Started ♡

🌧 Pairing — husband! Lee Heeseung × wife!reader

🌧 Genre — fluff, domestic romance, post-tour comfort, sleepy intimacy

🌧 Drabble!

🌧 Movie night postponed because husband duties came first ♡

The apartment smelled like ramen broth and fresh laundry by the time you got back.

Rainwater dripped from the ends of your hoodie onto the wooden floor in tiny puddles, grocery bag hanging weakly from your wrist as you nudged the front door shut with your foot.

“Baby?”

The living room lights were dim—only the yellow lamp near the couch left on—and the soft sound of a drama rerun played from the TV. For a second, everything felt warm and perfect.

Then Lee Heeseung looked up from the couch.

And froze.

“…Why are you soaked?”

You blinked at him innocently. “It was barely raining when I left.”

He stared at you in disbelief while you stood there dripping onto the floor holding chips and microwave popcorn like a guilty raccoon.

“Barely raining?” he repeated slowly. “You look like you swam home.”

You snorted, toeing your shoes off. “Okay, dramatic.”

“Come here.”

There was no room to argue with the tone he used—soft, tired, husband-coded in the most unfair way possible.

Heeseung had only gotten back from tour two days ago. Two months overseas, endless flights, interviews, concerts, rehearsals. You’d missed him so badly it physically hurt sometimes. So tonight was supposed to be simple: movies, snacks, cuddling until one of you passed out.

Instead, you’d nearly caught hypothermia over gummy bears.

“You didn’t have to go out,” he mumbled while taking the grocery bag from your hands. “I would’ve ordered something.”

“But movie snacks are important.”

“You’re important.”

Your chest did that stupid fluttering thing it always did around him.

He sighed once he noticed you shivering. “Go shower before you get sick.”

“You coming with me?”

That finally made him smile.

“Obviously.”

—

The bathroom mirror fogged up almost immediately.

The shower was warm enough to melt the chill from your skin, and Heeseung kept laughing quietly every time you complained about how cold your hands were against his waist.

“You’re like a little ice cube.”

“You married me.”

“Worst financial decision of my life.”

You gasped dramatically while he grinned into your wet hair, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead before rinsing shampoo from your hair carefully like he had all the time in the world.

Domesticity looked unfairly good on him.

Not idol Heeseung.

Not performer Heeseung.

Just your husband in gray sweatpants, damp hair falling into sleepy eyes while helping you wash conditioner out because “you’ll miss spots if you’re half asleep.”

And honestly?

Maybe you were.

—

By the time you finished showering, the rain outside had softened into a quiet drizzle against the windows.

“Sit.”

You obeyed immediately, settling onto the floor between his knees while he sat on the couch behind you with a towel draped over your head.

The TV menu glowed untouched.

Movie still unselected.

“Honestly,” he started, rubbing your hair gently with the towel, “what if you got sick?”

“I wouldn’t.”

“You literally came home looking frozen.”

“It was romantic.”

“It was irresponsible.”

You twisted around to defend yourself, only for him to lightly tap your forehead with two fingers.

“Stay still.”

You laughed quietly.

“Yes, sir.”

“Don’t start.”

His hands were warm as he continued drying your hair, fingers occasionally combing through damp strands to untangle them. The entire apartment felt soft around the edges—lamp light, rain sounds, the familiar scent of his body wash lingering in the air.

You melted further back against him.

Missed this.

Missed him.

Tour seasons were always hard. Video calls weren’t enough. Neither were texts or blurry airport selfies at 3 a.m. Nothing compared to this—to sitting between his knees while he fussed over you like you were something precious.

“You got quiet,” he murmured.

“Mhm.”

Another gentle pass of the towel.

“You tired?”

You hummed again, eyes growing heavier by the second.

Heeseung smiled to himself when your head tipped backward against his thigh.

“Movie didn’t even start yet,” he whispered.

No response.

He paused.

Looked down.

Your breathing had evened out completely, lips slightly parted as sleep finally claimed you right there on the living room floor.

For a second, he just stared.

Then his expression softened into something unbearably fond.

“Aigoo,” he murmured quietly.

He brushed damp hair away from your face carefully, thumb tracing lightly over your temple.

All that effort for movie snacks.

And now you were asleep before opening them.

He laughed under his breath, reaching for the blanket draped over the couch and wrapping it around your shoulders before leaning down to press the softest kiss against your forehead.

“Next time,” he whispered, eyes lingering on your sleeping face, “we’re ordering delivery.”

Back Home

<< First < Previous ~*~ Next >

The first kitchen tool Sun used for dimensional banishment was actually the frying pan. Yaaay. Sun gets his broom privileges back.

Pocket Space (i.e. pulling large objects out of small pockets) has been normal since the 7th comic.

Sun's Family Folder seen in Intervention part 2.

a/n: to whoever that requested this. i am so sorry this took a whole year to even get around to writing this😭 also my photoshopping skills on this banner🤌🏻 but anyways, this isn’t entirely a holiday with ni-ki as i am basing it off what happened when ni-ki went back to his hometown to perform. this is just assuming what happened, obviously fictional so it isn’t real. just imagine people!

BACK HOME

pairing: nishimura riki x fem!reader

genre: fluff; idol!ni-ki + relationship au

warnings: nope

word count: 2.4K words

it’s been years since ni-ki got to come back home to japan. years without his parents, his family. he had to grow up quick at 14. flying in a plane to an unknown territory. just to train for a 8 months and join a survival show. ni-ki was terrified, confused and quite honestly homesick. yet, after actually winning a spot and debuting. nothing could prepare himself to confess to you.

Oneshot! (Request)

Pairing: Hwang Inho/Frontman x Wife! Reader

Summary: After months of silence and heartbreak, Y/N finally comes face to face with the man she thought she lost forever.

Warnings: Angst, emotional confrontation, abandonment themes, pregnancy-related stress, guilt, emotional breakdowns, mild violence references.

Author's Note: Based on THIS request. I'm so lazy to write nowadays 🥱

Word Count: 5,319

Taglist: Let me know if you want to get tagged. @salesmancarddd @marymun @astronomicalastro-blog1 @filthygalli @thehellhaveubeenloca @yosoylaprincesa2004 @watasinekoru @nightlark100 @drewstarkeysrightarm @doodle-with-rhy @lunaryoongie @ilovebyunghunlee @yxluana @sammie217 @sammat97 @alex-17s-world @mObi4girls @maah-sama @grylian @hecticspice @manager016 @mxriesss @christmascoles @nosebeers @carolinevoight @princesscherryblossom15 @frozen-waffle @eviesmoon @startled-cats @retiredpieceofshits @ft-winnow @weakh3rokdrama @bluechaoslizzy @frontwomann @cutecat2005 @starlightlunax @alex110370000 @wanna-plan-world-domination @akiyhara @natalie3657 @hornylittlesimp @lazybum0 @reneejkn @solarpotato @masked-protocol @lindsay00000 @v13fsg @missinkho

It had been months.

Long enough for the seasons to shift outside the apartment windows, long enough for the dust to settle on places Inho used to touch without thinking—his side of the bed, the hook by the door where his jacket once hung, the mug he always reached for first in the morning.

Long enough for hope to thin into something quieter. Heavier.

Y/N was alive.

That alone felt like a miracle.

The doctors had stopped using words like critical and unstable. The sharp panic that once lived in every heartbeat had softened into careful monitoring, gentle smiles, reassurances that no longer sounded forced.

Her pregnancy—once fragile, once hanging by a thread—was no longer in danger.

Someone had paid for everything.

The bills disappeared overnight. Procedures approved without delay. Medication she knew they couldn’t afford suddenly available, no questions asked.

The hospital never gave her a name—only that the payments were made anonymously, consistent and precise.

She didn’t need them to tell her.

It was him.

Before he disappeared, Inho had sat at the edge of her hospital bed, hands wrapped tightly around hers as if letting go would undo everything.

His eyes had been dark with something she didn’t recognize then—fear, yes, but also resolve sharp enough to hurt.

“I’ll do anything.” he’d said quietly. “Anything to make sure you’re okay. To make sure you both are.”

She’d tried to argue. Tried to tell him they’d figure it out together like they always did. But he only kissed her forehead, lingering longer than usual, as if memorizing her.

That was the last time she saw him.

At first, she waited with certainty.

He was working. Hustling. Doing exactly what he promised. Every day she told herself he’ll call tonight, he’ll come through the door tomorrow. She kept her phone close even when she slept, just in case.

Days turned into weeks.

Weeks turned into months.

The money kept coming.

Inho did not.

Junho never stopped looking.

Every spare hour he had, he spent chasing shadows—hospitals, emergency rooms, accident reports, unidentified patients.

He pulled favors, dug through records he wasn’t supposed to see, followed tips that led nowhere. More than once, he came back with his shoulders slumped, jaw tight with frustration he tried not to show her.

“There has to be something.” he muttered one night, papers spread across the table like a losing hand. “He wouldn’t just vanish. Hyung isn’t like that.”

She wanted to believe him.

But belief was getting harder.

There were no records. No bodies. No witnesses. No sightings. It was as if Inho had stepped off the face of the earth the moment he walked out of that hospital room.

Some nights, Y/N lay awake with one hand resting protectively over her stomach, staring at the ceiling and replaying his last words over and over again. Wondering where he was sleeping. If he was eating. If he was hurt.

If he was alive.

The apartment felt too quiet without him. Too empty. Even with Junho checking in constantly, even with life slowly, painfully moving forward, there was a hollow space where Inho should have been.

He had saved her life.

And then he disappeared.

By the time the doctors officially cleared her, when the danger had truly passed, the truth was unavoidable.

Inho had been gone for months.

And despite everything Junho had searched—every hospital, every report, every possible lead.

There was still no trace of him at all.

---

The mask was heavier than it looked.

In-ho stood above the arena, framed by cold metal and harsher silence, the deep black of the Frontman’s coat swallowing whatever humanity still clung to him.

Below, the game unfolded with mechanical precision—rules announced, players herded, fear blooming exactly on schedule.

He watched without flinching.

That was the part that scared him the most.

The screens flickered as bodies ran, stumbled, fell. Guards moved when ordered. The system worked because it was ruthless, because it didn’t hesitate.

Because he didn’t hesitate.

And yet—

His hand tightened slowly at his side when one of the cameras caught a young lady clutching his stomach, breathing hard, eyes wide with terror.

For just a second, the image overlapped with another memory entirely: a hospital room washed in pale light, Y/N lying still with wires against her skin, his own fear choking him silent.

"I’ll do anything."

The words echoed like a curse now.

Inho turned away from the screens, stepping back into the shadows of the control room. The guards didn’t look at him. They never did. To them, he was untouchable—an authority carved out of silence and violence.

But alone, behind the mask, his thoughts betrayed him.

He thought of her constantly.

Of the way her fingers used to curl into his sleeve when she slept. Of how she laughed softly when he pressed his face into her neck after long shifts. Of the life growing inside her—a life he had promised to protect, no matter the cost.

That promise was what brought him here.

He had won once. Learned what survival really meant. Learned how easy it was to lose yourself when desperation sharpened into something ugly and efficient. When the offer came—money, power, anonymity—he told himself it was temporary.

Just until she was safe.

Just until the bills were paid.

Just until he could breathe again.

But blood had a way of sticking.

Some nights, he stood exactly like this—watching death play out in orderly rounds—and imagined turning his back on it all. Walking out. Going home. Knocking on the door like he hadn’t shattered the man he used to be.

He imagined Y/N opening it.

Her eyes searching his face. Not with relief—but with horror.

Because how could he explain this?

How could he tell her that while she lay in a hospital bed fighting to live, he had signed his soul away piece by piece? That while her body healed, his hands had built a system that fed on suffering?

He had tried to leave.

More than once.

There were moments—late at night, when the facility fell into its artificial sleep—when he stood before the exit, mask in his hands, heart pounding like it used to before raids, before fights. Moments when he almost turned back.

But then he pictured her face crumpling if she knew the truth.

You sent the money, she would realize.

You paid for my life with this.

And the unborn child—their child—growing into a world that would one day know what their father was.

The thought hollowed him out.

“It’s too late.” he murmured once into the empty room, voice distorted even without the mask. “I’m not the man she loved anymore.”

The screens continued to glow infront of him, indifferent.

Inho slipped the mask back on, sealing away the cracks before anyone could see them. The Frontman returned—cold, controlled, efficient.

But somewhere beyond the walls of the games, beyond the blood and the rules and the cameras, a woman waited with a life he would never stop loving.

And that was the cruelest punishment of all.

---

Jun-ho found the clue by accident.

It was past midnight at the station, the kind of hour where the fluorescent lights hummed too loudly and paperwork felt heavier than it should.

He’d stayed late again—habit now, born from months of searching for a brother who had vanished into thin air.

He opened his desk drawer to grab a file.

And froze.

Tucked beneath old reports and a forgotten notebook was a small card—clean, pristine, completely out of place. Junho frowned, lifting it slowly like it might burn him.

A circle. A triangle. A square.

His breath hitched.

He’d never seen it before. Not clearly—not like this—but he knew it wasn’t normal. Turning it over, his fingers trembled as he read the number printed on the back.

Something cold settled in his gut.

“Inho…” he whispered.

The memories clicked together all at once—Inho’s sudden disappearance, the money that came from nowhere, the way every trail went dead no matter how hard Junho pushed.

This wasn’t an accident. This wasn’t bad luck.

This was something deliberate.

Junho didn’t tell anyone.

Not his captain.

Not his colleagues.

And especially not her.

He followed the trail quietly, obsessively—burner phones, falsified identities, a shadow network that moved like smoke. Every step deeper confirmed what his instincts already screamed.

When he finally reached the island, when he saw the guards in pink and the games unfolding like some grotesque ritual, denial died a violent death.

And then—

He saw him.

Standing above it all. Cloaked in black. Masked. Still.

The Frontman.

Junho’s legs nearly gave out.

He would’ve known that posture anywhere. The way he stood, shoulders squared, hands still, commanding the space without saying a word.

Hyung.

The man who taught him how to ride a bike.

Who shielded him from their father’s anger.

Who laughed softly when Junho couldn’t sleep after nightmares.

Now watching people die like it meant nothing.

Junho didn’t scream. Didn’t rush forward. Shock rooted him in place, thick and suffocating.

He escaped by instinct alone—hiding, running, surviving on pure adrenaline and disbelief.

When he finally made it back, when solid ground replaced the island’s cruelty, the truth weighed heavier than any bullet ever could.

And he still hadn’t told y/n.

When he did, it shattered everything.

---

Y/n listened in silence as Junho spoke, his voice rough, hands clenched so tightly his knuckles turned white. He told her about the card. The island. The games.

The Frontman.

“Inho is alive,” he said hoarsely. “But he’s not… he’s not who we thought anymore.”

Y/n shook her head immediately. Hard. Like she could physically push the words away.

“No,” she said, breath uneven. “No. You’re wrong.”

Jun-ho stepped closer. “Y/N—”

“The Inho I know would never do something like that!” you snapped, eyes burning. “He wouldn’t watch people die. He wouldn’t become a monster.”

Her hand went instinctively to her stomach.

“He did everything for us.” she whispered. “For me. For our child.”

Junho swallowed. “That’s exactly why I think he did it.”

The room fell quiet.

She stared at the floor for a long moment, chest rising and falling too fast. When she looked back up, her expression had changed—not softer, not calmer.

Resolved.

“Take me there.” she said.

Jun-ho stiffened. “What?”

“I want to see him.” you said, voice steady despite the tremor beneath it. “With my own eyes.”

“That place is dangerous,” Jun-ho said immediately. “People don’t come back from there.”

She met his gaze, unflinching.

“He owes me answers more than anyone else.” you said quietly. “I’m his wife. I’m carrying his child. If he’s really become this… this thing you saw—then I deserve the truth from his own mouth.”

Junho ran a hand through his hair, frustration and fear etched deep into his face. “Y/N, I can’t protect you there.”

“I’m not asking you to.” you replied. “I’m asking you to take me.”

The silence stretched.

Finally, Junho exhaled, defeated. “Once we go… there’s no guarantee we come back the same.”

She nodded. “I already haven’t.”

And somewhere, behind a black mask and countless screens, Inho stood unaware that the two people he loved most were already on their way to him—armed not with weapons, but with truth he could no longer outrun.

---

The room was silent in a way that felt engineered—thick, controlled, oppressive.

Black walls. Polished floors. Screens dormant for now. The Frontman’s private chamber.

Y/n stood just behind Junho in a room, one hand unconsciously braced against her lower back, the other resting over her stomach.

The air smelled sterile, metallic, nothing like home.

Nothing like safety.

Every second stretched. Then the door opened.

Boots echoed—measured, unhurried.

Inho stepped inside. All in black. Mask on. Authority clinging to him like a second skin.

He stopped the moment he saw Junho.

For a split second, the Frontman vanished. “Inho—” Jun-ho breathed.

Inho’s shoulders stiffened. Slowly, deliberately, he lifted a hand and removed the mask.

Junho’s chest tightened painfully.

It was him.

Older. Sharper. Colder somehow—but unmistakably his brother.

“What are you doing here?” Inho asked, voice low, controlled—but there was something cracked beneath it.

Junho laughed once, hollow. “What are you doing here?”

Inho’s jaw clenched. “You shouldn’t be here.” His eyes darted briefly to the door. “You need to leave. Now. Before anyone sees you.”

Junho shook his head. “I’m not leaving.”

“Inho.” Junho pressed, voice breaking despite himself, “look at this place. Look at what you’ve become.”

Inho’s gaze hardened. “You don’t understand.”

“No” Jun-ho snapped. “I don’t think you do.”

And then— A soft sound behind Junho.

Footsteps.

Inho’s eyes shifted past his brother.

And his world collapsed.

Y/n stepped out of the bedroom.

Paler than before. Thinner. But standing.

Alive.

Her belly was unmistakable now—round, prominent, proof of everything he had sacrificed himself for.

For a moment, Inho forgot how to breathe.

His lips parted soundlessly. His eyes burned, glassy, overwhelmed with something dangerously close to relief.

“Y/N…” he whispered.

The sound of her name on his tongue shattered whatever fragile restraint she had left.

“Don’t.” you choked out. “Don’t say my name.”

Tears spilled freely now, but she didn’t back away. She stood her ground, shaking but unbroken.

“Inho,” she said, voice trembling with fury and heartbreak “Why did you leave me?”

Silence.

“What is this place?” she demanded, gesturing weakly around her. “What are you doing here?”

Inho took a step toward her before stopping himself, like he was afraid she might disappear if he moved too fast.

“I did this for you.” he said hoarsely. “For you and the baby. I needed money. I needed—”

“You could have come back!” she cut in sharply. “I waited. Every day. Weeks. Months.”

His head bowed slightly. “I thought… after everything I did… it was too late. I thought you wouldn’t accept me anymore.”

Her breath hitched.

For a long moment, she just looked at him—the man she loved, standing in black, surrounded by death and secrets.

Then she nodded slowly.

“You’re right.” she said, voice eerily calm now. “It is too late.”

Inho’s eyes snapped up.

“Because the man I loved would have come home,” she continued, tears still falling. “He would have faced me. Faced us.”

Her gaze hardened, cutting deeper than any blade.

“But the man standing in front of me?” she whispered.

“He’s not my husband.”

The words landed like a gunshot. “He’s a monster.”

And for the first time since he put on the mask, Hwang Inho felt something inside him truly break.

Inho took another step forward, panic flashing openly across his face now.

“No.” he said, shaking his head hard, voice cracking for the first time. “No—you’re wrong. I’m still me. I’m still your Inho.”

He reached out instinctively. She recoiled.

“Don’t come closer.” she said, stepping back, her hand tightening over her stomach as if to protect herself from him.

The distance between them felt wider than the room itself.

“There’s nothing left to listen to.” she continued, tears streaming freely now. Her voice trembled but didn’t waver.

“You made your choices. You disappeared. You let me believe you were dead.”

She turned toward Junho. “Let’s go.”

Junho hesitated, torn, but nodded slightly—ready to move with her.

And then—

Inho grabbed her wrist. Not hard. Not forceful.

Desperate.

“Please.” he said hoarsely. “Don’t walk away. Not like this.”

Y/n froze, breath catching.

“You owe me one chance.” he whispered. “One conversation. I need you to hear the truth—from me.”

Her chest rose and fell rapidly. For a moment, she looked ready to pull away again.

But then she swallowed. She did want answers.

She needed him.

Slowly, she turned back to face him, eyes red, jaw tight. “This is your last chance,” she said quietly. “After this… there’s no pretending.”

Jun-ho stepped closer to her side. “Y/N,” he said gently, “listen to him once. Then we decide.”

Y/n closed her eyes briefly, steadying herself.

“…Fine,” she whispered.

In-ho exhaled shakily, relief flickering through his devastation.

“I’ll explain everything,” he promised. “Just—let me talk to you alone.”

Junho frowned. “Hyung—”

“Junho. ” In-ho said firmly, eyes never leaving ber. “She's my wife.”

Y/n nodded once, stiff. “We talk. That’s all.”

Inho released her wrist immediately, like the contact burned him.

“This way,” he said quietly.

He led her to his private bedroom down the hallway. The door closed behind her with a soft click.

Y/n stood near the entrance, arms crossed protectively over herself, putting distance between her and the bed.

Inho stayed near the door, not daring to come closer.

For the first time since he vanished, it was just the two of them.

And the truth—heavy, ugly, unavoidable—hung between them, waiting to be spoken.

___

Inho closed the door behind him quietly.

The sound echoed far louder than it should have.

He turned back to her—and for a second, he just stood there, taking her in. Her face. The way her hand instinctively rested over her belly. Proof that everything he had lost was standing right in front of him.

He took a step closer.

Slow. Careful.

His hand lifted, hovering in the air, fingers trembling as they reached toward the curve of her stomach.

Y/n stepped back immediately.

His hand froze mid-air. The hurt in his eyes was raw, unguarded.

“Y/N…” he whispered. “Please. Just—just once. Let me touch you.”

Silence.

Y/n didn’t look away, but she didn’t move either.

His voice broke when he tried again. “I want to feel my child.”

That was it.

She laughed—but there was no humor in it. Only rage and months of swallowed pain.

“Now?” she snapped. “Now you care about the baby?”

He stiffened.

“Where were you!?” she shouted, “When I was lying in a hospital bed, Inho? When the doctors told me I might lose this—lose us—because my body was failing?”

Her chest heaved as she went on, words pouring out like poison she'd been holding inside for months.

“Where were you when I was alone? When I was signing papers by myself, shaking, wondering if I’d wake up the next morning? I almost died—and you were gone.”

Inho suddenly closed the distance between them.

Before she could step back again, his hands wrapped around her arms—not rough, but firm, grounding. Trapping her there.

“Nothing,” he said fiercely, eyes blazing, “nothing would have happened to you or the baby.”

She struggled, trying to pull free. “Don’t—don’t touch me—”

“I would never let anything happen to you,” he said, voice low and desperate. “Never.”

Her breathing was uneven. “You weren’t there to stop it.”

His grip loosened just enough for her to stop fighting, but he didn’t let go.

“I came here as a player,” he confessed, words tumbling out now. “I was drowning, Y/N. Debt, threats—I thought if I won, if I just survived, I could fix everything.”

Her eyes burned.

“I won,” he continued. “I sent every cent. Every single won. I watched the account until it went through.”

Her lips parted slightly, shock flickering—but anger quickly swallowed it whole.

“And then what?” she demanded. “You decided we didn’t matter enough to come back?”

His voice dropped to a whisper. “I thought it was too late.”

He swallowed hard. “I thought you’d never forgive me for what I’d done. For what I’d become.”

His eyes searched yours, frantic, broken. “I missed you every day. Every night. Every hour. Every minute. Every second.”

Her heart clenched traitorously.

“I wanted to come back,” he admitted. “So many times. But I was afraid.”

“Afraid of what?” she cried.

“Of your hate.”

That did it. Y/n shoved him with all the strength you had.

“Yes!” she yelled, tears finally spilling. “I hate you!”

He staggered back a step, stunned—but she followed, voice shaking with fury and grief.

“I hate you for becoming this monster. I hate you for making me believe you were dead. I hate you for leaving me alone with this—” her hand slammed against her belly “—with your child growing inside me while I cried myself to sleep every night!”

The room felt like it was collapsing.

Without thinking—

Inho stepped forward and crashed his lips against hers.

The kiss was fierce. Desperate. Messy. It was fear and longing and pain all colliding at once.

Y/n froze for half a second— then she kissed him back.

Her hands fisted into his coat as if she was afraid he’d disappear again. His grip tightened at her waist, careful but starving, as if touching her was the only thing keeping him alive.

When she finally pulled back, her lips were trembling.

“I missed you.” she whispered, voice breaking.

“I missed you too.” he breathed immediately, forehead dropping against hers. “God, I missed you so much.”

She stayed like that—foreheads pressed together, breaths mingling, tears slipping silently between them.

Not forgiven. Not healed.

But finally—no longer ghosts to each other.

___

Y/n suddenly stepped back—and then pushed him away. The space between them felt colder than before.

“This doesn’t change anything,” she said, voice sharp, final. “None of this changes what you’ve become.”

Inho stared at her like he hadn’t heard her right. “What…?” His brows knit together, disbelief flooding his face. “Y/N—no. Please. Give me a chance. Let me fix this. I can fix everything.”

She let out a hollow laugh, the sound brittle and empty. “Fix everything?” she wiped her tears angrily. “How, Inho? Tell me how.”

He hesitated for half a second—then said the words that shattered whatever fragile hope was left.

“Stay.” he said. “Stay here with me.”

The room went dead silent.

“…What?” y/n whispered.

“Stay,” he repeated, more urgently now. “I can protect you here. The baby too. We can be together—”

She couldn’t believe what she was hearing.

Y/n struck his chest with her fist, once, then again, tears streaming freely now. “How dare you?” she cried. “How can you ask me to stay in this hell? Do you hear yourself?”

“This place—this is blood, Inho! People die here!”

“It’s the only way.” he insisted, gripping your wrists gently but desperately. “It’s all I have now.”

Her voice dropped, trembling with disbelief. “If you really want to fix everything… then leave.”

He froze.

“Leave.” she repeated, firmer now. “Come with me. With Jun.ho. Right now. Go back home.”

His eyes flickered—fear, conflict, something dark and chained.

Silence stretched.

Then slowly, painfully, he shook his head. “I can’t.”

The words landed like a gunshot.

“Why not?” she demanded. “Why can’t you?”

His jaw tightened. “Because this is all I have now.”

Her breath hitched. “So this—” she gestured around the room, the island, the horror beyond the walls “—this is more important than me? Than our child?”

“No.” he said immediately, almost violently. “No. Never.”

“Then come with us.” she begged, voice cracking.

“I can’t do that.” he whispered.

Something inside her broke completely.

“Then don’t ever show me your face again.” she said coldly. “You died the day you chose this place over us.”

She turned sharply and walked toward the door.

“Junho,” y/n said without looking back. “Let’s go.”

The door opened—and Inho followed her out.

“No one is leaving.” he said suddenly, voice hard, slipping back into the Frontman’s authority.

Y/n spun around, eyes blazing. “You don’t get to cage me here.”

The argument erupted again—voices raised, pain spilling everywhere. Junho tried to intervene, tried to reason with his brother, but nothing worked.

Inho pleaded. Y/n refused.

Finally—slowly—his shoulders slumped.

Defeat.

He exhaled shakily, then stepped aside and reached for a section of the wall. A hidden door slid open with a low mechanical sound, revealing a dark passage leading outward.

“There are boats,” he said quietly, not meeting her eyes. “At the shore. Take one. Leave.”

Junho stared at him, conflicted, but nodded.

Y/n turned back to Inho one last time.

He looked at her with red-rimmed eyes, like a man already grieving something he’d lost forever.

“You’re dead to me.” you said, voice steady despite the tears. “Just like you chose to be.”

Then she walked away. She didn’t look back.

The door closed behind her.

And Inho was left standing alone in the silence—Frontman mask discarded at his feet, heart shattered beyond repair.

---

The boat cut through the dark water, the engine humming steadily—but nothing could drown out the sound of her sobs.

Y/n sat curled in on herself, arms wrapped protectively around her belly, shoulders shaking as tears slipped freely down her face. The island was already fading behind her, swallowed by fog and distance, but the ache in her chest only grew heavier.

Junho glanced at her again and again, helpless.

“Y/N…” he said softly, finally unable to hold it in. “Why did you do that?”

Y/n didn’t answer.

“Why did you say those things to him?” His voice cracked. “You know he can’t live without you. Without the baby. You didn’t mean any of that.”

Her lips trembled. Y/n stared out at the water, eyes glassy.

“I didn’t want to say it,” she whispered.

Junho frowned. “Then why—”

“Because it was the only thing I had left,” she broke in, her voice shaking violently now.

“He’s so stubborn, Junho. You know him. If I begged… if I softened… he would’ve tried to keep me there. Or worse—he would’ve stayed.”

Sh swallowed hard, tears blurring her vision.

“He would never have left that place easily,” she said quietly. “Not then. Not like that.”

Junho went silent.

“So I had to break him,” y/n continued, pressing a trembling hand to her mouth. “I had to make him believe there was nothing left to hold onto there. I had to make him let us go.”

Junho looked at her in shock. “You think…?”

Y/n nodded faintly, tears spilling again. “He’ll come back. I know he will. Inho doesn’t survive without something to protect, without someone to love. And that place—” y/n shook her head “—it will eat him alive.”

Y/n closed her eyes, a sob tearing out of her.

“I just hope I didn’t destroy him before he finds his way back.”

Meanwhile, on the island— Inho sat slumped on the leather couch in his private chamber, the room dim except for the low amber glow of a lamp. An ashtray overflowed beside him. Empty glasses littered the table.

He poured another drink with shaking hands.

Smoke curled from the cigarette between his fingers, but he barely felt it burn. His eyes were hollow, red, unfocused—staring at nothing.

"You’re dead to me."

Her words replayed over and over in his head.

He squeezed his eyes shut, jaw trembling.

“Fuck…” he whispered hoarsely.

The glass in his hand cracked slightly under the pressure of his grip. He didn’t notice until the whiskey spilled over his knuckles.

“She’s right.” he muttered bitterly, a broken laugh escaping him. “I chose this.”

His shoulders began to shake.

Silent tears slid down his face, one after another, disappearing into his collar. He dragged a hand over his eyes, furious with himself, with the mask, with the island, with every choice he’d made.

“I should’ve gone with you.” he breathed. “I should’ve left everything.”

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, head dropping into his hands.

“I let you walk away,” he whispered, voice breaking completely now. “I let my family leave.”

The cigarette burned down to the filter between his fingers, scorching his skin. He didn’t flinch.

For the first time since becoming the Frontman, Inho felt truly powerless.

Not feared. Not in control.

Just a man alone—haunted by the woman he loved, the child he hadn’t held yet, and the life he’d sacrificed with his own hands.

---

A week later, the house was quiet in the way that only waiting could make it.

Jun-ho sat in the living room with his eomma, the TV playing some old drama neither of them was really watching. She was folding laundry slowly, methodically, as if keeping her hands busy kept her heart from worrying too much.

Down the hall, Y/n stood in the bedroom, fingers trembling slightly as they brushed over the framed wedding photo on the nightstand.

Inho in his uniform, smiling softly. Y/n in white, glowing, safe.

She swallowed, eyes burning.

“Come back,” she whispered to no one. “Please.”

Just then—

Knock. Knock.

Junho stiffened. His eomma looked up.

“Are you expecting someone?”

Junho shook his head and stood anyway. “I’ll check.”

The moment he opened the door, his breath left him completely.

“In—”

There he was.

No mask. No black coat. No cold authority.

Just Inho—standing there in simple clothes, hair slightly messy, eyes tired, red-rimmed… real.

“Hyung…” Junho choked out.

Inho barely had time to react before Junho pulled him into a tight hug.

“You’re back,” Jun-ho said into his shoulder, voice breaking. “You’re really back.”

Inho’s hand came up slowly, patting his brother’s back, his own throat tight. “Yeah… I’m home.”

Their eomma gasped.

She dropped the laundry and rushed forward, tears spilling instantly as she wrapped both arms around him. “My son… my son,” she cried, clutching him like she’d never let go again. “I thought I lost you.”

“I’m sorry, eomma,” Inho whispered, holding her carefully. “I’m so sorry.”

And then—

Y/n stepped out of the bedroom.

He eyes lifted instinctively toward the living room. And froze.

For a heartbeat, she thought her mind was betraying her.

He stood there—alive, breathing, real.

“In… ho?” her voice was barely a sound.

He turned.

The moment his eyes found her, something in him shattered.

She were thinner, softer, her belly round and unmistakable now. Alive. Here. Waiting.

Tears filled his eyes instantly.

He took a step toward her, then another, hands shaking at his sides. “Y/N…” His voice broke completely. “Please… forgive me.”

Her eyes welled up as she shook her head faintly. “How are you—how are you here?”

“I left,” he said, raw and honest. “I left everything. I burned it all. The island… the games… all of it.”

His breath hitched. “I came back to you. To our baby. To my family.”

That was it.

Y/n didn’t think. She didn’t hesitate. She walked straight into his arms.

He caught her instantly, holding her like she might disappear again, face buried in her shoulder as he whispered over and over.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m here. I’m not leaving again.”

She clutched him just as tightly, tears soaking into his shirt. “I forgive you,” she whispered. “Just… don’t disappear again.”

He pulled back just enough to look at her, cupping her face with trembling hands. He pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead, then slowly lowered himself, kneeling in front of her.

He kissed her belly with reverence.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered softly. “Please forgive your appa for being late.”

Her hand slid into his hair as she laughed through tears.

When he stood again, his thumb brushed her cheek. “Do we… do we know if it’s a boy or a girl?”

Y/n blinked, then huffed softly. “I was a little busy searching for my missing husband. Didn’t really have time for that.”

His lips curved into the smallest, teasing smile. “So you’re saying I disappeared and delayed the gender reveal?”

Y/n sniffed. “You’re on very thin ice.”

He laughed—really laughed—for the first time in months. “For the record, burning an entire island takes time.”

Junho groaned. “Hyung.”

Her laughter joined his, light and shaky but real.

Inho pulled her back into his arms, resting his forehead against hers. “I took a week,” he murmured softly. “But I came back.”

You smiled, eyes shining. “That’s all that matters.”

Surrounded by family, laughter, and the quiet promise of a future rebuilt— Inho finally understood what winning truly meant.

Good night my friends 😘

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22ayla21 has a lot of fics regarding this topic with various characters that you can check out!