#d.p.

jun-ho reaches for his coffee and stops halfway. the address catches his eye. it’s nothing special — just a string of numbers, a neighborhood he hasn’t thought about in years. and yet something tightens in his chest, sharp and sudden, like his body has recognized it before his mind can.

he leans closer. “let me see that.”

ho-yeol slides the file toward him, curiosity flickering across his face. jun-ho scans the page more carefully now, fingers brushing the paper as if it might disappear. the name doesn’t ring any bells. the photo doesn’t either — just a young man with tired eyes and a stiff, forced expression.

then he sees the family section again. one younger sister.

jun-ho swallows. a memory stirs — unformed and incomplete. a flash of sunlight through classroom windows. the smell of chalk. a laugh, high and bright, belonging to someone he can’t quite see. his heart starts to beat faster for no logical reason.

“you good?” ho-yeol asks.

jun-ho straightens, forcing his expression into neutrality. “yeah. just… didn’t sleep well.”

ho-yeol snorts. “welcome to the deserter pursuit.”

they gather their things, slipping into routine like armor. boots on. jackets zipped. faces set. as they step out into the corridor, jun-ho casts one last glance at the file, at the address he now knows by heart without trying.

he tells himself it’s nothing. that nerves do strange things. that every case feels heavier at first. but as they walk toward the vehicle, a strange certainty settles deep in his bones — quiet, unsettling, impossible to shake.

this case is different. somewhere, a door is waiting to be knocked on. and behind it, something jun-ho lost long before he ever put on a uniform is about to look back at him.

─────

​​the knock is firm, measured, the kind that carries intention. you know what it means before you reach the door. you’ve been waiting.

when you open it, two soldiers stand in the hallway, framed by flickering fluorescent light and the faint smell of rain. their uniforms are crisp, their posture precise. one of them — broad-shouldered, sharp-eyed — meets your gaze immediately, already assessing, already working.

the other one stops. not dramatically. not obvious. just enough that time seems to catch on him for half a second. his hand pauses near his side. his eyes lift to your face — and something in him breaks open.

jun-ho doesn’t understand it. he only knows that his chest tightens so suddenly it almost hurts. that the world narrows to the space between your eyes and his. that the feeling hits him with the weight of something long-buried being unearthed all at once.

love at first sight is too small a phrase for it. this feels older. heavier. like recognition without memory.

you blink first. “yes?”

your voice snaps him back into his body. he straightens reflexively, training kicking in where his mind fails him. “military police,” he says, forcing steadiness into his tone. “private first class an hun-ho. This is corporal han ho-yeol.”

ho-yeol bows his head slightly, polite, already clocking jun-ho’s unusual silence. he nudges the conversation forward smoothly, like he’s done this a hundred times.

they say your brother’s name. your expression barely changes — but jun-ho notices the microsecond it takes for you to brace yourself. the way your shoulders draw inward just slightly, like you’re preparing for impact.

you step aside to let them in. “come in.”

the apartment is small, neat in the way of someone who doesn’t have the luxury of mess. jun-ho takes it all in without meaning to — the shoes by the door, the faint hum of an old refrigerator, the sense that this space has absorbed too many quiet worries.

you sit across from them, hands folded, posture polite but guarded. you answer their questions calmly, efficiently. this isn’t your first time doing this. jun-ho can tell. there’s no surprise left in you — only weariness.

he tries not to stare; he fails. there’s something about your eyes. the shape of them. the way they hold sadness without spilling it. they tug at him insistently, like a word on the tip of his tongue he can’t quite say.

ho-yeol clears his throat when jun-ho goes too quiet. “you’re the sister?”

you nod. “yes.”

jun-ho watches your mouth when you speak. the way you enunciate carefully, like you’ve learned that words can be used against you. the way your voice stays steady even when the subject clearly hurts.

you tell them everything you can. not excuses. not accusations. just facts, laid out carefully, like glass pieces you’re afraid to mishandle. your brother had been tired. withdrawn. he stopped answering calls. he said less and less each time you spoke.

you don’t say he was scared. you don’t say you were too.

jun-ho listens differently than the others you’ve met. he doesn’t interrupt. he doesn’t rush you. when your voice falters, he doesn’t fill the silence — he lets it breathe. it’s subtle, but it makes something in your chest ache.

the exhaustion shows eventually. it always does. in the way you rub your fingers together absentmindedly. in the faint dark circles beneath your eyes. being related to a deserter means living in a constant state of half-blame, half-fear. you carry it like a second skin.

ho-yeol presses for specifics. locations. names. dates. he’s not unkind, but he’s direct. the job demands it.

jun-ho notices how you tug lightly at the sleeve of your sweater when the questions get harder. over and over again, like an unconscious anchor. he notices the rhythm of your speech, too — the way you soften statements with pauses, the way you choose careful wording, like someone who learned young that speaking too boldly had consequences.

something stirs in him — a classroom, small desks. a voice beside him, gentle and steady. the image vanishes as quickly as it comes. he leans forward slightly without realizing it. 

“you’re not responsible for his choices,” he says, quietly. ho-yeol shoots him a look. that’s not protocol.

you glance up, surprised. jun-ho doesn’t look away. his expression is earnest, open, almost painfully so. like he means it — not as a soldier, but as a person.

“i know,” you say after a moment. “but knowing and feeling aren’t the same.”

for a second, he looks like he might say something else. something personal. instead, he nods, jaw tightening as he swallows it back.

when they leave, the apartment feels emptier than before, as if the very walls have absorbed their presence and now echo with silence. 

outside, ho-yeol exhales, the cool air swirling around him. 

“you went easy on her,” he remarks, a hint of reverence in his voice. jun-ho stares at the closed door, his brow furrowed in thought. 

“she’s already carrying enough,” he replies, his tone heavy with concern. ho-yeol studies him for a beat, then smirks faintly, a teasing glint in his eyes. 

“you couldn’t stop looking at her,” he observes, noting the way jun-ho’s gaze lingered. jun-ho finally looks away, unsettled, as if caught in a moment he didn’t want to acknowledge. in his mind, something keeps circling just out of reach — a laugh that once filled the air, a promise whispered in the dark, a pair of small hands clasped together, warm and reassuring. a memory that refuses to surface, teasing him with its familiarity. 

inside, you sit alone, fingers still curled in your sleeve, heart heavier than before — but threaded now with something unfamiliar, a mix of hope and uncertainty. a sense that this isn’t the last time you’ll see him lingers in the air, wrapping around you like a fragile thread, binding your fates together in ways you can’t yet comprehend. 

─────

the drive back is quiet.

not the comfortable kind — no music, no idle conversation — just the low hum of the engine and the sound of jun-ho’s thoughts crowding in too close. the city blurs past the window, streetlights smearing into pale lines, but his focus never leaves the image of you standing in your doorway. the careful way you spoke. the tired steadiness in your eyes.

it makes no sense how deeply you’ve lodged yourself into him.

ho-yeol glances over from the passenger seat, squinting. “you don’t look at people like that.”

jun-ho blinks. “like what?”

“like you’re trying to remember them from a past life.” ho-yeol scoffs. “you were gone back there. i could’ve asked for your social security number, and you wouldn’t have noticed.”

jun-ho exhales through his nose, rubbing a hand over his face. “she just… feels familiar.”

ho-yeol raises an eyebrow. “everyone feels familiar if you stare long enough.”

“that’s not it.” jun-ho hesitates, choosing his words carefully. “it felt immediate. like something clicked.”

the car hits a bump, jolting him — and with it comes a flash. a playground, sun-warmed and loud. gravel under sneakers. laughter ringing too high, too bright. small fingers slipping into his without hesitation. a girl’s head tipped toward him, a pink hair clip catching the light.

jun-ho sucks in a sharp breath. his grip tightens on the door handle. the memory dissolves before he can grab onto it, leaving behind only the echo of warmth and something unbearably gentle.

ho-yeol watches him from the corner of his eye. “you okay?”

jun-ho nods too quickly. “just tired.”

they pull into the lot. routine takes over — engine off, doors shut, keys clipped into place. but the feeling doesn’t fade. if anything, it grows heavier, more insistent.

at his desk later that night, jun-ho opens his notebook to log the case. he writes the basics automatically — date, location, name of the deserter.

then he pauses. below it, he writes your name. he stares at the ink for a long moment, heart thudding for reasons he refuses to examine too closely. it’s ridiculous, he tells himself. coincidence. fatigue. a mind looking for comfort where it doesn’t belong.

he closes the notebook. still, long after lights-out, when the barracks settle into silence, jun-ho lies awake with his eyes open, seeing only a pink hair clip and a promise he can’t remember making.

and a name he can’t bring himself to erase.

─────

you recognize the knock before you open the door. 

not by the sound — by the feeling. it settles low in your chest, familiar and unwelcome, curling through you before your mind can catch up. when you open the door, they’re there again. same faces. same purpose. and yet, something about this visit feels different. quieter. less sharp around the edges.

jun-ho meets your eyes and doesn’t look away.

there’s no uniform this time. just a dark jacket, sleeves pushed up slightly, his posture still careful but less rigid. ho-yeol offers you a quick, easy smile, already stepping out of the way as if to say we won’t stay long.

you let them in. the apartment feels lived-in in a way it didn’t before — maybe because you’re not trying to keep it together quite as tightly. you offer tea without thinking. jun-ho thanks you like it matters. when he slips his shoes off, he lines them up neatly beside the others, toe to heel, precise and quiet. the small domesticity of it makes your throat tighten unexpectedly.

you sit at the table again. steam curls from the mugs between you. ho-yeol opens his notebook, but the questions come slower this time, gentler. there’s more space between them. jun-ho fills the silences not with pressure, but with presence. you notice how he listens — chin dipped slightly, eyes attentive, like every word you say deserves to be held carefully.

at one point, he asks, almost offhand, “did you grow up here?”

you shake your head. “no. we moved a lot when i was young.”

his gaze sharpens — not in suspicion, but interest. “military family?”

“no,” you say softly. “just… circumstances.”

you hesitate, then add, “different schools. different classrooms. i didn’t stay anywhere long.”

jun-ho nods slowly, like he’s filing the information away. “did you have friends?”

you smile faintly. “one. for a while.”

something twists behind his ribs. you stare into your tea, the surface trembling slightly. “there was a boy I used to sit next to. we were… five, maybe six.” you laugh quietly, embarrassed by the memory. “he said he’d marry me.”

the world tilts. jun-ho’s breath catches so sharply it hurts. the room seems to narrow, sound draining away until all he can hear is the rush of blood in his ears. five years old. sitting side by side. a promise made with absolute seriousness.

a pink hair clip.

he stares at you, heart pounding, and suddenly your face overlays another — smaller, brighter, smiling up at him with unshakable certainty.

ho-yeol clears his throat, oblivious. “kids say all kinds of things.”

you nod. “i know. but i remember it anyway.”

jun-ho can’t speak. his fingers curl slowly against his mug, grounding himself in the heat. he forces a breath, then another, afraid that if he lets go, the truth will spill out too fast, too raw.

he doesn’t say it. not yet. but as he watches you across the table — tired, kind, achingly familiar — jun-ho knows with terrifying certainty that the girl he never forgot is sitting right in front of him.

and he doesn’t know how to survive that.

─────

the tension grows before it even reaches your door.

every call, every message, every knock carries more weight than the last. your brother’s name moves through the system, bouncing from department to department, leaving traces, questions, and scrutiny in its wake. jun-ho and ho-yeol are no longer just visitors — they are the living reminder that the search is closing in.

you feel it in every corner of your apartment. the walls seem lower, your chest tighter, and the faint hum of fear is constant beneath your ribs. you’re ashamed for the worry you can’t hide, angry at a brother who left you behind, and scared of what consequences might come for both of you. each day, you brace yourself, knowing someone will always ask more than you can answer.

jun-ho sees it. not just the surface weariness, but the trembling under your polite composure. the hesitation in your movements. the way your eyes dart to the window or the door like you’re always expecting judgment. he wants to ease it. wants to tell you you’re not responsible. but rules, procedures, and a sense of duty tie his hands.

still, he finds ways.

he softens his tone when he asks questions. he pauses when the inquiry edges too close to your guilt. he reframes questions for ho-yeol, subtly steering them away from the sharp edges. he leaves out details in his reports that could paint you as complicit, balancing truth with care. every gesture is small but deliberate, a shield built quietly around you without your asking.

ho-yeol notices —  he always notices.

“you’re bending too much,” he says one night after a briefing. his voice is low, but firm. “you can’t save her from the system. don’t get attached.”

jun-ho clenches his jaw, eyes narrowing. “i’m not bending.”

ho-yeol smirks, unconvinced. “you’re protecting her. and you’ll regret it if you let it go too far.”

jun-ho doesn’t answer, letting the warning hang in the air. inside, he knows ho-yeol is right. but the thought of letting you carry this weight alone, of leaving you exposed to every judgment and inquiry, is unbearable.

you continue your quiet endurance, unaware of the surrounding shield he builds for you. and jun-ho continues to hold his professional mask firmly in place while letting compassion guide his hands in silence.

somewhere in the distance, your brother’s shadow looms larger every day. and while you bear the brunt of it, jun-ho bears a different kind of burden — the one that grows heavier every time he sees you tremble and does nothing but stand beside you.

─────

the rain taps steadily against the window, a soft, relentless rhythm. the power is out, leaving the room bathed in the muted gray of streetlights and the occasional flash of lightning. the hum of the city outside feels distant, as if the storm has created a small, separate world where only the two of you exist.

you sit at the kitchen table, hands wrapped around a mug of lukewarm tea, trying to steady the nervous energy in your chest. jun-ho stands near the window, the soft drizzle casting streaks across his face, highlighting features you suddenly notice in startling detail — the curve of his jaw, the way his eyes catch the dim light, the way he seems to hesitate in the silence as if he’s testing it, feeling its weight before speaking.

finally, he breaks it. his voice is quiet, hesitant, almost afraid. “do you… do you remember a boy who cried when you moved?”

the question hangs in the air, fragile and tentative, like it could shatter if handled too roughly. you freeze, then slowly, memories rise unbidden. a small classroom, sunlight falling across desks. tiny hands grasped tightly, clumsy promises whispered with absolute seriousness. a pink hair clip, a scraped knee, a tearful goodbye you thought you’d never remember.

you laugh softly, the sound breaking like glass, tinged with disbelief. then the tears come, silent and warm, sliding freely down your cheeks, tension spilling over. “i… i remember,” you whisper.

jun-ho exhales, almost in relief, almost in wonder. his eyes soften, gaze fixed on yours, and for the first time in years, the distance between past and present collapses. “it was me,” he admits, voice raw and small. “i never forgot you.”

the weight of years settles between you, thick and unspoken. everything — the lost time, the distance, the absence of goodbyes — presses down, heavy but not crushing.

you reach out instinctively. he hesitates, then lets your hands brush. the contact is feather-light, trembling, electric. fingers graze, linger, but do not grasp. no words are needed. no kiss. just presence. recognition. just the fragile acknowledgment that something once lost has, somehow, been found again.

outside the windows, the rain continues to fall, and the storm carries the sound of beginnings hidden in endings. in that quiet, powerless room, two hearts remember themselves to each other.

─────

the tension has been building for days, tightening in your chest until it feels like it will crush you. every knock at the door, every question, every glance from jun-ho carries the weight of your brother’s absence — and your own guilt.

you can’t keep it in any longer. not the half-truths, not the deflections, not the careful omissions you’ve been using like armor. one evening, after the city has grown quiet and ho-yeol is off on other duties, you finally let yourself speak.

jun-ho sits across from you, hands resting on the edge of the table, eyes steady, patient. you take a deep breath. “i know where he’s been hiding,” you admit, voice low. “i can tell you, but… you have to promise me something first.”

jun-ho leans forward. “anything.”

“this isn’t betrayal,” you whisper. “it’s… desperation. i can’t lose him completely, but i can’t protect him alone either.”

he nods slowly, understanding threading through his expression. “i promise i’ll handle it carefully. i can’t promise outcomes. but i promise you honesty. every step of the way.”

you study his face, searching for deceit, for hesitation, for any sign that he would let the truth harm him — or you. but all you find is the same unwavering gaze that has haunted your thoughts since the first knock on your door.

with a trembling hand, you give him the information — names, locations, patterns, the threads of your brother’s desperation woven together so he can’t be missed. jun-ho listens, committing every word to memory, his face betraying neither judgment nor anger. only focus. only a determination that, for the first time in years, makes you feel like someone is truly on your side.

when you finish, the room is still. the rain outside taps against the window in soft, relentless rhythm, and the tension doesn’t leave — but it shifts. shared now.

jun-ho leans back slightly, fingers brushing the edge of the table. “thank you,” he says quietly. “i won’t let this go to waste.”

you nod, exhaling, letting some of the burden fall away. you don’t know what will happen next, and fear still sits in the pit of your stomach — but for the first time, you feel the smallest flicker of hope.

and jun-ho? he feels it too — the weight of duty balanced by a quiet, unspoken promise. one that doesn’t erase the danger, the fear, or the consequences — but reassures him that, for once, honesty is enough.

─────

the news comes without ceremony.

your brother has been found. not captured in the dramatic, movie-style way you imagined, but quietly, painfully, by the hands of people following procedure. the relief is immediate, sharp, and hollow. the consequences follow swiftly — paperwork, interrogations, reprimands. painful, but human. no one gets away untouched, not your brother, not you, not jun-ho.

jun-ho is quiet through it all. he stays by your side as much as his duty allows, offering calm explanations when questions come, shielding you from some of the harsher truths. yet guilt gnaws at him constantly. could he have found him sooner? could he have done more? could he have prevented the storm that brought your family to this point? every time he glances at you, the weight tightens.

you, too, wrestle with conflicting emotions. relief floods through you, followed almost immediately by loss — the loss of innocence, of trust, of the life you imagined you could have had with your brother. it’s strange to feel both grief and gratitude at the same time. the emotional whiplash leaves you dizzy, exhausted, trembling.

through shared silence and quiet acknowledgment, your bond with jun-ho deepens. no words are necessary at first; grief speaks in glances, in the way your hands brush accidentally, in the steadiness of his presence beside you. in the chaos of duty and consequence, you both discover something fragile but unbreakable — a connection forged in care, empathy, and shared sorrow.

outside, the world continues to move, indifferent and relentless. inside, however, the storm has settled into a calm. two people sit side by side, not speaking, and yet understanding. through loss and relief, fear and guilt, they find each other — again, quietly, without fanfare, but with a certainty that neither of them can ignore.

─────

time passes quietly, stretching like a slow river. days blend into weeks. weeks into months. and yet some things remain constant — the memory of a small hand in his, the echo of your laughter, the pull that never really fades.

jun-ho visits again, this time without uniforms, without badges, without authority pressing down on every word. he steps into your apartment like a guest, carrying only himself and the faint weight of the man he has become. you greet him not as a soldier, not as an investigator, but as the boy you once knew.

the room is soft with light, empty of tension. you sit across from each other at the table, tea steaming between you, hands resting on laps. for a long moment, nothing is said. then, slowly, he leans forward, and his voice is quiet, almost shy.

“i always thought about you,” he admits.

your breath catches. the words have been years in the making. you reach out instinctively. hands brush. fingers curl around yours naturally, like time has simply paused and waited for this moment.

this time, there is a kiss. gentle. earned. real. not hurried. not desperate. but full of everything you both have carried silently — memory, longing, hope, and the fragile courage to trust again.

─────

life settles into small, perfect rhythms.

shared meals at the kitchen table, laughter spilling quietly over misremembered stories and clumsy attempts at cooking. words are fewer now, but they carry more weight. glances linger longer. touches are intentional and tender.

the war inside him — the ghosts of duty, guilt, and loss — doesn’t disappear. nor does your pain, the echo of years spent worrying, waiting, surviving.

but love stays. it stays in the quiet brush of hands. in the soft smile over steaming mugs. in the gentle agreement that life, no matter how fractured, has brought you both back together.