round, watering, lips pouted like an abandoned puppy. Knows this look would always do the trick, to make you fold without questions.

And it does.

Sighing, eyes playfully rolling, you finally give in, placing a soft kiss on his lips. Boba eyes instantly lighting up.

You’re about to give him your full undivided affection, but pause when your phone lights up again.

Expecting one of the resort confirmation alerts for your next surprise—only to see a barrage of new messages from Hobi and Jimin, now flooding your DMs and blowing up your latest photo post with increasingly unhinged commentary.

Groaning, you drop your phone on the couch, and rest your head against Jeongguk’s chest. “Those two need to get a life.”

He reaches for your phone, blinking at the chaos filling your lock screen. A flurry of notifications light it up like a pinball machine, most from Instagram.

With one tap, his facial recognition still set as your secondary security, he opens the app—and the moment he sees your post, his eyes immediately glass over, torn somewhere between overwhelmed laughter and misty warmth.

“You posted us?” His voice cracks halfway through, lower lip already caught in a pout as he clutches the phone to his chest like it’s something sacred.

Leaning into his side, cheek pressed to his shoulder, you scroll through the comments together. “Felt right to share our moments again.”

Your thumb glides over the screen, pausing at one of the older replies. “Besides, my last post of us was... god, look—2022?”

Jeongguk leans in, squinting at the photo. “Is that...?”

“You, heading off to Daegu for a campaign shoot.”

It’s a selfie of you taken from your Seoul home, with Jeongguk caught in the background—mid-struggle with his shoes, hair still a mess, one camera bag hanging off his shoulder while his backpack remains unzipped, the tiny bunny plush you stitched for him in Uni dangling from it like a final accessory.

The chaos of that morning is immortalized in soft light.

He bursts into laughter. “From the thousand of pictures on your phone, this had to be the one you last posted, huh?”

“It’s a beautiful chaos,” you tease, nudging his side. “You overslept because I kept you up with my mood swings, remember? Ha-yun was doing full-on gymnastics in my belly, probably mad you were leaving.”

It’s been almost three years ago, but you remember that day clearly.

“Please,” Jeongguk groans between laughs, tipping his head back against the couch. “You cried the night before because Yoongi Hyung and I tricked you into eating those fake nuggets made from salmon.”

“The crime nuggets,” Your eyes narrow, poking his chest like it still haunts to this day. “You’re lucky I didn’t burn the house down.”

“In our defense,” he chuckles, “it was the only way we could get you to eat healthy.”

“Well maybe if you and your little health crusade hadn’t pried me away from sodium, we could’ve had a full night’s sleep. Then you wouldn’t have had to drive to a McDonald’s three cities away to fulfill my 2:16 a.m. fast food emergency.”

“Hey!” He rises with dramatic flair, gesturing like he’s defending his honor. “I had to. We were banned from the one near our house.”

You break into laughter. “Because Jimin, Hobi, Yoongi and Jin thought it was funny to intervene with my cravings. They should’ve known better than to stop a pregnant woman from getting her double cheeseburger, nuggets and McFlurry. That was the real crime.”

“Okay, fine. Hyungs were out of line,” Jeongguk throws his hands up in surrender. “If they hadn’t interfered with your sacred cravings, we wouldn’t have gotten kicked out, I wouldn’t have had to drive across cities to get you real nuggies, and peace would’ve prevailed.”

“See? You do understand.” Chin titled high in victorious smugness, you reward him with a peck on the cheek. “And if everyone had just listened to me, you wouldn’t have overslept or nearly missed your shoot in Daegu.”

Jeongguk narrows his eyes, lips twitching. “Just admit it—you were throwing a full-blown fit because you couldn’t handle me being gone for a week.”

“Well, sue me for being a clingy baby mama,” The laughter between you fades gently, replaced by the comforting hum of the TV playing some forgotten scene in the background, seagulls cawing faintly outside the patio windows like a lullaby only the sea knows.  

Jeongguk scrolls back through the new photos on your feed, chuckling at the chaotic comments from your friends. “They’re acting like they haven’t seen us kiss a billion times.”

“Right?” You snort, thumbing through the replies. “Look at Hobi’s comment. I can feel the big brother energy from Milan.”

Fingers tapping to the one in question: ‘The return of the strawberry mint swapping. Please, check your DM’s, sunshine.’

He groans into your shoulder, face burying deeper until his nose brushes your collar. “I think they’re still traumatized after walking in on us more times than we can count.”

“They wouldn't be traumatized if they actually understood the concept of boundaries,” you say, deadpan. There’s a few seconds of silence—brief, knowing—before you both erupt into laughter again.

“Yeah,” Jeongguk says between snickers, “that’s never going to happen.”

With nothing but the breeze slipping through the open curtains and the soft fumble of your fingers tangled in his, Jeongguk quietly reaches for the remote and switches off the TV.

His face shifts—lighter moments replaced by something deeper, heavier. “That photo of us on your feed… the last one… it was also before—”

Cutting him off gently, already knowing where his thoughts were heading, the weight behind every word he didn’t finish. “Before she was taken away from us.”

He exhales sharply, like he’s been holding it in for years.

His grip around your hand tightens. “If I’d known, I never would’ve left. I would’ve stayed. Skipped the Daegu shoot. Bought you every box of chicken nuggets, hoarded every cheeseburger you craved at ass o’clock. I would’ve barged into that banned McDonald’s, bought out their entire stash of McFlurries. I should’ve stayed home.”

“You’d get jail time if you showed up at that McDonald’s,” you chuckle lightly, rubbing slow, calming circles into his hand. Thumb brushing the edge of his wedding ring, like a quiet promise you’ve always kept.

“Jin-hyung would've bailed me out and found some legal loophole,” he mutters, a ghost of a laugh following.

Then quieter, more sincere, “What I do—my job, my work—you know it means the world to me. But none of it matters if it costs me you. I should’ve said no to Daegu.”

“We’ve come a long way since then,” you scoot closer until your legs are folded over his lap, wrapping around his warmth. “You’re good at what you do, Gguk. Hell, you’re the best creative director out there. I’ve never doubted that. You’ve gone places—and you’ll keep going. No one can touch you.”

Jeongguk smiles faintly, lowering his gaze. “You always believed in me—before anyone else did. Before I even had a name.”

“Because it’s true,” you grin, reaching up to lightly poke at the dimple forming on his cheek. “You could take a picture of a manhole and it’d still look like fine art. Film a single leaf falling from a tree and Sundance would be begging for a copy.”

He lets go of your hand, just to pull you closer, arms folding tightly around your waist. “As long as you’re with me, I think I’ll always know what I’m doing. You were my first muse—the reason my angles ever made sense. You still are. You’re why my studio lights feel warmer. I want you with me. Through every photo. Every film. Every story. You’re the reason I’m still here.”

“As sweet as that sounds…” you shift to face him, sitting cross-legged now. You bring your hands to his face, cupping it gently, smiling when he leans into your palm like he always does—like your touch anchors him to this life. “You don’t need me to be brilliant. You already are. Always have been. And even when I’m not around, you’ll still shine. There’s a reason you’re the golden boy, my love.”

A quiet stillness settles between you. Not awkward. Not uncertain. Just soft. His cheeks warm against your hands, his lashes lowering, those boba eyes of his studying you the way he used to when you first met—like you’re everything that ever mattered.

You brush your thumb over his cheekbone, then gently tuck his fringe aside with the kind of tenderness only time and love can earn.

“So… how was the meeting with your boss?” your voice is gentle, laced in care. “It must’ve been important, for him to come all the way to Busan.”

“Looks like I do still have a job after all.” Jeongguk flashes you a smile—relieved, soft around the edges—but it doesn’t fully reach his eyes.

There’s a flicker of something else beneath the surface. Sadness? Uncertainty? Like whatever he’s about to say next carries more weight than he’s ready to unpack.

“Actually, my job… it’s uh—it’s kind of… huge.” He laughs nervously, eyes darting briefly away from yours. “There’s this—”

But he never finishes.

Because just then, your phone lights up behind him. A buzz on the couch, screen glowing with the exact notification you’ve been waiting for all morning. The familiar icon of your booking app lights up like a green flag, and excitement bursts in your chest.

“Oh my god—” you gasp, scrambling for your phone. In one swift move, your legs slip off the couch and you bolt upright. “Get dressed, Gguk. We’re going out!”

He blinks as you whirl into motion, already scooping up the half-eaten snacks from the table, wiping crumbs off your pajama pants.

Then you're rushing to the kitchen, stashing leftovers into the fridge like you’re on a timed mission, dishes stacked neatly into the sink to handle when you get back.

The thrill in your chest is infectious, a giddy little secret only you know—for now.

Jeongguk’s already on his feet, watching you buzz around the house. “Let me guess… your surprise just came in?”

He’s halfway up the staircase when he turns back, grinning, waiting for you to catch up. That dimple makes an appearance.

“Obviously,” you smirk, joining him on the steps. “Change into something comfy. And waterproof.”

“Water?” Jeongguk echoes, brows raised, completely thrown.

You just wink in reply, stepping off toward the guest room where you’d tucked away your pre-packed bag. He watches you disappear behind the door with a dazed look, still clueless, still smiling.

It doesn’t take long before the front door clicks shut behind you, and the two of you are heading down the driveway.

Jeongguk’s still fumbling with the oversized backpack you’d packed earlier while he was out—checking, double-checking, making sure you didn’t forget anything—so focused he doesn’t even notice when you reach around and swipe the Harley keys from where they hang at his waistband.

You’re already making a run for it, laughing as your sandals slap the pavement.

“Baby—wait!” he calls after you, jogging behind, camera bag bouncing across his chest, the backpack dragging his pace. But you’ve already reached the bike, lifting the seat compartment open with a little flourish.

“Slow poke.” You stick your tongue out, nose scrunched in full childish glory.

Jeongguk groans through a smile. “Your age is showing.”

“Your age is catching up to you, Gguk.”

He sets the bag down with an exhale and unclips your helmet from the side of the bike, placing it on your head and securing the strap under your chin with practiced care. Then his own follows, a quiet click. “We’re really taking the bike? You packed half the house, babe.”

Still chirping, you’re already straddling the bike and revving the engine once just for show. “Of course we are. It’s going be fun after. Consider it air drying—saves us from those overpriced heaters that does nothing in that place.”

Jeongguk eyes the bags with a groan, tightening the camera bag strap around his body, then reaching over to adjust the little lunch sack hanging on your shoulder too.

He props a hand on his hip, brow raised, full sass activated. “Excuse you—get in the back. I’m driving. I always drive.”

“Not today,” you grin, patting the seat behind you. “Promise I won’t crash us.”

He gives you a look but climbs on anyway, grumbling under his breath. The second he’s settled, his arms lock snug around your waist.

“That’s what you said last time.” You feel his face press into your shoulder, his voice muffled. “I swear to God, if I die, I’m haunting you, all your skincare, and half of your shoe collection. About time I snatched the Seora x Jordan collab.”

"Forgetting I'm a size five?"

"I'll find a way to outstretch them."

You burst out laughing as you kick up the stand, feeling the rumble beneath you. He tightens his hold instinctively, and you wheeze. “Jesus, Gguk—ease up, I can’t breathe! We will crash if you keep clinging like that!”

“Good! Then I’ll have proof you’re a menace!” he yells, raising his voice over the growl of the engine.

“You didn’t even warn me about the humps last time!”

“That’s what eyes are for!”

“You know I’ve got the eyesight of an eighty-year-old. That’s why I’ve got you, remember?” You smirk, turning onto the main road. “My eyes, my ears—”

“And your heart,” he finishes, voice gentler now as he leans in and kisses your cheek over your shoulder. “Now please, baby. I’d like to survive long enough to see where you’re taking me.”

The resort looks exactly like you imagined it when you’d started planning weeks ago.

A massive inflatable obstacle course floats proudly across the glistening water, each section a chaotic patchwork of neon yellow, green, and blue. There are wobbly platforms shaped like stepping stones, tightrope-style walkways, a dome-like hump in the middle, and a slide that dips dramatically into the final pool.

The center slide, no doubt, is the winning finish line—but it’s the in-between traps that catch your attention. You already know you’ll trip over at least one of them.

And you already know Jeongguk’s going to ace it on the first try. Because of course he will. He’s the golden maknae for a reason.

Further off on the calmer side of the cove, a row of brightly-colored kayaks are neatly lined up along the dock, bobbing gently with the still water. The breeze is quieter there, the current more peaceful, the kind of spot you reserve for winding down once your muscles give up from the chaos.

“Oh my God!” Jeongguk’s already squealing, shirt halfway off, ready to launch himself into the water like a six-year-old at summer camp.

Just as expected.

Until a resort staff member intercepts him with a polite but firm voice.

“Sir, we’ll need you to be in full clothing for safety purposes,” the staff explains, handing over a folded map of the resort and the safety guideline leaflet.

Jeongguk freezes, shirt still dangling from one hand. “From my body?” he asks, looking utterly baffled.

The staff glances at him, blinking. “Pardon?”

“Dumbass.” You finally catch up, snatch his shirt, and shove it back over his head. “You’re still so full of yourself. They meant if you fall and crash from the obstacle course, it’s safer with clothes on. No one’s trying to gawk at you, Gguk.”

What a lie.

Because you’ve been doing exactly that since the second he peeled off his compression shirt. Your eyes had locked onto the tattoos inked along his arm, the gentle slope of his back, those broad shoulders tapering into that criminally slim waist.

And his pecs? Forget Steve Rogers. Captain America has never been your ultimate bias. Jeon Jeongguk—your idiot husband—is and always will be.

But of course, you keep these thoughts to yourself. If he ever found out, he’d be insufferable for the rest of the year.

“Oh,” he mumbles, face going red. He ducks behind you like your frame might somehow protect him from the still-suspicious staff. Then, in a whisper that’s way too excited for a grown man, “Baby, this is amazing!”

You try not to laugh. “Are you ready to actually listen to the staff so we can finally try the course?”

“Yes, ma’am!” he salutes like a kid trying not to get benched. “I’ll behave. But do you know how long I’ve been waiting to try this?”

He’s bouncing slightly on his heels, hair all fluffy from the breeze, the corners of his eyes crinkling with that boyish glee that always makes your chest ache in the best way.

“I know.” You lean in and press a soft kiss to the side of his head.

Fingers laced together, you both follow the resort staff toward the cabana you reserved—nestled under a shady patch by the palm trees, complete with a hammock, towels, and enough bottled water to hydrate a small army.

It’ll be your little home base between chaotic water wars, sun-drenched games, and every dumb wipeout you’re about to face together.

By the time you return from the changing rooms, Jeongguk’s already geared up—almost.

He’s got on the slip-proof aqua shoes, his lifejacket is securely fastened. But he’s in the middle of very loudly trying to argue his way out of the helmet and the knee pads.

“Jeongguk.” Your tone—and the look you give him—is enough to stop the debate cold.

He immediately straightens, arms flying up in defense like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “I’m not picking a fight! I’m just saying…the knee pads are too tight and the helmet’s going to ruin my hair.”

You narrow your eyes at him as he approaches you with the lifejacket already in hand, his protest temporarily forgotten.

With quiet, practiced ease, he fits the vest around you, tightening the straps snugly with just the right pressure—clearly something he learned while you were gone. He probably absorbed the entire safety briefing. Twice.

“Your hair’s going to get wet anyway,” you point out, taking the helmet from the instructor and trying to place it on his head. “Jeon Jeongguk.”

He dodges you.

“Baby.” Now he’s the one holding the helmet, trying to fit it on you.

“Pass.” You twist out of reach, huffing. “I’m not getting helmet hair. It’s going to ruin the photos.”

Snatching the gear, you hand it back to the staff as politely as possible.

“See!” Jeongguk grins, smug as ever. “You get it. It’s the same when you’re wearing one on the Harley.”

“That’s different!” you argue. “Nobody’s taking our photos or filming videos while we’re on the bike. Besides…” You glance toward the staff, flashing your most innocent smile. “The helmets are optional, right?”

The poor staff member—whose soul looks like it’s halfway out the door—nods, monotone. “Yes, Ma’am. While we highly recommend wearing the full safety gear, especially for beginners, all participants have signed liability waivers. Proceeding without the gear is at your own risk.”

“You hear that?” Jeongguk says, nudging you like a smug gremlin. “It’s only recommended. And I’m not a beginner. YouTube practically trained me for this.”

Sighing, you let him win. Of course you do.

He keeps the lifejacket on but hands over the knee pads and helmet, which you tuck under your arm—just in case. He probably won’t need them. Being annoyingly good at everything.

Still, you take a few steps back, lift the camera, and aim it at him.

“Smile!”

He does. Boba eyes lighting up, bunny smile in full bloom, fingers flashing a peace sign just as the shutter clicks. Then he takes the camera from your hands and returns the favor—snapping a few of you before handing it off to the staff nearby with a wide grin.

“Mind taking one of us?”

He’s already wrapping an arm around you before the staff can say yes, pulling you flush against him. His lips press against your cheek the second the photo’s taken.

“Alright, that’s enough.” You push at his chest with a laugh, though your heart’s still full from the sudden kiss. “Let’s see what you’ve got, Gguk. Time to put that YouTube degree to the test.”

“I got this, babe.” One more kiss to your cheek before he jogs off, following the instructor to the starting line.

You stay back, camera ready, heart steady, already grinning in anticipation.

Because you know exactly what’s coming.

The Olympics of chaos is about to begin.

To your surprise, Jeongguk actually keeps it together for the next twenty minutes.

He listens intently to the instructor, nodding along as they point out which inflatable handles to grip, where to step to avoid slipping into the water, and how to balance across the trickier gaps. He’s practically a star student—if star students had tattoos and trouble standing still.

He doesn’t master it on the first go, of course, despite all his earlier bragging. Takes slow, careful steps, wobbles dangerously on the narrower beams, and misses a few handles along the way—face scrunched in deep bunny concentration.

You’re perched comfortably on the flatter, steadier portion of the course, camera in hand, laughter bubbling from your chest as you film him. “Where’s your Internet expertise now?!”

“Yah!” Jeongguk shouts, currently dangling from the inflatable monkey bars like a soggy action figure. “It’s narrower than it looks! Let’s see you crush it when you try.”

“I will! Won’t even slip once!” you shoot back, zooming in on his flailing legs and dramatic expressions.

You may or may not sneak in a few shots of his perfectly sculpted thighs—purely for science. And private archives.

Eventually, Jeongguk insists on running the course solo, determined to redeem himself. He paces each section with caution, tiny steps and all, brows furrowed like a man solving a national crisis.

Every now and then he grumbles under his breath, but he’s definitely learning the pattern now—graceful wasn’t quite the word, but he’s getting there.

You keep filming from where you’re seated, occasionally flipping the camera around to record your own running commentary. “Still moving like a snail, but hey—those legs are working hard. Look at ‘em go.”

“I heard that!” he yells from atop the final inflatable slide, clutching the bright victory ball challengers are meant to retrieve. He poses with it dramatically before sliding down into the center pool, yelling triumphantly, “Baby, I did it!”

He surfaces with the ball still under his arm and swims toward you, soaked and beaming like a golden retriever. You put the camera down for a moment and greet him with a grand round of applause.

“Congratulations,” you grin with a dramatic pout. “It’s now Christmas.”

“You’re so mean!” he pouts, hauling himself up from the water, arms flexing as he climbs. The way his compression shirt hugs him should be a crime. You fumble to pause the recording, just to save yourself the nosebleed. “At least I finished it!”

“Ready to teach me how to slip and slide now?” you tease, handing the camera and your things to the nearby staff member as you stand up.

“I didn’t slip,” Jeongguk says, placing a hand on his hip like he’s the sassiest lifeguard alive. “I simply demonstrated how not to do it. The instructor is probably sweating—I’m a job threat.”

You snort, already making your way to the start of the course. “You fell eight times. And the camera caught every single one.”

He mimics your voice behind you in protest, jogging up to walk beside you.

“Let’s see if those tiny feet of yours can keep up,” he mutters, nudging you playfully.

“These little feet,” you reply, tapping your toes against the inflatable mat, “are about to beat your ninteen-minute-and-thirty-eight-second record. With style.”

“Noooo!” He collapses dramatically onto the flat surface like he’s been fatally wounded. “Why was it so long? I even used YouTube-certified flair techniques!”

What Jeongguk learned from the instructors—and YouTube, apparently—gets passed down to you step by step.

He takes the lead, guiding you carefully through the inflatable obstacle course with all the seriousness of a man leading a covert mission. “Okay, baby, hold this handle with your left. Now shift your weight—yep, like that. Step exactly where I step, alright?”

You follow close behind, mirroring his movements as he points out which footholds are safe and which ones nearly got him tossed into the water earlier. “That one’s a trap,” he warns, grabbing your hand to steer you just a little to the right. “Inflated lies.”

He’s focused, lips pursed, brows furrowed in intense concentration—but even so, his hand never strays far from yours.

When you start to wobble near the inflatable monkey bars, he taps your ankle gently with his foot, guiding it to the safer side like he’s herding a clumsy kitten.

You manage to keep up for the most part, but when the path evens out, you start playfully skipping steps, adding a little bounce to your stride.

“Keep that up, babe, and you’re slipping in the next two seconds,” he warns, eyes narrowing like a strict instructor—but you can tell he’s fighting back a grin.

“Have I slipped yet?” you sass, raising a brow as you take two wider steps in a row. “Pretty sure I’m already outperforming your first run.”

Jeongguk rolls his eyes with a dramatic sigh, lets go of one of the handles—just to tickle your side.

“Jeon Jeongguk—!” Losing your grip, you topple straight into the water with a splash. “That was foul play!” you yell up at him from the pool, flinging water in his direction, but he dodges smoothly with that annoying golden bunny grin on his face.

“That,” he smirks, “was called smart play.” He keeps moving along the course while you paddle to the edge. “Aww, is my baby having a hard time? What was that about doing better than me?”

“I’ll show you better.” With a mischievous glint in your eye, you lunge up and tickle his feet.

Jeongguk squeals, legs kicking as he struggles to stay upright.

“Stop it—stop it! I’m sorry!” he laughs, flailing wildly until you grip the side again and reach up to tickle his ribs.

He panics, lets go of the handle, and wraps his arms around you on the way down—dragging you both into the water in a joint splash of giggles and shrieks.

“Great,” you huff as you emerge. “Do you know how hard that was to climb?!”

“Let me help you up, you tiny fish.” He grabs you by the waist and lifts you easily back onto the inflatable path like you weigh nothing at all.

You immediately cling to the handles again like your life depends on it, shooting him a glare as he climbs up after you, grinning.

“Okay, okay,” he pants, pushing your hair out of your face. “One more flatter walk, then the baby steps, then the final climb up the slide.”

You both continue with slightly less chaos now—only slightly. A three-step wobbly path, one long walk along the flat section, and then you begin the final climb up the slide.

Barely halfway up, your arms start trembling, breath short. “Fucking Olympics, I tell you.” Muttering to yourself, continuing the climb.

Suddenly, Jeongguk’s hands push at your lower back.

“Hands off, ass now!” you snap, glancing down over your shoulder.

“What? It’s a good view down here,” he teases, breathless but still cheeky. “Hurry up, woman. Before I turn thirty-three.”

You try to kick him off, but he’s quicker—hopping up beside you with that smug grin still in place.

“Show-off,” you mutter, nudging him with your hip as you reach the top together, the bright yellow victory ball finally within reach.

Jeongguk doesn’t even try to claim it. He gestures toward it with a soft look in his eyes. “Go on, love. You earned it.”

You pick up the ball in triumph, holding it above your head like a warrior as Jeongguk slides down first—arms thrown wide like he’s flying.

At the bottom, he surfaces, waiting with his arms stretched out, looking up at you with a boyish smile that melts your insides. “Come on, sunshine. Jump.”

Sliding down with your eyes squeezed shut and a high-pitched squeal echoing behind your teeth, you barely hit the water before Jeongguk’s already caught you—arms wrapping around your waist like a net cast just in time.

“That was so good, baby!” he cheers, taking the victory ball from your grip and tossing it away without a second thought. His lips land everywhere—cheeks, forehead, jawline—in rapid reward. “Even if it took you ‘til New Year’s.”

“Jerk!” you sputter, laughing, shoving his chest and start swimming back toward the platform. “Only because you distracted me halfway through!”

Jeongguk paddles beside you, parting the water with slow, lazy strokes. “You distracted me too! But hey—good job on finishing. We crushed it, babe. Gold medals to both of us.”

“Nope,” you refuse, hopping back onto the starting platform. “We’re not ending with a tie. Round three. Sunshine versus Jeon. Just like old times. Just like back in uni.”

He’s already swishing his head like a puppy, water flying everywhere as he wrings out his hair and tries to fix yours in the process.

Undoes your bun, just to tie it back properly this time. “Oh, you mean when we used to run the track and field oval in the mornings—and I still beat you to the finish line?”

“I beat you!” you argue, then pause, the memory landing. “Three times. Out of the ten you did.”

He laughs so hard he nearly falls back into the water. “Alright, alright. I’ll go easy on you this time since you brought up the challenge. And because, let’s be honest—I want to redeem my lousy first run too.”

“Deal.” You hold your hand out, and he takes it, shaking firmly. “Separate paths. We each get a staff to time us. First one to reach the top, grab the ball, and slide down with the best time wins. No pushing. No tricks.”

Jeongguk crosses his arms, trying to hide the smirk threatening to crack through. “Understood, Miss Ma’am. Want a ten-second head start too? I’d like to be generous toward your tiny little legs.”

You shoot him a glare, marching off to your side of the course. “Wow. Such a gentleman. You’re going to regret that.”

He’s already stretching dramatically on the other platform. “You can even have twenty! I’ll order a whiskey while I wait.”

The staff steps in to brief you both with a warm but practiced tone. “Alright, here’s how this works: Get through the course clean—no tricks, no shoving, and try not to fall in. Every slip into the water pauses your timer until you’re safely back up. First one to grab the ball from the top and slide down with the shortest time wins the round. Understood?”

You nod, then wave another staff member over. “Excuse me, do you mind filming the whole thing? His camera’s just over there—on the table.”

They nod and smile, already retrieving it. You walk them through the buttons quickly, pointing out the wide lens function and the recording screen.

“Would you like us to focus more on him or you?” they ask, pressing the shutter to start a test clip. “We do have another staff on standby for official resort coverage too. So we’ll get footage of both regardless.”

“Oh, that would be lovely, thank you. We’ll definitely want the official coverage later on.” You smile sweetly. Then, glancing at Jeongguk’s camera, you add softly, “But on this one—please focus on him. I want him to have something to look back on one day.”

“Of course, Ma’am,” they say with a knowing smile, adjusting the camera to frame Jeongguk’s platform.

“Yah!” he calls across the course, pointing accusingly. “Stop making dirty deals with the staff! They said no cheeky tricks!”

You roll your eyes as you crouch into starting position. “Told you not to give away that head start, Jeon. Prepare to lose.”

“Beat you at the top, baby!” he shouts back, crouched and ready.

“On your marks…” the staff calls out, raising one hand between the two of you. “Get set…”

The second the whistle blows, you bolt forward like your life depends on it.

Every step, every obstacle from earlier plays like a map in your mind—where to land your feet, which corners to avoid, which inflatable curves are too slippery to risk.

You scale the first ladder-like slope with ease, then slide down the ridge to pick up speed. Up next: a series of bobbing inflatable stepping stones spaced just far enough to threaten your balance.

But you nail it. Clean. Quick. No missteps.

Just before moving on, you glance over your shoulder.

And of course, Jeongguk is still parked on the starting point like a smug bastard. Lounging on the platform, one leg lazily swinging, sipping a chocolate milkshake with a goddamn umbrella straw in it—and chatting with his timer staff like they’re on a beach vacation.

“Seriously?!” you call out, pausing briefly on a flat portion of the course. “You’ve got time to sip on milkshake?”

He raises his cup toward you in mock salute. “Ordered you a strawberry one too, baby! Tragic they don’t allow alcoholic drinks out here!”

Rolling your eyes, you push forward—pace faster now, lungs burning from the extra effort. The ten-second advantage almost coming to an end.

The inflatable pillars ahead sway slightly with every touch, your arms wrapping around them for balance. Hugging your way past them is awkward, especially with how narrow the walkway is.

Your foot almost slip off the narrow walkway when the whole obstacle course begins shaking uncontrollably. Looking across, you see Jeongguk already making a run for it on his side.

“What the—?”

He's already dived across the first obstacle cross, not even bothering to go through each zigzag path

“You overgrown muscled bunny!” you yell. “Stop shaking the whole damn course!”

“Admit it!” he calls back, already barreling over his second obstacle. “You’re losing your stance! Want me to slow down for you?”

Ignoring him, you’re laser-focused now. Two more obstacles left on your side. He’s got four. You can still win this.

You power through the next segment, a slightly unstable zigzag of domes, gripping whatever you can while your legs burn from crouching low.

But Jeongguk? He’s flying. Fast, fluid, zero hesitation now. All that sloth-speed from his first three attempts earlier was just warm-up.

And you hate him for it.

He catches up just as you hit the scattered stone course again. He leaps between his with wild precision, then balances on the little middle connecting path, giving you a smug little smirk.

“Ready to give up, babe?”

“Never!”

You dig in, pushing through the narrow path one wobbly step at a time. He skips two stones almost expertly—only to fall flat on his face against the final middle platform, arms splayed like a squashed bug.

It throws off your footing when you burst out laughing. You nearly fall but the expected splash doesn’t come. A firm grip wraps around your wrist. Jeongguk yanks you forward, tumbling you down onto the broad middle section right on top of him.

Arms caged around your waist, he doesn’t let go. His chest still rising from the fall. “How about we just forget the race?” he murmurs, lips brushing near your jaw. “We don’t even know what we’re fighting for.”

“Huh.” It got you thinking as you look up, heart racing rapidly. And no – it wasn’t from literally sprinting the moment he started his race. “Bragging rights doesn’t seem enough?”

“I want a kiss. Right now.”

You dodge quickly before he can sneak in. “Nope.”

Standing up, you help him, still tangled together in breathless laughter. “How about this? Winner gets to drive the Harley for the rest of the day.”

Jeongguk crosses his arms. “I already let you drive here. I drive us back. That’s logic, baby. Not a deal.”

“It’s a fair deal.”

Before he can argue, you shove him off the inflatable—arms flailing, splash echoing loud enough to catch everyone’s attention. 

“Hey! They said no dirty tricks!” he’s turning toward the staff for help. “That’s got to be a penalty or something! Stop her clock!”

Looking at the staff with a playful glare and a look that says ‘try me’, they don’t even flinch, keeping their fingers far from the timer buttons.

“Oh come on, this is straight-up bias,” Jeongguk grumbles as he pulls himself back up. “Don’t let the tiny queen scare you!”

But you’re already running ahead, putting distance between you while he’s still dripping and plotting revenge.

“When I win, I drive the Harley all day!” Shouting over your shoulder, you move quickly, tackling the three-step ladder inflatable like a pro.

Jeongguk’s already coming after you.

“When, huh?” he calls, matching your pace. “When I do, not only am I back to driver duties, I want that kiss, the second I hit that finish line.”

You weren’t after the Harley. Didn’t even care if he wins and earns that kiss after. What you really wanted were bragging rights—just the chance to say you beat Jeon Jeongguk, even once. A once-in-a-lifetime honor.

But more than that, you just wanted to see him like this again—playful, laughing, stuck in his “I’ll win no matter what” delulu mindset. Sixteen again, all heart and harmless mischief. No stage lights, no schedules. Just the two of you.

Racing for the giant inflatable ladder that leads to the top of the final slide—you take two steps at a time, arms burning as you pull yourself up.

On the other side, Jeongguk’s already climbing too, taking long, graceful strides like he’s floating instead of hauling 70% muscle mass.

“This is so unfair,” you groan through clenched teeth. “You’ve got the arms of Reed. Or Groot. Freaking elastic limbs.”

He laughs, soft and breathless, glancing at you across the divide. “And you’re like Morgan Stark. Cute and sassy.” His expression softens, eyes sweeping over you like he’s taking a mental photograph. “Want help, baby?”

“Stay on your side, Gguk,” you huff, adjusting your grip. “I can do this.”

And you do. Just barely. Grit through each pull, calling on every ounce of core strength from those half-assed gym visits you only endured because of him.

But Jeongguk, being Jeongguk, doesn’t listen. When does he ever?

He swings to your side like Peter Parker’s possessed him, landing right next to you, pace perfectly matched. “I’m honestly willing to forfeit the win just to watch you like this.”

“Struggling?”

“No,” the softness in his voice knocks the air out of your chest. “Having fun.”

He doesn’t say anything else—just watches you, chin tucked as he leans against one bent arm hooked around a rubber handle. Lips twitching in a quiet smile, and his eyes—those stupidly full eyes—gleam like they’re memorizing you all over again.

Wind brushes past, and the sound of distant waves fills the silence between you.

For a second, the world slows down. Just the two of you, up here, suspended between sea and sky. The race, the teasing, the prize—it all fades out.

Your heart stumbles.

But only for a second.

“Almost got me there,” you mutter—and shove him hard.

He slips, losing grip, tumbling back at least ten rungs. “Oh come on! That was a full Shakespeare moment!” he protests between gasps. “Romeo and Juliet could never!”

“You do know they died, dummy!” you call, waving the pink victory ball in the air like an Olympic torch as you step onto the final wobbly surface. “I win! Sunshine beats Jeon!”

From the base of the slide, a staff member calls up: “Ma’am, you need to slide down to finish the course!”

You glance behind just in time to see Jeongguk pulling himself up again, storming toward you with that infuriating bunny-smug expression. “Hand it over, babe.” Arms already out.

Before he can reach you, you toss the ball down—and dive after it. “Suck it, bunny man!”

“NO!” he yells after you, voice cracking as he slides down, dramatic and wind-whipped.

You swim for your life, arms cutting through water with every ounce of energy you have left. The ball bobbles near the finishing platform—just close enough to give you hope.

Jeongguk’s closing in behind you, the water splitting around him, and you swear you hear him laughing so hard it’s causing bubbles.

“Almost there,” you pant, breath hitching between strokes. “Come on, flimsy limbs!”

Your arms scream, your legs are waterlogged, but the platform inches closer with every frantic push. The ball’s still in your grip, cradled like a crown jewel.

“And finished!” the staff stops the timer just as you haul yourself up the platform, breathless and shaking—but victorious.

Jeongguk slams his palms on the edge seconds later, looking up at you with disbelief, admiration, and just a touch of petty betrayal.

You lift the ball with trembling arms and a triumphant grin. “Remind me to never challenge you again.”  

“That win doesn’t count.” He collapses beside you, arms flopping across your stomach as both of you wheeze from exertion.

He unclips the straps of your lifejacket to help you breathe easier. Follows with his own after, chest rising and falling with tired laughter. “You shoved me at least three times. That’s a lousy win."

Finally letting go of the victory ball, you turn on your side to face him, breath still unsteady. “What was it you said earlier? Smart play?”

“You’re worse than Jin-hyung when he tries to cheat at board games.” He sits up with a groan, peeling off the rest of his gear.

Still winded, he helps you sit upright, peels off your lifejacket, always one step ahead.

“Stay golden through tactical thinking. That was your line, remember?” A staff member offers you both towels, and you don’t hesitate—rubbing his hair dry first with the care of someone who’s done it a thousand times. “Besides, what’s one win compared to the hundreds you’ve racked up in your lifetime?”

Smirking, he gently turns you around, undoes your messy bun with practiced ease, and starts towel-drying your damp hair. “True. Got a whole folder of wins. On my hard drive. With timestamps.”

You both fall quiet—until another staff member returns, handing him a tall plastic cup with a glittery swirly straw.

He hands it to you, the condensation beading against his fingers. “Strawberry milkshake. Might be watered down since you took forever, but we’ll grab a fresh one later.”

“Now this is heaven.” The sweetness floods your mouth, a long sigh escapes you. “Out of curiosity, want to know our race times?”

“Eh, sure.” He shrugs like it doesn’t matter—though the way he casually steals a sip from your straw to hide the smug look says otherwise.

Then he lifts a hand toward the staff. “Excuse me, could we know the final times, please?”

A new staff member steps forward, checking their timer. “For you, Ma’am, sixteen minutes and four seconds. Originally eleven—but we added five for all the, uh… pushing incidents.”

“Wait—what?! Where’s the original staff? I told them to—!” You sputter, shoving the milkshake into Jeongguk’s hands, already scanning the area for your defense attorney.

He laughs so hard, the cup nearly topples over. “Babe, calm down.” He pulls you into his side, arms wrapping tight to keep you from storming off. “You still did better than me on my dry runs. Nineteen minutes, remember?”

“Oh…” That shuts you up fast. A sheepish smile blooms as you slump against his lap. “Yeah, okay. That’s decent. What’s his record?”

The staff in charge of Jeongguk steps forward, timer raised. “Thirteen minutes and seven seconds.”

“T-Thirteen?!” You bolt upright. “That flirty scene in the middle took, like, two fucking minutes! There is no way—”

You lunge for the timer, but Jeongguk grabs your waist, anchoring you down while laughing hysterically. “And that’s with you getting a ten-second head start,” he coos, tightening his grip as you squirm like a disgruntled toddler. “It’s okay, baby. You still get five stars for effort.”

“Nooooo!” you wail dramatically, burying your face in his chest. Even the staff—who earlier looked seconds away from quitting—are quietly chuckling now. “This game is rigged. I’m calling a rematch. On the kayaks.”

“Oh…” Jeongguk’s eyes widen, sparkling like a child on Christmas morning. “We’re going kayaking?”

“Yeah, sure. Let me just—breathe for five minutes.” You stomp away toward the cabana where your things are, flopping onto the lounge cushion with the most dramatic pout you can muster. Punching the towel like it personally offended you, muttering curses into the oversized backpack.

From a distance, Jeongguk’s laugh rings out. “Looks like I get to drive the Harley after all!” He’s jogging towards you like a chaos-drenched gold retriever. “And the kiss! Give me my smooch, baby!”

“Go smooch the fish, you stupid, good-at-everything maknae!” You’re already on your feet, sprinting toward the kayak docks as he chases after you, still all pout and kissy face, determined to claim his hard-won prize.

"Ah! Security!” you yell between giggles, running for your life, from your idiot husband who's already catching up to you.

The water by the kayak dock is gentler here—calm and steady, with only the smallest ripples brushing the sides of the boats. The sun has mellowed to a buttery gold, casting long reflections over the water like silk.

You both listen in half-focus as the safety instructor gives a quick briefing, your lifejackets already snug, boats prepped.

With a quiet truce and mutual understanding that you’re both too spent from the earlier chaos, the kayak round is declared a no-contest. No races, no bets—just paddling and peace.

You’re the first to slide into your kayak and push off, the paddle dipping into the water with smooth, easy strokes.

“Hear that, Gguk?!” you call behind you, eyes still on the glimmering water. “Arms and legs in at all times.”

For a moment, there’s only silence and serenity—just the gentle pull of the water, the creak of the paddle, the soft hush of waves lapping against the hull.

Then, predictably: SPLASH.

You turn, just in time to see Jeongguk’s kayak capsized, legs in the air, and at least three staff members scrambling to help fish him and the boat out.

“That kayak is made for kids, I swear—!” He resurfaces, hair dripping, sitting up on the dock like a shipwrecked prince, flipping his bangs out of his eyes with exaggerated flair.

“Don’t blame the equipment, baby.” You’re laughing too hard now, pausing your paddle to fully turn around. “That’s a skill issue.”

He laughs but immediately launches into a mini panic, patting down his soaked pockets. “Shit. Shit—our phones. Where the fuck are the phones?!”

Reaching into the waterproof pouch, rolling your eyes, you hold up both devices with a smug grin. “You handed them to me, big baby.”

Jeongguk lets out a full-body sigh of relief. “As long as the phones are okay, we’re good.”

Soon he’s back in the kayak—this time properly seated—and paddling smoothly beside you. Together, you glide along the water, dipping in and out of rhythm.

The sun continues to lower on the horizon, dyeing the lake in soft hues of peach and rose. A few birds circle above, chirping lazily, while distant laughter from other resort guests echoes from the beachside bar.

“You’re doing pretty well for a first-timer,” Jeongguk muses, rowing slightly ahead.

“Listening to instructors pays off.” You try to reach over with your paddle to nudge his boat, but your short arms don’t quite make it. “I swear—once we’re done with these aquatic shenanigans, I’m getting body enhancements. Fully upgraded limbs.”

He laughs so hard his kayak wobbles. “You and your eternal tiny complex.” The water ripples around his boat, laughter bouncing across it. “Please don’t. I fell in love with Queen Minions. I’d prefer for the tiny queen to stick around.”

You splash a bit of water his way, creating a distraction from your unsteady heart, then pull out your phone, camera ready. “Smile, simp.”

“Your simp.” He grins, holding up his paddle like a champion lifter. “Toss me the phone—I’ll get yours too.”

“Seriously?” You blink at him, unconvinced. “A second ago, you nearly drowned. No. Stay put.”

Carefully, you paddle closer to align the kayaks, then gently pass the phone over. “I’m not letting this thing turn into Nemo. Do you know how many photos alone are on that phone?”

“I have back-ups!” he insists with mock indignation. “Unlike someone who thinks cloud storage is a solar event.”

Brow raised, sass already dialed to full. “I do back up. Google Drives.”

“Doesn’t count when you hit ‘Forgot Password’ like clockwork,” he snorts. “Also, your Google Drives look like post-apocalyptic chaos. Color coding doesn’t exist in your universe.”

You give your biggest smile, cheeks popping, eyes disappearing, holding up a peace sign on one hand, the other raising the paddle slightly. “Don’t diss my organizing skills. We’re talking about back-ups, Gguk.”

“Which you clearly flunked in Uni,” he quips, nudging your kayak forward with his paddle and chasing after you like the menace he is.

The rest of the ride feels like floating through a watercolor painting. The sky deepens to lavender, the water shimmering with every ripple. There’s occasional playful shoving between your kayaks, another splash war that leaves both of you wheezing.

At one point, you row ahead just to take a video of him paddling behind you with that dopey, happy grin—his cheeks puffed out from holding back laughter when your boat gets caught turning in a circle.

He snaps candids of you too: hair damp and wind-tousled, the sunlight glowing against your cheeks, arms outstretched as you paddle toward the sunset. Somewhere in between, the joy softens—settling like warmth beneath your chest.

Toward the end of the trail, nearing the dock, you overhear two staff members in their own little canoe nearby, quietly chatting and giggling among themselves.

“When I get married…” one of them says, dreamy and wistful, watching the two of you with soft eyes, “I want a love like that.”

The comment makes your paddle pause mid-stroke. You look back at Jeongguk just as he glances at you too—like he might’ve heard the same thing.

You smile, warm and full, wind in your hair and heart beating too fast to speak.

The breeze is cooler now, just enough to raise goosebumps, but you stay warm beneath the oversized cotton and the memory of his arms.

Jeongguk is still in the water, floating through the mellow currents with practiced ease. Every few laps, he breaks into his signature freestyle—sharp, clean strokes cutting through the water like he was born for it.

A few kids wander close, clearly starstruck, and before long one brave little soul climbs onto his back like a dolphin ride.

You see a flustered mom rush in, trying to pry her child off him in apology, but Jeongguk just laughs, hands raised, giving her a polite nod before inviting the kids to swim closer again.

He plays along, lifting one on his shoulders, guiding another through a backstroke, the parents helping from the sides. He looks so at ease—boyish and bright and completely unbothered. From where you sit, it’s almost unfair how natural he is.

Then you hear it, clear as day:

“Samcheon, can you carry me next?”

He obliges with a smile that reaches all the way to his eyes, lifting the little one easily onto his shoulders.

You reach for the camera without a second thought. Want him to remember this: the way he laughs with them, the way his arms make even the wildest child feel safe.

Hitting record, you quietly capture the whole thing—the water glistening, his soaked hair sticking to his forehead, the stupid faces he makes as he pretends to be a sea creature.

You smile to yourself, chest stupidly full.

It’s wholesome. So stupidly wholesome… until she lingers.

The child’s mother doesn’t leave right away. She keeps talking to him, brushing wet strands from her face, laughing a little too loud, touching his arm a little too often as she gives an endless string of thank yous.

Jeongguk, as ever, remains polite.

He finally starts walking up from the water, his upper half on full display—sun-kissed skin, drenched hair, the tattoos on his arms glistening with droplets. And of course, that’s when you hear it:

"It should be illegal to be that hot."

"God, you could make one of this, couldn’t you make a little more?"

"Quick, pretend to drown, maybe he’ll save us. He was so good with the kids."

"We’re on the sand. Drown on what? Choke on your martini, then maybe he’ll save you."

"You idiots. There’s a ring on his finger. Hormones. Leash them."

He collapses beside you on the chair with a tired huff, stealing a bite from your sandwich like it was rightfully his. “Water was awesome, baby. Should’ve joined me.”

Grabbing the towel from your scattered belongings, already dabbing gently at his face, then working your way down his shoulders.

“Didn’t seem like company was needed,” you murmur, tone casual, but the words come tinged with something you try not to name.

Jeongguk’s oblivious. Of course he is. “Oh, the kid?” he shrugs, sipping from your milkshake. “Sweet dude. Just started swimming lessons—rusty, but he’s trying.”

He lifts his arm, turning it slowly to show the full sleeve of ink still gleaming with droplets. “He was amazed by these.”

“Looks like his mom and those guests over there are too,” you jut your chin toward the group still not-so-subtly gawking nearby. “Would you ladies like a picture? I have airdrop turned on. Can send you at least a thousand shots. That should satisfy a month’s thirst.”

The smile you flash isn’t even close to friendly. It’s all teeth and warning.

It works. The women quickly shuffle away, returning to their drinks and whatever dignity they had left.

Jeongguk coughs a laugh, fumbling for his shirt in the bag. “Damn it, are these all compression tops?”

“You packed them, genius,” you catch his wrist mid-rummage, tugging his hand gently away.

“Just leave it. I’m enjoying my own show. Think my body’s enough to block yours from wandering eyes, right?” Leaning slightly to the side, you shield him with your form like a cheeky human wall.

“Oh? You want a show?” His voice dips lower now, amused, dark, dangerous in that way that always gets your pulse racing. “How about we give them a show? Right here, baby. That should shut them up for real.”

Jeongguk leans closer, lips grazing your jaw, breath warm on your neck. You feel the smirk more than you see it.

A soft, involuntary moan escapes before you can stop it. Your eyes flutter shut for a heartbeat—but you catch yourself fast. With a playful scoff, you shove the towel into his face, pushing him away.

“You’re a menace.”

He peeks from behind the towel, still grinning like he’s won the lottery. “Your menace.”

Then, without warning, he leans forward again and presses a soft kiss to your lips—tender and brief. “Knew this was the perfect moment to use my reward.”

Reaching into the lunch bag, you yank open a new sandwich with exaggerated force, and unceremoniously shove it toward his mouth. “Eat. Just shut up and eat.”

The wrapper crinkles loudly in protest. So does your ego.

You throw the hood of his sweatshirt over your head, yank the drawstrings tight until it’s just your nose and mouth peeking through the narrow gap. Then, you drop back into the lounge chair like a sulking child.

Beside you, Jeongguk’s soft laugh melts into the breeze, clearly amused at your flustered state.

Still chewing, he devours the sandwich in one massive bite, then reclines beside you again—leaning over until his arm drapes lazily across your stomach, his body curling into yours like his designated pillow.

“You’re so cute, wifey,” he mumbles, lips brushing your shoulder.

“I look like a potato sack in her husband’s hoodie,” you mutter, still hidden in the fabric fortress. “Everyone else here looks like they’re auditioning for Victoria’s Secret.”

Jeongguk chuckles, gently tugs your hood strings loose, just enough to reveal your pout. His arm tightens around you as he leans in, gaze soft but teasing. “Angels are overrated. I like my potato sack wife better.”

He plants a kiss on your forehead, pulling back just far enough to meet your eyes with an affectionate smirk. “And, FYI, that hoodie is Balenciaga. Too fancy for veggie sacks.”

“They make sacks as clothing?” you deadpan, brow arched.

“And yet you’re wearing a piece.” He shoots back, full smug.

“They’re your pieces. Comfort first, brand trashing second.”

“What’s mine is yours,” he hums, tapping your chin with his finger. “Married life 101, baby.”

Despite his saccharine words and the warmth in his eyes—the kind that whispers I still choose you, every time—you don’t relent. Not right away.

You huff quietly, still sulking like a toddler denied dessert. “Finish the snacks. Hit the showers. I’ll pack up here.”

You begin gathering the leftover wrappers and folding the blanket into your bag, but his arm slides more firmly around your waist, halting your hands mid-fumble.

His voice drops low, soft and slow, far removed from the cheeky tone he used earlier. “I know I’ve fucked up in the past. Did some… horrible shit.”

You freeze. The breeze stills too, like the air is listening.

“But I hope you know there’s no one else I want,” he continues, eyes never leaving yours. “No one but you, Mrs. Jeon.”

Pulse jumping, you swallow hard, words caught in your throat. “Promise?”

“Without a doubt.” The smile he gives you then—tender, full, unshaken—could rival the sun. “I’d even work with the staff to stage a public proposal right now. 2025 version. That proposal earlier?” He juts his chin toward the couple farther down the beach. “They’d cry themselves to sleep.”

You burst into a laugh, shoving him away with the towel, draping it haphazardly across his bare shoulders. The wind’s cooler now, biting gently against your flushed cheeks.

“You’re dumb.”

“Nah,” he says, nudging your nose with his, “just in love.”

He stands first, quickly slipping on a shirt, tosses the towel in a nearby basket, before reaching down to help you up. “Let’s go? As much as I loved this water-and-beach day you planned, I’m beat, baby.”

“Shower?”

“I’ll just get one at home.” He flexes his fingers, palm open—waiting.

And without a moment’s pause, you place your hand in his, like it’s always belonged there.

His fingers curl around yours, firm yet familiar, and when he pulls you to your feet, it’s not just to leave the beach.

It’s a quiet promise.

You don’t need sunsets or vows whispered beneath fireworks. Sometimes, it’s as simple as this—your hand in his, his smile tugging at the corners of your world.

The roads of Busan are quieter now, dipped in velvet shadows and punctuated only by the gentle hum of the Harley beneath you.

Night has fallen soft and slow, stars scattered like salt above your heads. Streetlights cast sleepy halos on the pavement as the occasional car rolls past in no particular hurry—drivers winding down their day the same way you are, cradled by the breeze and a little bit of silence.

The wind is gentler now, calmer than it had been by the sea, brushing through your hair as Jeongguk steers the bike down the dim-lit road with careful ease.

Fatigue is slowly catching up with him. He’s stopped a few times just to stretch—hands braced on his lower back, neck rolling to each side with exaggerated groans.

You’d offered to drive (twice), but your heroic, overcompensating husband didn’t even let your fingers brush the keys before shutting that plan down with a shake of his head and a dramatic, “My lady must rest.”

Truth is, the exhaustion’s catching up to you too. Given everything you did earlier—Olympic-level stunts on inflatables, kayaking marathons, and what you’re pretty sure was at least three borderline illegal parkour moves to beat him to the finish line.

Definitely out of your prescription.

Definitely something Yoongi would scold you for, in full grandpa-doctor mode.

And, of course, the moment you post a single photo dump from the day—sun-drenched snapshots, blurry kayaks, and a very wet Jeon Jeongguk—the usual suspects start flooding your notifications.

You scroll half-lidded, trying to stay awake while curled against Jeongguk’s back.

But one DM makes your tired eyes blink open a little wider.

@ dryoongles: Attempting to be the next Black Widow? I’m calling you right now. You better fucking pick up.

@ dear.sunshine.xo: On the Harley. Can’t talk.

@ dryoongles: Yet you’ve got time to post pictures and chat. Thought Gguk’s the adrenaline junkie. Didn’t think you’d follow his footsteps.

@ dear.sunshine.xo: Trying to stay awake. Be thankful I’m on my phone. And he still is. I’m the wife. We’re basically commitment junkies.

@ dryoongles: Aish! What am I supposed to do with you? At least tell me you’ve taken meds in between?

@ dear.sunshine.xo: Of course I did, oehalabeoji 😘 Wouldn’t have survived three rounds at the kayaks if I didn’t.

@ dryoongles: SHIBAL?!

As if summoned by the universe to save you from another message filled with medical scolding, Jeongguk’s voice calls out over his shoulder—bright and boyish, a touch of that spark still alive even after the long day.

“Baby, look!” he points ahead, chin jerking toward the blur of colors glowing in the distance. “It’s the carnival.”

You straighten up behind him, blinking at the bright silhouette of a familiar Ferris wheel, its blinking lights cutting across the night sky like candy-colored constellations.

A rustic rollercoaster coils nearby, faded yet charming. Booths being crowded by the locals and tourists too. Bandanas and paper streamers flutter beneath the string lights, and the air already carries that distinct scent of popcorn, sugar, and salted night breeze.

“Whoa…” you breathe out, eyes wide in quiet awe. “Don’t these only come around in December? For Christmas?”

“Looks like they came early this year. Maybe decided to spread some summer magic,” he grins, already turning into the dirt lot beside the field. The Harley rolls to a stop with a soft purr as he finds a quiet spot to park.

“Weren’t you just complaining about your back like, five minutes ago?” your hand brushes gently over his arm. “We can do this another day.”

“Nah. Next time, it might be gone.” He kills the engine and glances at you over his shoulder, one hand already extended in offering—steady, warm, familiar, as you get off the bike. “Come on. Just a quick walk. Stretch our legs. Maybe I can finally win you that dolphin at the ballon darts… if it’s still there.”

“Only if you let me drive home after,” you’re trying your best not to smile—heart already too full watching the way he bounces on his heels like an overgrown kid. “I mean it, Gguk. You were one blink away from steering us into a manhole earlier.”

“A raccoon passed. Not my fault,” he shrugs, as if nearly dying was a minor inconvenience, his arm lazily draping over your shoulders as you both start toward the carnival entrance.

“Jeon Jeongguk.” You stop walking, turning to face him fully now—serious, no smile, no bluff.

That finally sobers him. Lifts both hands in surrender. “Fine, boss wife.” He unclips the Harley keys from his waistband, snaps them onto the loop of your shorts. “There. Full driver rights. Effective immediately.”

“Good.” You reward him with a quick peck on the cheek, your hand finding his instinctively as you step beneath the golden archway of the carnival.

Jeongguk doesn’t let go—not for a second. His arm loops securely around you, keeping you tucked close to his side, subtly steering you away from passing shoulders. Like always.

The crowds have thickened now, but not in a suffocating way—just enough to feel alive. You pass stalls stacked with new prizes and some old ones too, like that faded teddy in a pirate hat and the neon pink dolphin with a lopsided grin.

Children run past holding oversized lollipops. A balloon floats free into the sky. There’s music in the air, a carousel tune playing somewhere nearby, and the scent of buttered corn and powdered sugar wraps around you like warmth itself.

Everything feels suspended in magic, just for a moment—like time has folded in on itself to let you both peek into a softer memory, one you forgot you still carried in your chest.

Tickets quickly secured, Jeongguk doesn’t waste a second before diving into the crowd, tugging you eagerly through clusters of people toward the balloon dart booth.

There’s a glint in his eyes—a boyish mix of vengeance and excitement, all fueled by the ancient wound you’d poked at earlier: the Great Balloon Dart Defeat of years past.

You’re pretty sure both your wallets got wiped out that night, trying to win a dolphin plushie that never made it home.

“I’m just saying—those darts were a scam. Too light. Half of them weren’t even the same weight,” he grumbles, handing the booth attendant one of your freshly-purchased tickets. “You saw me throw it. With all this muscle.”

He flexes his tattooed arm like a show pony, striking a pose under the string lights above.

Rolling your eyes, you pull him gently toward you as another overzealous player stumbles too close, nearly bumping into him. “Muscles have nothing to do with skills, baby.”

He scoffs. “It’s got everything to do with skills. And aim! I had perfect aim.”

The attendant returns with three darts, and Jeongguk lights up the moment they hit his palm. His gasp is so dramatic, it startles even you. “Did these… get bigger?”

“You’re the third player to ask that, Sir,” the teen looks like he’s barely survived his first hour on shift. “But yes, we upgraded after management got spammed with one-star reviews and accusations of ‘bogus darts’… something about the weight and size being—”

“No fucking way you flooded their page,” you spin toward Jeongguk in disbelief, pinching his ribs before he can feign innocence.

“Years ago. It’s called constructive feedback, babe.” He sneaks a quick kiss to your lips before stepping forward, lifting the first dart in perfect form. “Now… behold the redemption of the Golden Maknae.”

Arms crossed, already bracing yourself for the drama, his failure. But then—thwack!

The first dart flies. A loud pop echoes. One balloon down.

You blink. “Beginner’s luck.”

He doesn’t even look at you—just smiles knowingly, lining up the next dart. Pop!

Then the third. Pop!

The tiny crowd gathered behind you gasps, then cheers. Some even start clapping. A child somewhere yells, “Wow!”

Jeongguk’s now doing a literal curtsey, bowing low and wide to the attendants in the next booth who’s started watching him, even waves, like he’s suddenly Mia Thermopolis from the Princess Diaries.

“Breezy.”

“You love it,” he grins.

You do. Damn him.

Not satisfied, he hands over another ticket to the attendant, determined to win both the oversized dolphin and the glittery fish plushie hanging at the very top. “We’re getting the whole aquarium today, babe.”

Another round, another flawless streak. He’s hamming it up now—winking at bystanders, flexing after every pop. The crowd around him thickens, cameras are out.

And Jeongguk? He’s having the time of his life.

“Tiny wife getting crushed, people!” you call out, mock-scowling as you try to push away the cluster of fans forming around him.

“Oh shit—guys, make room for my wife!” He panics, immediately shifting the crowd with quick apologies, reaching out for you once there's space. “Sorry, baby. Got carried away.”

“I don’t get the big deal with this thing anyway.” Snatching the last two darts from his hand, you raise the dart lazily, still facing him, don’t even bother aiming – just toss it behind you toward the balloon wall.

The second dart follows—just as casual.

A few gasps echo around you. Jeongguk’s mouth falls open slightly.

You raise an eyebrow. “What?”

The crowd erupts. Applause, hollering, even a whistle from a teen nearby. Jeongguk wraps an arm around your shoulders, spins you to face the balloon wall.

Two popped balloons. Dead center.

“Oh…” you say sheepishly.

He looks at you like he’s just witnessed a miracle. “Okay, what in the Trained Assassin was that?”

The attendant hands over your hard-earned prizes with a straight face, like it’s the most normal thing in the world to bestow not one but three massive plushies onto a couple with no visible car.

You barely manage to get your arms around the glittery fish and dolphin.

And then comes the kicker—the third grand prize: a massive, floppy-limbed octopus that practically smothers you when they drape it across your shoulder.

Jeongguk’s already laughing, freeing your face from where the dolphin is swallowing half of it. “You look like a one-woman aquarium.”

Even after he takes the dolphin and hoists the octopus over his own shoulder like it’s his backpack, you’re still drowning in plush limbs.

“Okay, this is just the first booth,” you blink at him like he’s lost it. “Knowing your competitive ass, you’re going to want to sweep every stall in this place. How the hell are we bringing these home on the Harley, Gguk?”

Shifting the dolphin to one arm, he pulls out his phone with other, thumb already scrolling through his apps. “Problem solved.”

You squint. “Please tell me you did not just summon a delivery guy to escort your toys home like they’re VIPs.”

“Scheduled for pick up within an hour. We should be done by then, yeah?” proudly, he holds his screen up, grinning as if it was his biggest achievement. “Door-to-door plushie security.”

“This is so embarrassing.” You bury your face between the glittery fish, hoping it’ll save you from the idiot husband that occupies your heart.

“It’s what delivery services are for, love.” He winks, already leading the charge toward the next booth, the obnoxious bounce in his step returning full-force.

At the ring toss line, he stops abruptly throws his hips in your direction like an idol asking for backup. “Tickets, please.”

You groan, digging into his pocket, peel out the next strip of carnival tickets while muttering, “I love whatever is wrong with you.”

Carefully, you stash the plushies beside the booth in their own VIP corner while Jeongguk takes the rings from the attendant. His confidence radiates like the neon signs overhead—annoyingly loud, annoyingly justified.

He doesn’t even aim. Just lifts one arm lazily and flicks the first ring forward.

Clink.

Clatter.

Right over the neck of the bottle.

Another toss. Same result.

“Bye. I’m done here.” You try to walk away, fully intending to leave him and his cursed bottle accuracy behind, but he’s faster—already swooping you up by the waist and plopping you down beside your mountain of prizes like you’re just another plushie to collect.

“Babe,” he pleads, barely containing his laughter, his bunny smile creeping through. “You know this stuff is nothing. That baby shark plushie?” He points dramatically. “It’s calling for me.”

You follow his gaze to a slightly off-looking shark plushie hanging from the booth’s prize rack. Wide stitched smile. Cartoonishly large eyes. Maybe too large.

“…That thing looks like it watches people sleep. Like… blinks horizontally creepy.”

“It’s cute!” he defends with way too much enthusiasm.

As the attendant hands it over, Jeongguk smashes the plush shark against his face, eyes bulging to match its exaggerated expression. “See? We’re aquatic twins.”

You bury your face in your hands, shaking your head. “I married a manchild.”

“And he won you a fish, a dolphin, an octopus, and a shark,” he sing-songs proudly.

Giving in with a soft sigh, you reach into his pocket for his phone, swipe open the camera, and lift it. “Smile, you cute baby shark.”

Jeongguk instantly obliges, eyes wide, grin wider, squishing the plush against his cheek as the rest of the stuffed gang spills behind him in chaotic, pastel glory.

You hover a second longer, camera still raised, but your gaze flicks between the screen and the man in front of it—this ridiculous, beautiful man.

And for a moment, your heart just… swells.

It’s full—achingly full—with something that bubbles behind your ribs and flutters down your arms, something that whispers I fucking love you with the kind of force that feels too big for words.

You don’t say it. Not yet.

Instead, you simply smile, snap a few pictures, and slip the phone quietly back into his pocket.

Jeongguk, still high on victory and foam-stuffed glory, grabs half the plushies and gestures with a nod. “Come on, let’s keep moving, find snacks before my arms fall off.”

Barely making it a few steps, your eyes catch on something sweet and familiar, your voice instantly shooting up several octaves. “Gguk, Gguk! They’ve still got the Cinnamoroll one!”

You don’t wait. Bolt like a kid on Christmas morning toward the cotton candy stall, hands flailing as if it might vanish if you don’t reach it fast enough.

Jeongguk’s soon he’s beside you, just as breathless, pointing wildly at another flavor. “Oh my God! Hello Kitty! We’re getting both.”

He nudges you to pull out some cash while he places the order with the sweet ahjussi behind the cart, who watches your antics with a knowing smile. “Young love,” he mutters under his breath as he fluffs the pink and blue sugar clouds.

Cotton candies secured, you and Jeongguk tear into them like you haven’t been eating all day, stealing messy bites from each other’s stick and bursting into laughter when it gets on your noses.

You snap a few goofy selfies, half of which are blurry from how much you’re shaking with laughter.

“They taste the same,” you mumble between bites, voice sticky with sugar and nostalgia.

Jeongguk nods, mouth full, stealing another bite of yours. “Swear, it hits harder here than anywhere else. They even sell this at Lotte World now, but it’s not the same.”

“Maybe, it’s cause it’s home.” It barely comes out as a whisper, but he definitely hears you, stops mid-chew.

And you feel it—the way everything stills for a heartbeat. The noise, the lights, the blur of strangers brushing past. It’s like Busan pauses for the two of you. Just long enough.

Jeongguk turns to you with a softness that makes your breath hitch.

“It’s home,” the warmth in his smile is something that stays tucked in your chest long after the moment passes.

Then, he nudges your elbow like he’s trying to restart time. “Come on. I know you’ve been wanting to try the basketball game since we got here.”

“Finally! Let’s go, baby—”

Your triumph is short-lived. The second you throw your fist in the air, your grip falters—cotton candy almost topples, plushie nearly faceplants.

Jeongguk reacts fast, swooping in with instant reflexes to rescue both. “Whoa, easy there, champ. Almost lost Cinnamoroll to gravity.”

You snort, giving him a side-eye. “That’s on you. You handed me a shark and a sugar bomb and expected stability.”

His grin is blinding. “No regrets.”

The carnival’s basketball game had always been the quietest booth on the strip—one of the reasons you’ve loved it for years. Fewer people meant more space to breathe, more chances to win, and enough downtime for the attendants to sneak in a few practice throws between guests.

You used to worry they'd shut it down from lack of traffic, but somehow, they were still here—same old painted rims, same half-deflated balls, same grumpy-faced staff—whenever you and Jeongguk visited, even during that trip three winters ago.

“Now this is a rigged game,” Jeongguk eyes the impossibly high hoops with the same questionable look. “How do you even enjoy this, babe?”

“It’s not that high,” you say, already fishing a few tickets from his pocket and handing them over to the attendant. He nods and gestures toward a side bench, offering to hold your growing collection of plushies for safekeeping. “Yoongi treats this like a kiddie arcade game.”

“Grandpa’s an aspiring NBA player,” Jeongguk huffs as he sets the toys down. The attendant hands him three basketballs—he keeps two and passes one to you. “He could probably shoot blindfolded while making his hospital rounds. Too bad his height’s his greatest enemy.”

Gasping dramatically, you shove at his chest, though he doesn’t even budge. “Don’t diss our tiny friend, my co-tiny, like that—his real enemy is chronic sleep deprivation.”

Already stepping into position, knees bent, arms raised and with one clean flick of the wrist later, the ball arcs smoothly into the basket.

“Aye! Still got it.” You spin, grinning wide, slapping a high five with an amused bystander. “Yoongi’s magic hands are still in me.”

Jeongguk pauses, lips pursing like he’s trying to contain an avalanche. “That sounded so wrong.”

You blink, confused. Until— “No! What the—ugh, I meant his skills are in me. I mean, like, passed on—like, within me!”

“That’s worse, babe.” He’s doubled over now, wheezing, nearly dropping the next ball. “Go on, try again. I believe in you.”

Groaning, you roll your eyes, still red-faced but laugh anyway. “Yoongi’s basketball skills that he trained me with over time through years of sibling bonding are – whatever. There’s a reason I hated literature in high school.” You fling the next ball. Lands in flawlessly.

The attendants – usually grumpy and dreads to go home each passing second – actually claps for you, but Jeongguk’s louder than all of them combined.

“That’s my wife!” he shouts. “Clap harder! You saw those mad skills, right?! Come on! This is art!”

“Gguk, quit it,” you throw the ball at him, still laughing at his awfully sweet support system. “Come on, give it a try.”

“I’m going to suck.” He crosses his arms like a sulking child. “Swear, this is the one thing I’m not good at. This is your game.”

“You’re the one who bragged in Uni that you could shoot from half court.”

“And you know I hit the janitor’s cart trying.”

“It was cute.” You step closer, gently place the last ball into his hand, guide his stance. “Almost made me admit I had a crush on you back then.”

“You wanted to admit it back then?” His voice is soft now, awe threading through it, boba eyes wide and shiny like he’s about to melt into a puddle right on the pavement.

He blinks. Then, in pure Jeon Jeongguk fashion, chucks the ball blind and dumb, clearly not aiming—and misses by a mile.

You scoff, ignoring your racing heart. “Great. Wasted a shot.”

Pulling out a new strip of tickets, you had it over to the attendant, exchange them for another set.

Placing a ball in Jeongguk’s hands again, you take your time, hand over his, guide him gently. “Relax. Steady. Focus. Stay in position.”

“What position, baby?” he smirks, earns a jab from you to his side. “Yup,” he wheezes, doubling over. “Knew I should’ve shut up.”

He listens this time. Aims. Arms firm, wrists in perfect shooting stance. Carefully eyes the hoop, brows scrunched in concentration, mutters something you don’t understand – you swear it’s some prayer – whispers to the ball.

And shoots.

It shouldn’t surprise you. Jeongguk’s always been a fast learner, but still, you get excited with his first successful attempt.

“That was awesome!” High on his little win, you can’t help it. Lean in, give him a soft, gleaming kiss, just brief enough to steal his breath.

Jeongguk’s glowing now, chest puffed out. “More balls. Take it all!” He slaps the rest of the tickets onto the counter, even tosses his wallet over. “Here, just take the whole thing. Card’s in there. Sticky note with my pin’s in there too. I’ll KakaoPay you my soul.”

“Baby, stop!” You’re breathless from laughing, barely managing to shove the wallet back into his pocket. “You’re going to scare the poor guy.”

“We’re just getting started! Next LeBron in the making!”

“Calm down, NBA wannabe.” But your grin is wide as you sink another shot. “Let’s hit the Ferris Wheel next? Think we’ve racked up enough plushies to fill the living room alone.”

“Say less, my love.” He follows right after with another perfect throw, wrapping up your makeshift basketball sports camp. “Kiss?”

Squinting your eyes playfully, you shake your head, lips purse to hide a smile.

When the attendant gestures toward the prize rack, you don’t even need to ask what Jeongguk wants—eyes already glued to the huge Iron Man plushie and a tiny Spider-Man keychain plushie like a kid at Comic-Con.

“We’ll take those two, please,” you don’t hesitate, gladly taking the two marvel plushies, handing it over to him.

“Thank you.” The words come wrapped in a kind of softness that doesn’t need volume. Arms loop around your waist, he presses a feather-light kiss to the crown of your head.

It’s simple. It’s quiet.

But it’s enough to make your chest ache.

By the time the Ferris wheel cart lurches into motion, you and Jeongguk are already half-buried under a mountain of plushies seated across from you.

The glittery fish plopped on its belly, the dolphin’s flipper droops to one side, the octopus slumped like it’s given up on life, Baby Shark stares you down with wide-eyed judgment, and Iron Man’s helmet peeks smugly over the pile—clearly leading the gang. The Spider-Man keychain plush squished under him, just like how Peter would cling on to Tony in Endgame.

Jeongguk has his arm lazily wrapped around your shoulder, fingers curling absentmindedly against your sleeve as you cuddle close to his chest, sharing warmth against the cool night air., both of you staring in mutual awe—and mild concern—at your stuffed army strapped securely on their seat.

It’s chaotic. It’s cramped. And it’s perfect.

“Hate to admit,” you sigh, eyeing the blue wide-eyed predator again, “but Baby Shark is growing on me.”

“Told you.” Jeongguk grins triumphantly.

“Reminds me of that time you tried to escape the cage during our first shark dive.”

“They came out of nowhere!” he insists. “Besides, sharks are cool. Always said, if we had a translating device for sea creatures, I bet half of them would say they’re just misunderstood.”

You chuckle, gaze wandering to the way the night glows beyond the cart rails. “Jeon Jeongguk, defending oceanic apex predators since 2009.”

“They need love too.”

Of course he’d say that. Of course he’d try to make villains into soft things with hearts that just need to be heard.

Because deep down—underneath all the ink, behind the occasional cocky smirk and golden boy mischief—is the same wide-eyed boy you met at sixteen.

The one who gave a lecture on why goldfish deserve better tanks. The one who hand-fed a wild squirrel a peanut and swore it winked at him. The one who—no matter how much he grows—still believes in the best of everything, even the scariest things.

A tired smile tugs at your lips as you press a kiss to the edge of his jaw, settling deeper into his warmth. “I love your curious self. That heart that wants to understand everyone and everything. Still a weirdo... but you’re my weirdo.”

For a second, he’s quiet. Then, softly, “You love me?”

There’s a shift in his voice – the sight crack, the awe hiding beneath the teasing. It’s there in the way his chest stills for a second, like he’s afraid to move and ruin it.

“Called you a weirdo and that’s all you picked up?” You lace your fingers with his and squeeze, hoping it says enough.

He brings your joined hands to his lips, pressing a kiss against your knuckles, the moment quiet and full. “I’ll always be your weirdo.”

Then, as the cart creaks higher, he tugs you closer, wrapping you tighter in his warmth. “Also... I don’t think I ever really thanked you. For swimming with me with the sharks back then. I know how badly Jaws traumatized you.”

You scoff, nuzzling into his side. “Because we watched it by the beach, at night. The movie wasn’t even the scary part—it was the fact that we were basically ankle-deep in seawater watching it.”

“Hey. 3D didn’t exist in our time. Had to improvise.” He grins.

“It was a good improvise,” you admit with a chuckle, eyes growing heavy as the memory flickers back—his dumb little setup with water-filled plastic bags, holes he’s poked in, the plastics he’s taped to the resort’s old fan nearby. The way he shrieked louder than you when the seagull passed overhead.

The ride creaks again, then steadies. Below, the carnival glows like a tiny snow globe, fairy lights dancing, the buzz of voices soft and distant.

“Thank you,” he’s quieter this time. “For always going along with my crazy ideas. Even the ones that nearly get us killed. You never had to—but you did.”

He pauses. You feel it, more than you hear it, the weight of the next words settling between you.

“I just hope… we’ll still get to have more. That you’re still willing to go along for the ride with me. The Sunshine and Jeon Adventures—international version maybe? Been a while since we’ve taken a real trip.”

“I love your crazy adventures.” The warmth in your chest tinges with something tender. “Makes me want to try things I never thought I could.” You glance up at him, lips twitching. “Osaka was the last one.”

“Three years ago,” he murmurs. His arm tightens around you. “I really wasted a lot of time.”

You press your cheek to his chest. “You’ve still got all the time in the world. To go on new adventures. To try impossible things. Who knows? You might even land on the sun one day.”

He lets out a low laugh, tinged with affection. “No thanks. You’re the only sun I need. Not trying to get grilled like samgyeopsal just yet.”

His tone softens as he looks down at you, brushing a loose strand of hair from your cheek. “We’ll have all the time in the world for more adventures. Just you and me.”

You don’t answer anymore – just smile, curl into him, and let the breeze slip through the railings of the cart. The Ferris wheel is nearing its peak now, high enough to see the outline of Busan’s sleepy coastline in the distance.

For a moment, it feels like everything has slowed down—like the world has paused to make room for this.

Only the soft creak of the cart, the whir of gears below, and the rise and fall of his breathing remain.

The Harley’s barely rolled to a stop when Jeongguk hops off the bike like he’s in the middle of a heist, nearly making you swerve as you park.

“Gguk!” you shout, fumbling the brake as he’s already sprinting up the porch steps where a delivery man stands, arms loaded with the mountain of carnival plushies.

“Sorry, baby!” he calls over his shoulder, breathless. “I’ll help out in a bit—just gotta secure the VIPs!”

You shake your head, laughing under your breath, securing the lunch bag, camera bag and digging into the seat compartment for the backpack.

It's a delicate balancing act as you hoist everything onto your shoulders—especially since your overly enthusiastic husband is currently staging a plushie rescue mission at the front door.

Minutes later, he returns, hair a little tousled and cheeks flushed, still catching his breath. But the moment he sees you struggling with the bags, he doesn’t hesitate—swoops in like a man with a vendetta and steals them all from your arms.

“Mission accomplished. VIPs are safe and accounted for,” he declares with mock pride.

“They better be,” you mutter, trying to grab the lunch bag back—only for him to hold it hostage. “You nearly got me to crash the bike for those glorified cotton balls.”

He just grins and heads inside, placing everything down carefully in the living room. You follow, only to tug him upstairs by the wrist, making a beeline for your bedroom before giving him a firm nudge toward the ensuite.

“Go shower. Take your time. Come out when I tell you to.”

Jeongguk blinks, scrunching his brows in suspicion. “What are you up to now?”

“Less questions. More moving.” You give him one last shove before darting toward the guest room, his confused laughter echoing down the hallway.

“And you call me weird,” he mumbles, but you hear the amusement in his voice, the soft kind—the kind reserved just for you.

In the guest room, everything you’d prepared earlier in the day still waits.

Your silk gown rests folded atop his oversized hoodie, just in case the rooftop breeze gets too cold. The folded picnic blankets, some throw pillows sits beside them, and in the corner, a small box with his favorite lavender-scented candles and the string of fairy lights you dug out from basement storage.

Shower done in record time, you slip into the robe and hoodie combo, quickly gather everything into your arms, and dash to the kitchen.

Dinner prep is fast but focused. You take out the naengmyeon broth you’d prepped that morning—remembering every tip Jeongguk once gave you back in the Seoul house when he’d teach you how to cook. You’d burned it the last time, but today it’s come together perfectly, as if even the kitchen gods are on your side tonight.

The kimchi and veggies are already prepped, the noodles boiling in the pot, bubbling gently as you steal a taste. Not bad. Actually… delicious. You whisper a small prayer to your nervous stomach that tonight, there are no room for mistakes.

Once everything’s packed and ready, you make trip after trip up to the rooftop—blanket first, then food, then candles and lights.

The candle flames flicker to life, and you string the fairy lights along the railing last. Finally stepping back, breath fogging gently in the cooler night air, you take in the scene.

It’s not perfect. But it’s yours. It’s his. It’s the both of you.

The water’s still running by the time you’re back in the bedroom, but you don’t hear the usual rounds of songs when Jeongguk’s taking his sweet time in the shower, throwing a whole concert. Meaning he’s almost done. Meaning you were just in time.

Grabbing a sticky notepad from the desk, you peel of a piece and scribble down a simple message: ‘Let’s reach for the sky tonight. Come up?’

You stick it gently on the bathroom door, knock three times, and call softly through the steam-misted air, “Gguk? Come out when you’re done.”

Then you're off again, hurrying barefoot up the stairs, wind pressing cool against your cheeks as you step onto the rooftop and lower yourself onto the blanket.

Above, the stars twinkle like tiny witnesses. Behind you, the fairy lights glow gold. And in your lap, two bowls of cold noodles sit warm with the heat of your intentions.

All that’s left now… is for him to arrive.

You’ve counted numbers backward, recited the alphabet like it’s a prayer, even restarted your phone three times just to give your fingers something to do—but nothing eases the nerves prickling your skin.

Until the door creaks open. And he steps out.

Jeongguk halts mid-step as if someone knocked the wind out of him. His eyes widen, then soften, darting between the fairy lights strung along the railings, the flickering candles, the throw pillows, the picnic blanket, and the familiar scent of lavender in the breeze.

Then they fall on you—hair still a little damp, wrapped in his hoodie, sitting cross-legged with two bowls of naengmyeon in front of you.

His breath catches. “W–What… baby, what’s all this?”

There’s awe in his voice, disbelief painted in every slow blink. His eyes shine—not just from the fairy lights—but from something fuller, deeper. The way he looks at you now… like he’s seeing his entire world folded in one rooftop.

You stand slowly, smile shy, reach for his hand. “Thought it’d be nice to end the day up here. Wind down after all the aquatic and carnival madness. Maybe…” you glance up at the sky, “watch the sunrise together. Like we used to.”

Jeongguk doesn't speak immediately. His brows twitch, like he’s overwhelmed, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to feel this happy. He swallows hard, glancing at the bowls you’ve prepared. “When did you even manage all this?”

“Your wife has ninja skills,” you tease, nudging him gently as you tug him down to sit beside you. Then, carefully, you offer him a bowl. “I just hope I didn’t ruin the naengmyeon.”

He doesn’t hesitate. One slurp in and a low groan rumbles from his chest. “Holy—okay, this is amazing.”

You exhale, shoulders dropping with a relieved laugh. “Swear? Like, not in a you’ll-need-antacids-in-ten-minutes kind of way?”

“Swear.” He places a kiss against your cheek, the kind that’s soft and slow, followed by a whisper against your skin. “It’s perfect. Thank you, baby. Looks like someone graduated Jeon Culinary School with honors.”

He hands you your bowl and you both dig in, knees brushing, the savory broth wafting between you.

“Of course,” you murmur through noodles. “Might’ve burned a couple pans and melted a ladle in the past… but tonight? Consider this a solar eclipse where I don’t bring shame to your chef legacy.”

Jeongguk laughs—chokes, actually—one hand pressed to his chest. “You’re going to make me cry into the soup.”

“Please don’t,” your eyes are already glistening. “If you start, then I’ll start. Then we’ll both end up sobbing into our dinner. Feeding seagulls soggy naengmyeon wasn’t in my planner.”

He grins, cheeks round, pulling you into his side with one arm. “Come here.”

You lean into him easily, resting your head on his shoulder as the waves roll in below, slow and steady, like they’ve learned to breathe with you.

The rooftop wraps around you both like a quiet cocoon, the soft hum of Busan murmuring beneath, hushed by distance, by height, by the sacred pause between day and night.

A warm breeze drifts through, gentle as fingers combing your hair, carrying the faint scent of the sea and lavender from the candles flickering beside you. Somewhere down the shore, a faint guitar plays—its melody half-lost in the wind, but somehow, it finds its way to you.

Above you, stars begin to peek out from the curtain of dusk one by one—shy, silvery witnesses to your quiet moment. They glimmer like little promises, like they, too, are waiting for what comes next. 

And for once, you don’t feel the rush of time. Everything slows down, suspended in something soft, something sacred.

The kind of stillness that only comes when you’re exactly where you belong.

Once the bowls are empty and stacked neatly to the side, you shift behind him, pulling him gently into your arms this time. He leans back without question, his body melting against yours, his head resting right beneath your chin.

“This is nice,” he murmurs, eyes fluttering shut, fingers playing with your sleeve. “I missed you so much, baby.”

You smile against his temple, brushing your hand softly along his forearm. “Spending the whole day together wasn’t enough?”

“You know what I mean.” His face hides against your arm now, his voice half-muffled. “It’s just… you. Us. These quiet moments. Mostly you.”

You don’t say anything. Don’t need to. Instead, your fingers gently tangle with his, brushing over the curve of his wedding ring, still snug on his finger. Still worn like a promise.

“I missed you too.” You kiss his forehead, slow and full of feeling, holding him just a little tighter.

He falls silent for a second. The nerves were long gone after you’ve both savored the dinner you’ve prepared but the bobbing in his throat is back. You notice the way his chest falls and rises rapidly like he’s trying to keep it together. 

He goes quiet again.

The nerves you thought had melted earlier creep back—subtle but present. You feel it in the way his chest rises a little faster, the way his grip on your hands tightens.

Then, slowly, he shifts in your arms, turns to face you fully. His hands never let go.

His gaze finds yours, swimming with something vulnerable—something on the cusp of overflowing.

“I have to tell you something.”

Your heart stalls. He hasn’t even said anything yet, but the way his fingers tighten slightly around yours, how his gaze lingers just a beat too long before flicking away—it’s enough to make your pulse skip, your palms dampen with nerves. Every irrational scenario plays out in your head like a film reel gone rogue.

Still, you steady yourself, hiding it behind a small chuckle. “Is something wrong?”

He smiles—small, uneven, not quite reaching his eyes. “Met my boss earlier this morning. I told you that, right?”

You nod slowly, brows already furrowing. “Yeah. I remember.”

Jeongguk takes a breath. His thumb strokes over your hand absently, like it grounds him. “It was… pretty important. I mean, him coming all the way here to Busan—it wasn’t just a check-in.”

He hesitates, the words starting and stalling as if each one gets caught in his throat.

“The company…” He lets out a breathy, nervous laugh. “God, I’m so bad at this. It’s not bad—I promise.”

“It’s okay, my love.” You squeeze his hand. “You can tell me. Take your time.”

He nods, grateful, swallows again. “They’re offering me something. A new opportunity. A big one.”

The pressure in your chest disappears in a flash, replaced by a rush of joy. You blink in surprise, then beam. “That’s amazing, Gguk! Congratulations! You’ve been working your ass off for this! Is it a promotion?!”

His laugh is sheepish, rubbing the back of his neck as his fingers slip gently from yours. “It’s not quite an immediate promotion yet.”

You wait, patient, but curious now.

“They’re asking me to lead two major campaigns first—big brands, international clients. And if that goes well, I’d be stepping in officially… as Executive Creative Director.”

You don’t even let him finish. Already lunging at him, throwing your arms around his neck and crushing him in a hug.

“Holy fuck, Jeon Jeongguk,” you whisper against his cheek before peppering him with kisses. “That’s huge. I can’t believe this. I’m about to stitch you a whole new suit. No—ten suits. I’m bringing out the ancient sewing kit.”

He laughs, softer this time, tucking a piece of your hair behind your ear. “I know, baby.” But it fades as he pulls back just slightly, eyes flickering down. “You’re going to have to hold on to that though.”

Your brow lifts. “What do you mean?”

“I haven’t said yes yet.”

That makes you pause. The buzz of excitement falters just slightly. “Why not? Gguk… this is the opportunity you’ve been dreaming about. Remember how hard you pushed five years ago when the position opened up? You worked through holidays, back-to-back campaigns, nearly made yourself sick just trying to prove you were ready.”

He lets out a faint chuckle, the memory hitting home. “You and Tae hid my laptop in Yoongi-hyung’s office and locked up all my hard drives. Told me it was the only way you’d get me into a hospital.”

You smile, but only briefly.

“So why are you hesitating now?”

“Not exactly passing it up,” he says, firm this time, eyes locking with yours. “I just told them I’d think about it. That I wanted to talk to you first.”

“You never needed to check in with me about work, Gguk,” your fingers find his again. “You know I’ve always been on your side. I still am. Always will be.”

There’s a second of quiet, long enough to make the wind feel louder, brushing past your ears like a whisper.

He breathes in deeply. Then exhales.

“Because… the job’s in Paris.” His voice is soft, fragile in the quiet rooftop air. “And it’ll go on for a year.”

It’s not what you expected.

Not even close.

But it doesn’t make you unhappy. There’s a slight sting, yes—like a small tear in fabric you’ve worn for years. A fraying along the edges of comfort.

You’ll miss him.

You’ll ache.

The thought of him waking up oceans away, breathing a life that doesn’t start with your shared morning mess and sleepy kisses—that thought presses tight against your chest.

But even then... joy wins.

Because this is him. And this is everything he’s worked for.

You’ve always wanted his dreams to outrun the limits of Seoul, of Busan. Have always believed in his wings. And tonight wouldn’t be the night you clipped them.

“Paris…” you whisper, not as a question, just the shape of a memory. A city you once fell in love with before you even stepped on its streets. Your lips tug into a small smile despite the swirl inside your chest.

“It’s your favorite city.” His gaze doesn’t waver. Boba eyes full, like the ocean swelling at high tide, and behind it—something else. Something aching, something wanting. “It’s why I wanted to talk to you first.”

He pauses. Licks his lips. Swallows like it hurts to say.

“I was hoping… you’d come with me.”

You don’t answer right away. Not because you’re conflicted—but because he remembers. He remembers. Through everything, even now, he still remembers. That the city of lights and art and winding alleys lined with ivy-covered cafés used to live in your journals. That Paris was always that city for you.

“Jeongguk…”

“It’ll just be a year,” he presses gently, voice picking up in hope. “You could finally explore, for real—no client appointments, no business calls blasting your phone. You can take those overpriced art classes at École des Beaux-Arts. Or maybe even try the pastry school we joked about that one night—remember?” A small laugh escapes him. “We could do it all together. You and me. Our second shot. Our new dream.”

His eyes are gleaming now, mouth curved, breath uneven in the way it gets when he’s excited. And it’s beautiful—his hope. It always has been.

But yours comes from a quieter place now. A different place.

“Gguk…” Your voice softens, hands reaching up to touch his cheek, thumb brushing along the skin there. “It’s not that easy.”

His smile falters.

“Why not? You’re not with Seora anymore. There’s nothing holding you here now. And if you don’t have any plans yet—then this is perfect. Come with me.” His hands find yours, clutching like he’s trying to anchor himself. “Please.”

And it hurts.

The way he’s looking at you now—eyes wide, almost trembling—like if you said yes, everything would be okay again. Like he’d carry the whole world on his back just to make it happen.

You swallow the ache in your throat. Meet his gaze with a smile that trembles around the edges.

“Your plans… they’re beautiful. You remembered every detail. Even the school I used to doodle on napkins. My favorite place in the world…” Your voice breaks just slightly, but you gather yourself. “It’s just… I can’t go.”

Silence.

Jeongguk’s hands slowly slip from yours. He leans back, eyes searching yours as if hoping for a different answer hiding in the spaces between your words.

But when he finds none, he shifts. Takes a seat back. “Then I’m not going.” His voice is sharp. Shaken. “Fuck the job. I’m not leaving.”

“Baby…” You reach out instinctively, but he pulls away.

“No.” He shakes his head, eyes glassy, jaw clenched. “I’m not going anywhere if you’re not with me.”

He turns as if to pace, but you rise and gently stop him with a hand on his wrist.

His chest is rising fast now, panic slowly leaking into his voice. “I’m serious. Don’t ask me to do this without you. I can’t. You know I can’t.”

You nod, quietly. Expected it. Braced for this.

And still, it doesn’t make it easier.

Taking both of his hands again, you pull him close, press your forehead to his. Let your silence hold him steady before your words follow.

“You’ve wanted this for years. Long before me. You’ve worked for it in ways no one else could understand. Please… don’t let me be the reason you walk away from something this big.”

“I’ve been telling you…” he breathes, voice cracking now. “None of that matters if you’re not by my side. It’s all meaningless without you.”

And still, your hands stay gentle. Your smile stays soft.

“I’m not going to force you if you don’t want to go.” You shift closer, legs slowly draping over his lap as your hands cup his jaw, steady and warm. “But please… think about it. Just promise me you’ll think about it. I don’t want you looking back one day and wondering what if. I don’t want you to regret this.”

“What I’ll regret,” he says quietly, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his palm warm against your cheek, “is leaving you again.”

His voice wavers—not with uncertainty, but with the kind of devotion that sounds like a vow.

“There’ll be other jobs, baby. Another opportunity. One that doesn’t fucking rip me across the map from you. I’ve already lost you once. I’m not letting that happen again.”

And something in your heart just… unfolds.

You’ve been loved by him before.

But this? This is different. This is him fighting for you again. This is love without hesitation, without self-preservation, without pride.

It’s the love you’ve been craving from him for years. And now, it feels like home again.

“You’ve never lost me.” The whisper leaves your lips as you close the space between you.

Gently, you lean forward, forehead resting against his. “I’ve always been with you here…” Your fingers trace his temple.

“Especially here.” You press them lightly to the center of his chest, where his heart thunders beneath skin and cotton.

“And I’ll always be with you,” you murmur, “even when you can’t see it.”

You don’t give him a chance to respond—not with words, at least.

Instead, you lean in, your lips brushing over his in the softest promise. And then again—deeper, slower. The kiss unravels you both, quieting the ache, replacing it with something warmer, fuller.

You pour every beat of your heart into the space between his lips and yours—every word you can’t bring yourself to say.

He sighs into the kiss, fingers twitching like he wants to hold you, ground himself, but you don’t let him—not yet.

Shifting gently, you guide him back until his spine meets the picnic blanket, your body coming to rest above his, your knees on either side of his hips.

The moonlight glows faintly across his cheeks, kissing the shadows of his jaw and the plush curve of his lips as you pull away just enough to look at him.

His eyes are glassy, glinting, searching. Hands hover, wanting you. Reaching for you.

But you gently take them—wrap your fingers around his wrists—and ease them back against the blanket. Not harshly. Just enough.

“Don’t,” you whisper.

“Baby…” he breathes, his voice laced with ache and longing. He looks up at you, wide-eyed and full of wonder. There’s need there, yes—but more than that, there’s awe. Like he can’t believe this version of you is still his to love.

“I’m here,” you tell him. “I’ve always been here, my love.”

You bend slowly, pressing soft kisses down his neck, each one delicate and lingering. Lips trailing lower, long his collarbone, across his chest—letting your touch speak the words you can’t say without breaking.

Your hands slide up his arms, memorizing the familiar terrain of him, anchoring yourself to the only place you’ve ever truly felt safe.

And he just lies there beneath you, breathing your name like a prayer.

His fingers twitch beneath your hold, but he doesn’t pull. Lets you take the lead, lets you love him the way you need to.

Your fingers move with quiet intention, slow and reverent as you ease his shirt over his head, revealing warm skin and familiar planes that still feel like home.

The cool breeze brushes over his chest, goosebumps blooming beneath your touch—but the shiver that runs through him isn’t from the wind.

It’s from you.

And when he lets out a breath—barely audible—you smile softly against his skin, your lips hovering just below his collarbone.

“Cold?” you whisper, teasing.

He shakes his head, a shy grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “No. Just you.”

You laugh softly at that, brushing your nose against his before kissing him again—slowly, sweetly, until his whole body melts beneath you.

When he reaches for the hem of your night gown, fingers grazing with hesitation, you stop him gently. Just a touch. Just a look.

“Let me take care of you, baby,” you whisper, lips brushing his cheek.

He nods, wordless, trusting.

You keep the gown on, a soft slip of silk that flutters like moonlight over your skin—but the rest of your clothing is gone, forgotten somewhere along the way, until there’s nothing left between you but warmth and want.

“I want you to remember…” you kiss your way back to him, just below his lobe, slow and steady, “…that no matter what you do, where you go, it’ll always be you and me.”

His hands slide to your waist, no longer pinned, but guided—holding you gently now, as if you were something holy.

You let him.

Because tonight, he doesn’t need to prove anything. Doesn’t need to chase or lead. He only needs to feel.

And you—you—are here to give him that.

Your hips roll over his slowly, deliberately, drawing soft sighs from his lips as your hands explore the lines of his body, his tattoos, mapping him again as if you’ll need to memorize every inch.

He whispers your name like he’s never said it before, like it holds every ache and hope inside it. His hands slip beneath the silk at your waist, fingers trembling with reverence, grounding himself in the way your skin fits against his.

But still, you lead.

The pace is unhurried, wrapping your fingers with his, never letting go, guiding them to your heart, before returning them to the curve of your hips. And when you sink down over him, slow and warm and full, the breath he exhales sounds like relief.

Not just from pleasure—but from the ache of finally, finally being held like this again.

Foreheads touching. Breath mingling. Limbs entangled with each other. The world stills around you.

You move with softness, not for show, but for truth. Each slow rock of your hips is a reminder. Each roll is a promise.

I’m here.

You’re mine.

Even when you’re weren’t

You lean in, your lips brushing over his jaw, his cheek, the edge of his lips, before you kiss him again—deep and quiet and consuming.

“Just remember tonight. That’s all I ask,” you whisper between kisses. “No matter how far. No matter how long. Please don’t forget tonight, us.”

His fingers tighten on your waist, pulling you impossibly closer. His body arches into yours, lost in the rhythm you set, the meaning threaded in every slow movement.

And when he moans your name again—half-broken, half-saved, when he says, “I love y—”, you hush him with a kiss, hand cradling the back of his head, your hips still moving, deeper, slower, fuller.

"I love you. I love you so much." you don't rush. Don’t let him hide.

You make him feel it. All of it.

The ache of all the years in between.

The gratitude for finding his way back to you.

The guilt he still carries, even when you never asked him to.

The love—your love—that never wavered, even in silence.

Every slow roll of your hips, every quiet kiss you leave on his skin, speaks louder than anything either of you could say out loud. 

You touch him like he’s yours—not in possession, but in knowing. Like every part of him has been yours since the beginning. And always will be.

And he feels it—feels how deeply, how completely, he’s still loved. Not in spite of everything. But through it.

By the way your hands trace his face like a memory.

By the way you look into him, not at him.

By the way your body moves with his—not rushed, not frantic, but full of meaning. Full of you.

His eyes flutter shut, lips parted in a gasp, but it’s not just the pleasure that overtakes him—it’s you. The weight of being wanted, forgiven, and kept. The depth of being loved like this.

And when he finally comes undone beneath you, trembling with your name on his tongue, your hands hold him through it—safe, grounded, home.

You don’t let go.

Even afterward, when your body settles over his, chest to chest, cheek against his damp shoulder, your hands stay tangled, lips pressed faintly to his neck.

"I love you, Jeon Jeongguk." you whisper again. “I’ll always be with you.” 

And this time, he believes you. Surrenders.

To you.

To everything you’ve always been.

Four years of Fashion Design at Seoul U? A breeze. Double majoring in Business Management and still graduating top of your class? Not even a sweat. Despite all-nighters, impossible deadlines, and runway critiques that would make grown CEOs cry, you always pulled through—calm, confident, with praise lining your professors’ mouths like silk.

But the pancake mix box in your hand?

Might as well have been quantum physics.

You squint at the back of the box like it personally betrayed you. The instructions blur into nonsense, and the seventh cracked egg on the counter stares back in defeat.

Cooking—real cooking—was never your forte.

Sure, you had a few wins under your belt: the anniversary dinners where nothing caught fire, the birthday soup Jeongguk swore tasted “heaven-sent” even if you’d cried into the broth.

But day-to-day meals? The Culinary Gods had long blacklisted you from their kitchen gates.

From the living room, a voice cuts through the chaos.

“Baby?” Jeongguk calls out mid push-up, a soft laugh laced in his tone. “Still surviving? I can take over—just give me thirty.”

“I’m fine!” you lie through your teeth, staring down the batter like it owes you rent. “Just… do your thing!”

He hums something unintelligible in response—probably a comment about trusting you with open flames—but you’re too busy pouring the first ladle of batter onto the pan to hear it.

Pour. Breathe. Don’t let it burn.

You turn to set the kettle on, swipe away a smear of flour from your cheek, and try not to mourn the wasted carton of eggs. The pan hisses behind you—not angrily, just loud enough to make you question your life choices.

You whisper to the spatula like it’s an ancient relic of war. “Don’t betray me. Not today.”

Your phone buzzes on the counter, screen lighting up with a familiar name: Queen Mother. Flour still dusts your fingers. You glance at the pan—batter stable, no smoke yet—then swipe to answer, cradling the phone between your cheek and shoulder as you step toward the quieter corner of the kitchen.

“Eomma,” you say softly, the exhaust fan humming in the background. “Good morning.”

“Hi, sweetheart.” Her voice is warm, steady. “How’s everything going over there?”

You let out a small breath, eyes drifting to the window where the sea glimmers faintly past the glass. “It’s peaceful,” you murmur. “No traffic, no meetings. Just waves. Him. Our home. It feels like... before.”

“I’m really glad,” she says gently. “You deserve this, you know.” Her voice is quieter now—measured and delicate— “I’m calling because… today’s the day. Just got off the call with Heejin — the last press briefing’s ready to go. We’ll hold the conference in three days.”

You don’t need her to explain. The plan had been set in motion a month ago—strategized with the board, reviewed in closed meetings, aligned to this exact timeline. Still, hearing it out loud makes your stomach flip. “I’m sorry you have to handle it alone, Eomma.”

“We’ve already talked about this, darling. Don’t be sorry.” There’s a faint rustle on her end, like she’s moving papers. “You held our company together for years. Let me carry it again this time.” Her voice softens. “Now, how are you going to handle Jeongguk?

One hand absently fidgets with a spoon from the drawer as you stir patterns into flour that’s reached this part of the kitchen top.

“I’ve rehearsed this. You heard me pacing and mumbling in my room like a lunatic, remember?”

Eomma laughs lightly. “If you need me to step in and spin him a perfectly worded statement... I’ve got you.”

You smile at that. “No need. He’ll have questions, but I’ll handle it. And if he spirals—well—you know what to do.”

“Mum’s the word,” she promises. Her laugh lingers for a second, then fades into something quieter. “The articles should be out any minute now. I’ll be swamped after this, but I’ll see you soon, sweetheart.”

Just as she says it, your phone buzzes—once, twice, then three times in rapid succession. A string of messages appears across the top of your screen.

You glance down.

Links. Headlines. News alerts.

Right on time.

“It’s here,” you murmur. “I’ll talk to you soon, Eomma.”

“Be gentle with him,” she says. “But firm.”

“Always,” you end the call, let the phone drop gently to the countertop—then reach for it again. Breathe out.

Then you open the first link.

“Seora CEO Steps Down After Nine Years, Founder Returns to Lead Brand Forward”

SEOUL — In a move that surprised many across the industry, the CEO of luxury fashion house Seora has officially stepped down after nine years at the helm. The decision was confirmed through a brief internal memo obtained by select press outlets early this morning.

The founder of Seora — known for her legacy in Korea’s fashion scene — will resume leadership, signaling what insiders are calling a “full-circle return to the brand’s roots.” While no public statement has been issued by the outgoing CEO, sources close to the company described the transition as “amicable and strategic,” tied to internal restructuring and long-term creative planning.

Seora has experienced rapid global growth in recent years, including back-to-back showcases at Paris Fashion Week and increasing visibility across key markets in Asia and Europe. The shift in leadership marks a pivotal moment in the brand’s future direction.

“It’s rare to see a founder return at this stage,” noted one industry analyst. “It’ll be interesting to watch where Seora goes from here.”

—

Your thumb hovers over the screen for a moment longer. Then you set the phone down, smooth your hands across your apron, and return to the counter. The pancake on the pan sizzles faintly.

This was always part of the plan.

Still, seeing it out in the world—real, public, irreversible—leaves a quiet ache in your chest.

Not regret. Just… release.

You pick up your phone once more, steady now.

On to the next.

“Behind Seora’s Transition: What’s Next for the Luxury House?”

With the sudden yet graceful exit of Seora’s longtime CEO, the Korean fashion label enters a new—and perhaps uncertain—chapter.

Over the past nine years, the brand’s identity evolved under the guidance of its now-former leader, widely praised for redefining Seora’s voice through minimalist tailoring, narrative campaigns, and a deeply personal design ethos. Many credit her for transforming a modest family business into a breakout name on the global stage.

Her departure, while not publicly explained, comes just weeks before Seora’s second consecutive appearance at Paris Fashion Week—a pivotal stage for any luxury house aiming to cement its international relevance. The company’s founder will now oversee the next chapter, with a renewed emphasis on legacy values and traditional craftsmanship.

“The question isn’t whether Seora can continue,” said a creative director based in Milan. “It’s whether it can keep its emotional signature—the one she built.”

—

You don’t realize you’ve stopped moving until the screen dims in your hand.

Across the room, Jeongguk is no longer working out. He’s on the floor now—still shirtless, cross-legged, towel half-slipped from his neck, eyes locked on his own phone screen like it just pulled the ground from under him.

You see the exact moment he reads that last line.

The shift in his shoulders. The stillness.

And yet...you don’t speak. Not yet.

Another buzz hits your palm. A third headline follows.

You tap it open with quiet fingers.

"Mark Tuan to Represent Seora Solo at Paris Fashion Week 2025”

With its CEO absent for the first time, Seora faces Paris without one half of its leadership duo.

PARIS — Korean fashion house Seora will return to Paris Fashion Week this year for its second global showcase. This time, however, all eyes will be on partner, Mark Tuan — who is set to represent the brand solo.

The company confirmed that its CEO will not be attending the event, marking her first absence since Seora’s international debut last year. While no official reason has been provided, a statement from the company insists that all preparations remain “on track” and that the brand is “in capable hands.”

Still, fashion circles have begun to speculate.

“Skipping Paris this early into a brand’s global presence sends a mixed message,” one columnist noted. “It either reflects internal changes—or misplaced priorities.”

Some insiders believe the shift is calculated — a deliberate spotlight move. Others whisper of deeper restructuring in the wake of Seora’s recent leadership change.

Whatever the cause, Seora’s sophomore appearance will be closely watched.

Not just for the collection.

But for the questions left behind.

—

The fourth headline glares up at you from the screen — untouched, unopened, but already cruel in tone.

You should leave it alone. Should pocket your phone, rinse the stickiness of flour from your hands, pretend you didn’t see the way Jeongguk’s footsteps slowed as more articles are probably popping on his screen.

But curiosity always wins.

So you tap the link.

And watch the page begin to load.

“Seora in Crisis? Founder Resumes Control Amid CEO’s Silent Exit”

Leadership vacuum raises questions about burnout, loyalty, and internal rifts at Korea’s fastest-rising luxury house.

SEOUL — In the wake of its CEO’s sudden disappearance from the public eye, industry insiders are questioning whether Seora’s recent success came at too high a cost — or worse, if it was never sustainable at all.

With no formal statement from the brand’s former figurehead, and business partner Mark Tuan now expected to lead Paris Fashion Week preparations alone, concerns have grown over whether Seora’s once-lauded leadership has fractured behind the scenes.

“It’s unheard of to leave your seat at this point in the game,” said a Paris-based fashion critic. “Especially when that seat is tied to global identity and creative direction. This isn’t just about rest. It’s about responsibility — and what happens when it’s abandoned.”

Some have pointed fingers at internal instability and mounting pressure on young leadership. Others cite burnout, noting that nearly nine years at the top might have been “too much, too soon.”

The founder’s quiet return to power has sparked further speculation that the brand is bracing for long-term restructuring — a move many read as a correction, if not, a rescue.

“Maybe it’s simply a return to tradition,” one insider noted. “Or maybe it’s a reflection of what happens when youth fails to carry weight.”

—

Your hand lowers slowly. The final article lingers on your screen, harsh against the soft hum of the kitchen, against the scent of batter and buttery eggs, against everything this morning was meant to be.

More articles are blooming across Naver now—some softened with understanding, others colder, crueler, dissecting your silence like it was strategy.

You don’t open them this time. Don’t need to. Don’t have the time to. Not when Jeongguk’s pacing by the counter, a wrinkled shirt now drapes over him, like he didn’t even bother fixing himself, as if there were more things he wanted to start fixing. His phone still gripped tight in one hand, the coffee you placed beside him long forgotten.

His brow furrows deeper with every blink. He scrolls, stops, scrolls again — like if he reads the same lines enough, they’ll rearrange themselves into something that doesn’t hurt.

“Last time, you said Mark handling Fashion Week was nothing. That you just needed to hold the fort in Seoul. That you were... breathing. Making space.” He stops pacing. Eyes meet yours — wild, searching. “This is a complete 180 from what you told me.”

There’s a mess of worry, frustration, something that almost sounds like betrayal in his voice — all of it layered, all of it expected.

“Five cubes of ice. No sugar,” You slide the coffee closer across the counter. “Just how you like it.” He doesn’t look. Doesn’t move. The condensation trickles down the glass, untouched. “But it’s getting watery now.”

“Forget the coffee for one second,” his voice rises—not sharp, but frayed, like it’s cracking at the seams. “What the hell are these dumbasses even writing?” He turns the screen toward you, jaw tight. “They’re making it sound like you just walked away.”

His thumb scrolls once, then again, stopping at another article. “This makes you sound neglectful. Like you abandoned everything. What the fuck are they doing?”

Moving quietly toward the stove, you say nothing. The pancakes are barely golden, the edges curling from heat—still unfinished, like everything else this morning.

You switch off the flame. Rounding the counter, you slide onto the bar stool. Then, gently, you reach for his hand. Tug once. “Sit with me.”

His other hand keeps tapping, pulling up articles, scanning headlines like they personally wronged him. “This is bullshit,” he mutters. “They don’t know what you’ve done. How hard you worked for Fashion Week. How you went through hell to keep Seora alive.”

You tighten your fingers around his, then loosen them. Let go, trying to ease the phone from his grasp. “Jeongguk—”

But he won’t stop. Of course he won’t. His eyes burn like it’s his name being dragged through the dirt. “I’ll call Taehyung. He still has press contacts from the old campaigns. I’ve still got press contacts. We’ll clear this up. You’re not like this. You’ve never been like this.”

His fingers are already flying over the screen—scrolling to Taehyung’s name, firing off a quick message. Then, almost immediately, he’s pulling up his email app. Drafting.

“Didn’t you say Taehyung’s with his family in Daegu?” You watch him with a soft, knowing ache. “Don’t make the poor guy work.”

Jeongguk barely looks up.

You try again, lighter this time. “Let the media talk. Eomma’s probably feasting on the drama right now.”   The sea breeze flutters the curtain just slightly—like the morning’s trying to remind you it’s still here, still soft, still yours.

But Jeongguk doesn’t smile. Not fully. His eyes find you again, and this time, they stay. His brows knit, confusion blooming in their center. “But you—”

“Let it go, my love.” The words drop like pebbles in a still lake.

He freezes. Mid-swipe, mid-thought, mid-rant. Eyes wide. Like he heard something impossible. “...What did you just say?”

You don’t look up right away—just raise your cup, take a slow sip of tea, then set it gently back on the counter. The chamomile inside swirls as you tilt it slightly, soft ripples spinning in calm contrast to the full-blown storm unraveling beside you.

“You should’ve heard it the first time,” you murmur, watching the tea settle, “if you weren’t babbling like Yoongi that one summer, he convinced himself he was destined to be a rapper instead of doing hospital rounds.”

Jeongguk pouts, already reaching for your hand like a sulky puppy. “Baby. Say it again.”

“Nope.” You pop the ‘p’ deliberately, grinning at his wounded expression. “Now, are you going to breathe—and finally listen?”

“Only if you call me that one more time.”

“No.” You squint at him playfully, tilting your head. “Now eyes on me, ears open. You’re going to listen carefully, and you’re going to stay quiet until the end. Talk in between if you really need to do but stay calm. Can you do that?”

Like a kicked puppy, he nods slowly, defeated but obedient. He switches his phone to silent, sets it aside with an exaggerated sigh, then leans in—eyes locked on yours, lips pressed together, ready to listen.

“Seora was done for me about a month ago,” you begin quietly. The words don’t shake, but they still press tight against your throat — truth you’ve already faced, but saying it aloud now makes your chest pull anyway.

“Everything will be handled by Eomma moving forward,” you continue, fingers fiddling with the hem of Jeongguk’s oversized shirt that drapes loosely over your frame. “The whole time, I was working on turnovers. Finalizing things. Helping Mark with Fashion Week prep, mostly. Eomma let me focus on that. It was going to be my last project, after all.”

You glance at him once—he’s watching you, listening, so still.

“It wasn’t easy,” you admit. “You, of all people, know how much I went through for that company. How much it meant to me. Even if I was always supposed to be next in line, there was still so much I had to prove. So many people I had to convince. You remember the early days—when not even the creative team was backing me.”

Your thumb brushes over the stitched edge of the fabric again, something grounding. “But you believed. You and your team—you were the first to stand by my campaigns. You gave them life before anyone else did. You gave me that courage.” A faint smile tugs at your lips. “Eomma, too.”

Across from you, Jeongguk’s lips part just slightly. There’s something in his eyes now—soft, aching. But he stays silent. Letting you speak.

“You watched me rise, continue my mother’s legacy, and prove everyone that I was capable,” A smile cracks at the corner of your lips as you remember the earlier years when you were just starting. “Seora was…everything. I’ve prepared my whole life for it but it was time to let go.”

The tightness in your throat doesn’t get easier, but you pull yourself together, just like you’ve rehearsed a hundred times for this moment.

“I’ve had time to accept this,” you say, voice gentler now. “Letting go of Seora…it still hurts. But I’m not going to let it swallow me. We planned for this—the board, Eomma, Mark—it was all calculated, intentional. It was always meant to happen this way.”

His brows pinch faintly. “Even the harsh articles? Baby, they’re being so mean to you.”

“Especially the harsh articles,” you say with a small huff that almost passes for laughter. You blink down at the counter, swirl your cup slightly to distract the unsteady rhythm in your chest. “When have they ever been kind? You know how this works. We both do.”

You lift your eyes again—just barely—but enough for him to see the quiet conviction there.

“Eomma’s leading the press conference in a few days to give the official statement.”

“But why?” His voice barely breaks above a whisper. The distant crash of waves sounds louder. “Why did you have to step down? What’s going on?”

You hold his gaze for a moment, then glance back down at your now-cooled tea. “There are a lot of things in life that matter more than work,” you begin softly. “Careers, success—they’re great, for a while. But time…” You pause, fingers tightening just slightly around your cup. “Time has a way of making things clearer. When certain things become inevitable, you start realizing what’s worth holding onto.”

You look back up. “There are people I want to be with more than I want to chase deadlines. More than I want to sit in boardrooms and live in my Google Calendar.”

Jeongguk lets out a quiet laugh, eyes closing briefly like he’s just remembered the color-coded chaos of his own. “My Google Calendar was more organized, for the record. Color-coding really helps.”

“Fuck the calendars,” you laugh, reaching for your cup, taking a sip even if it’s gone cold. “If laptops could dance, mine probably did a celebratory twerk when IT cleared my files.”

“Poor IT guy,” he snorts. “Pretty sure they deserve a raise for surviving your system crashes.”

Laughter fills the kitchen again—soft and earned. The air feels lighter now, the kind of light that only comes when something heavy has finally been said.

“It’s done now, Gguk,” your voice is steady again. “Please don’t worry. Don’t try to fix anything. Eomma, the board, Mark—they’re handling it. It’s all under control. Promise I’ll be okay. We’ll be okay.”

“Are you really?” He studies you closely, eyes gentle but searching, his thumb tracing slow circles against your knee. “You can always tell me anything. You know that, right?”

“I know,” you take his hands in yours, fingers weaving through his slowly, anchoring. “Just think of it as a vacation I deserve. One that’s long, long overdue.”

Before he can respond, you slip off the stool and pad into the living room, retrieving his laptop from the coffee table. You return, settle back beside him, and with practiced ease, flip it open and start typing.

Click. Scroll. Click.

“Look,” you say brightly, turning the screen toward him. “Gucci’s having a sale.”

Your eyes stay on the page, refusing to meet the look you know he’s giving you — part confused, part worried, part she’s clearly trying to distract me and I’m going to let her…for now.

“Baby,” he warns, leaning in, trying to close the laptop. “You shouldn’t even be on that page. That’s your competitor.”

“Not anymore,” you chirp, tugging the laptop closer to you before he can shut it. A soft giggle escapes your lips as you scroll. “This one’s going straight to checkout. It’ll go perfectly with that green dress you gave me five Christmases ago.”

You tilt the screen, showing him a cream-and-gold scarf. His sigh is audible—the kind that says you win.

He disappears into the hallway for a second, then returns and places his card beside the laptop. “You’re not spending a single won. Get the matching bag too. And if I don’t see any transaction on my statement later, I will transfer the funds myself.”

You roll your eyes, but your smile blooms genuinely this time—real, full, reaching all the way to your eyes. You lean in, kiss his cheek, and whisper, “Thank you.”

“I’ll get you a new wallet too,” you add cheekily. “Yours needs to retire.”

“You gave me that when I turned twenty!” he protests, already rounding the stove to work on the pancakes you left half-done.

“And yet it’s hanging on by actual tape,” you tease, watching him switch on the stove again. “Not even fabric tape. You used the kind they put on birthday cards.”

“I was in a rush, okay?” he huffs dramatically. “Just get the damn wallet. Black. Sleek. Nothing flashy.”

You salute. “No promises.”

Jeongguk hums to himself as he flips the pancake you left—and promptly bursts into laughter when it breaks apart mid-air, flopping onto itself like it’s surrendering to its fate.

“What in the Gordon Ramsay did you do?” he laughs, stares at the pan like it’s personally offended him.

Peeking up from the laptop, you squint at the battlefield. The pancake batter is… separating. Like it’s actively tearing apart from within. “I followed the instructions! That’s not supposed to happen.”

“No shit,” he deadpans, reaching for the half-empty bag you left on the counter. “You did use baking powder, right?”

“Duh. The white powder stuff.” You gesture like it’s obvious. “Even added extra for fluff. Plus eggs! You know, to keep it thick. Stable. United.”

He narrows his eyes, grabs the open container, then stops. “Baby…” he turns the box toward you. It says cornstarch.

You gasp. “Why are all the white powders the same?! Who approved this packaging?!”

“This batter’s on life support.” He lifts the nearby milk carton and shakes it. “Wait—how much milk did you use?”

You wince. “...A bit?”

“It’s half-empty! I just had this delivered yesterday.”

“I drank some in the process?” you offer weakly, shrugging. “You know how I operate. Taste test in between prep.”

He gives you a look. The kind that says I love you so much it hurts—but also stay out of my kitchen. “At least,” cracking a grin, he slides the scrambled eggs onto a plate, “you nailed the eggs.”

You beam. “They look edible!”

“Yeah, after you wiped out the entire carton. Babe, no more kitchen experiments for the rest of the trip. Chef Jeon’s taking over.”

You pout, flopping back into your chair. “I just wanted to cook for you,” you murmur, scrolling on his laptop again. “Really tried, but I swear the kitchen has it out for me.”

“I’ll just have to take all the time in the world teaching you,” the teasing fades from his expression. “Till you’re the next Michelin chef.” He looks at you for a long second, eyes soft, full of something that makes your chest ache.

“Or…” You pause mid-scroll, meeting his eyes. You smile—soft. “You could just invent more of your weird but somehow stomach-satisfying recipes for your 3 a.m. cravings.”

“Gummy bear Biscoff pancakes already has its place in my cookbook,” he winks, sweeping up the cornstarch mess. “But for now—let’s stick with toast and these heroic scrambled eggs.”

You watch him work on the toasts quickly, buttering it up with what was left from what you used then plate everything with a quiet kind of reverence, like even this—disaster batter, half-gone milk, your utter chaos—is something he wouldn’t trade.

“That’d be nice,” you whisper, as he finally takes the seat beside you, plate in hand, like home had always been wherever you both sat down to eat.

The clink of cutlery and soft hum of the kitchen fills the air as the two of you fall into a quiet rhythm, sharing the scrambled eggs and last-minute toast like it’s a banquet.

Shoulder to shoulder now, Jeongguk’s laptop perched between you, a tab still open to Gucci’s winter collection. You scroll lazily, laughing under your breath when you both try to add the same pair of gloves to the cart.

“Your work email’s awfully quiet,” you reach across him to click a different tab. “Is it broken?”

“Thought the same thing too.” He finishes off the last of his food, slides the plate to the side, then takes a sip of the fresh iced coffee you brewed for him. “Took a leave for a few days, I told you that, right?”

You nod, recalling your last breakfast together in Seoul—the little café you always went to, the one with the mismatched mugs and tiny sugar spoons. “Haven’t been back since then?”

Jeongguk shakes his head. “I planned for three, four days. Then my boss told me to take ten. Then they just said… take as long as I need.”

He laughs, but it doesn’t quite land—there’s something caught in it. A hesitation. “Now I don’t even know if there’s a job waiting for me.”

“Well,” you click over to his inbox, refreshing it a few times. The screen loads cleanly, a few flagged emails at the top. “At least your inbox still works. Oh—there’s an update. But looks like it’s CC’d to the whole team, creative directors and all. No direct send.” You pause, glancing at him. “You’re still in the loop, Jeongguk.”

He exhales, tries to smile. “At first, I thought I was being benched. Like I dropped the ball and they were easing me out.” He picks up the empty cups, carries them to the sink. “But now… I don’t know. Everyone’s being too nice. It’s like they’re making room for something.”

“Maybe they’re planning your retirement,” you tease gently, closing the laptop with a soft snap. “Early golden years.”

“Please. I’d rot in a week.”

You finish what’s left on your plate, watching as he rinses the dishes like he never stopped doing it. Like all this—his body moving through the kitchen, sleeves pushed up, familiar in every motion—is just a return to rhythm.

“Finish up quickly,” you say, already rising to your feet. “We’ve got plans.”

“Where we going?!” he calls out behind you, but you’re already halfway up the stairs, heart light and full, a grin blooming on your face.

You don’t answer.

Because outside, waiting just beyond the porch – is something just for him.

The sun is high by the time you both step out, bathing everything in a golden glow that’s too good, too clean to belong to the city.

Laughter spills from the nearby shore—children playing, waves kissing the sand, the sea breeze carrying the scent of sunscreen and saltwater. It’s the kind of morning that makes the world feel simple again.

Your hand is laced with his as you lead him further down the street, warmth blooming against your palm with every step. Jeongguk’s still trailing behind a little, teasing you for your mysterious silence.

But then—he stops.

Dead in his tracks.

A sharp breath leaves him, then, “No fucking way.”

Just a few feet ahead, parked neatly by the curb, is his old Harley—sleek black with streaks of crimson still glowing against the sun. He drops your hand without warning and runs toward it like a kid reunited with his long-lost best friend.

He circles the bike, all wide eyes and disbelief, before crouching down and brushing his hand over the seat.

The acrylic sticker on the side is still there – both your initials printed in faded white, one tiny heart drawn in between. He finds the shallow scratch behind the exhaust too, the one from that summer road trip where you both took a wrong turn and almost skidded into a ditch.

And hanging off the handlebars: two helmets.

His matte black one. And yours—pastel purple with a few butterfly and sun decals you stuck a few summers ago, the edges barely hanging on.

You finally catch up, breathless from both the walk and watching him.

“Felt right to bring back something that was yours,” you reach for his helmet, clipping it under his chin with practiced ease. “I just wanted to see you like this again.”

His eyes are impossibly big now, voice nearly caught in his throat. “But how—?”

“Let’s just say Junghoon can’t say no when his sister-in-law calls in a favor.” You smirk, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear.

Jeongguk’s already taking your helmet and sliding it carefully over your head, still reeling. “My brother helped you?”

“Helped, drove, delivered it from Seoul. Even had his friend convoy with him so he wouldn’t have to take the train back.” You grin, proud. “Don’t worry, I paid them in gas money. Like, a lot of gas money. They’ll be fine.”

His arms wrap around you in an instant—tight, sincere. “This means everything. Thank you.”

You smile, pressing a hand to his chest as you pull back. “Then make it worth it.”

With one final glance toward the sky, he mounts the bike with a gleam in his eye. You hop on behind him, arms wrapping easily around his waist like no time had passed at all.

“Let’s ride around town,” you whisper against his back, grinning.

And just like that, the engine roars to life. Wheels kiss the road. And the two of you disappear down the sunlit streets—familiar roads, familiar rhythm, like the whole day belongs only to you.

The ride around town is loud with wind and laughter.

The sun hangs above you like an old friend, warming your backs and kissing your skin pink through your clothes. It’s hot, but not suffocating—just the kind of heat you used to welcome every summer, the kind that sticks to your shoulders and makes you feel young again.

Your arms stay snug around Jeongguk’s waist, head resting lightly against his back. You close your eyes for a moment, letting the wind play with your hair, the road humming beneath the tires as the Harley weaves through familiar streets.

Busan hasn’t changed much.