You’d know; you were currently five months in and you couldn't wait for the next four months to get over.

Oh and then there would come the birth, postpartum depression, the probability of not loving your baby afterwards and being judged by society because you’re a woman and we’re all destined to die under the thumb of patriarchy one way or another—

And you’re crying again.

Fifth time today.

Great for you. 

The tears came hot and humiliating, sliding down your cheeks while you sat curled into the corner of the couch with a blanket wrapped around your swollen body. Your back hurt, your ankles hurt, your breasts hurt. Even breathing too deeply felt uncomfortable now, like your own ribs were protesting the life growing beneath them. You pressed a trembling hand against your stomach and laughed weakly through your tears.

You remembered when the test had first turned positive. Euijoo had stared at it for a full ten seconds in complete silence, eyes wide and disbelieving before looking at you as though the world had just handed him something sacred. Then he’d laughed—a startled, breathless sound—and pulled you into his arms so quickly you nearly dropped the test into the sink.

“We’re having a baby?” he’d whispered against your hair like he still couldn’t believe it.

Back then, happiness had been easy, bright and weightless.

Euijoo had kissed your stomach every night despite there being nothing there yet. He’d spent hours researching cribs and vitamins and the safest baby monitors as if preparing for an exam he absolutely could not fail. You still remembered how he’d looked sitting cross-legged on the floor of your shared apartment, reading parenting forums with a furrow between his brows so deep you’d laughed at him until he pouted and claimed he was being a responsible father.

And God, you loved him.

You loved him in the way he always reached for your hand during crowded walks, in the way he memorized your coffee order after hearing it once on your second date, in the way he looked at you like you were something soft enough to protect and strong enough to admire all at once.

Euijoo loved through warm meals waiting for you after exhausting days, through fingers combing gently through your hair when migraines left you unable to speak, through sleepy midnight conversations and forehead kisses and the habit he had of pulling you closer in his sleep like his body knew yours by instinct.

And he still loved you now. 

Even when pregnancy had hollowed you out and replaced your patience with exhaustion and your confidence with fear.

Euijoo rubbed lotion onto your stretch marks with reverent care, woke up at three in the morning to hold your hair back when you got sick, whispered ‘you’re beautiful’ so sincerely that sometimes it made you cry harder because you couldn’t understand how he still saw beauty in someone who felt so miserable all the time.

You were happy. You were.

But happiness and pain could exist together, and nobody warned you about that part. Nobody told you that growing a child could feel miraculous and unbearable at the same time. That you could want this baby with your entire heart and still feel moments where you wanted to give up simply because everything hurt too much.

You wiped your eyes with a sleeve already stiff from salt, and the motion made you think of his sleeves. Euijoo’s, how they’d always been soft.

You hadn’t met him in some grand, cinematic way. It was at a friend’s cramped apartment, a board game night. He was quiet, but his laughter was a sudden, clear sound that cut through the noise, and you found yourself trying to make it happen again. 

He had a way of listening that made you feel like your thoughts were being gathered like mushrooms from a forest. His hands were gentle—he sketched in margins, on napkins, on the back of your hand once, a tiny, perfect star.

When Euijoo loved you, it was with a quiet certainty that felt like shelter. He remembered the songs you hummed absentmindedly and learned them. He cooked meals that were colorful because he said your joy deserved a palette. Your love was the steady warmth of a hearth in a room you both built, brick by brick. You’d talk for hours about everything and nothing—the ethics of fictional worlds, the shape of clouds that looked like old memories, the best way to eat an avocado.

The catalyst for your tears today was an avocado.

A stupid, simple, perfectly ripe avocado you’d been craving for two days. You’d finally mustered the energy to go to the market, stood in line feeling like a swollen monument to inconvenience, just for this one thing.

You got it home. You sliced it in half with ceremonial care and the pit—the damn pit—wouldn’t budge. You tried the knife trick, you tried a spoon, you tried gripping it with a towel, your hands slippery. Nothing. 

You stood there in the silent kitchen, wrestling with this stubborn seed, and a wave of pure, childish frustration crested over you. It wasn’t just about the avocado anymore. It was about the jar you couldn’t open yesterday, the socks you couldn’t bend to pick up this morning, your own body becoming a series of locked doors you no longer had the keys to.

You gave it one last, furious wrench and the knife slipped. It didn’t cut you deeply, but it nicked the side of your thumb, a bright bead of red welling up against the green flesh of the fruit. And that was it. 

The dam broke.

You weren’t crying over the avocado, or the cut. You were crying because you felt broken, defeated by a vegetable. The tears were hot and silent as you sank down in defeat onto the small kitchen island seat, cradling your hand, the uncut avocado halves staring up at you like mocking, green eyes.

A memory came into your mind—his hand, steady and warm under yours. A night on the sofa, early in your relationship, bathed in lamplight. You were talking about dreams and stars and whatnot. 

"Draw me one.” You’d said, pointing to your skin. He’d produced a pen from behind his ear—he always had one—and drew a tiny star on the back of your hand. His touch was feather-light, his concentration absolute. 

"There.” He’d said, sealing it with a soft kiss to the ink. "A piece of a constellation, just for you. So you're never lost." You felt chosen, adorned, seen in the most delicate way.

You looked at the same hand now, the star long washed away. In its place was a small, stinging, your wedding band feeling tight and foreign. You weren't a canvas for dreams anymore, you were a clumsy, sore vessel. The contrast was so violently absurd it made a sob catch in your throat.

Stupid stupid stupid.

___________

The front door clicked shut with a quiet thud.

Euijoo stepped inside carefully, shrugging off his coat with one hand, exhaustion still clinging to the slope of his shoulders from work. The apartment was warm and washed gold by the evening light filtering through the curtains. Usually, you’d call out to him by now. Usually there’d be the soft sound of your slippers against the floor or your sleepy voice asking what he wanted for dinner.

Instead, he heard a tiny, muffled sniffle from the kitchen and his heart dropped instantly.

Not out of irritation or alarm, just that immediate, aching tenderness that always seized him whenever you cried now. Pregnancy had made your emotions delicate in the same way frost made flower petals delicate—one small thing and suddenly everything trembled apart. Euijoo set his bag down and followed the sound. 

And there you were. Perched miserably on the kitchen stool in one of his oversized shirts, face damp with tears, one hand cradling the other while a mutilated avocado sat abandoned on the cutting board beside you like evidence of a crime scene. For a moment, he simply stood there unnoticed.

And God.

You were so beautiful.

Soft and angelic, the incarnation of heaven, and carrying something precious inside you at tremendous cost to yourself.

The curve of your stomach beneath the fabric made something deep in his chest ache with overwhelming affection. His child, your child, a tiny life the two of you had somehow created together, nestled safely beneath your ribs while you sat there crying over an avocado with the saddest expression he had ever seen in his life.

He loved you so much it frightened him sometimes.

Loved the sleepy puffiness beneath your eyes in the mornings, loved the stretch marks beginning to bloom faintly across your hips, loved the way you absentmindedly held your stomach now when you were upset, protective even through your frustration.

Euijoo looked at you and saw devotion made flesh, saw every sacrifice your body was making to bring your baby into the world, saw strength in the exhaustion and beauty in the tenderness of you.

His throat tightened painfully.

You sniffled again, wiping at your face angrily with the heel of your palm, and he noticed the tiny cut on your thumb immediately. That did him in completely.

His expression softened into something unbearably gentle as he crossed the kitchen quietly, as though approaching a frightened animal he didn’t want to startle.

“Baby…” he murmured.

You startled slightly, eyes lifting to him, embarrassed tears immediately gathering harder the second you saw him.

“I hate everything,” you whispered miserably.

Euijoo almost smiled because you sounded so genuinely devastated that it wrapped around his heart and squeezed.

He stepped between your knees without hesitation, hands instinctively settling on your hips before one moved carefully to your injured hand. His fingers were warm, careful as he examined the tiny cut like it was something serious.

“Oh, my love.” The endearment alone nearly made you cry again.

His thumb brushed softly beneath your eye, catching a tear before it could fall. He leaned down until his forehead rested against yours, eyes half-lidded as he looked at you with that same tenderness he’d had the night he drew stars onto your skin.

“I leave you alone for a few hours and you go to war with an avocado?” he murmured softly. A watery laugh escaped and victory flickered briefly across his face at the sound.

Euijoo kissed the corner of your mouth gently before pulling back just enough to look at you again, gaze moving slowly across your face like he was memorizing it.

“You know,” he said quietly, “I wish you could see yourself the way I do.”

Your lips trembled. “Euijoo—”

“No, really.” His voice was soft but certain. “You sit here thinking you’re falling apart, and all I can think is how lucky I am.”

Another tear slipped free. He caught it with his thumb immediately.

“You’re carrying our baby,” he whispered, eyes shining now too. “You’re exhausted and hurting and still trying every day anyway. And you’re worried because an avocado made you cry?” He kissed the crown of your head softly, “I’d peel a thousand avocados for you if it meant you never had to cry over one again.”

Your breath hitched softly as your tall husband bent down to kiss you, a quiet anchor in the storm of your emotions, like he was trying to pour every ounce of love he had through touch alone.  

One of his hands remained at your hip while the other drifted instinctively over the gentle curve of your stomach beneath the oversized shirt, his palm warm through the fabric. 

Euijoo’s palm spread there possessively, reverently, thumb stroking slow circles over the taut skin. The pressure was gentle, but somehow it loosened something knotted painfully deep inside you. You hadn’t realized how tense you’d been all day until his touch began smoothing it away piece by piece.

Under the steady, loving pressure of his touch, the pain softened from a scream to a sigh.  Your shoulders softened first, then your jaw and then the ache sitting heavy behind your ribs seemed to melt beneath the steady warmth of his hand. You let out a breath you didn't realize you’d been holding, your forehead falling against his shoulder.

“See?” he murmured against your lips, “Even our little one knows to settle down for dad.”

His hand continued rubbing soothing circles over your bump, almost absentmindedly now, like comforting the both of you at once. Every so often his thumb would pause when the baby shifted faintly beneath his palm, wonder flickering across his face each time no matter how many times it happened.

You watched him quietly. The absolute gentleness in him never failed to undo you. One of the many reasons you’d decided to make him your husband. 

“How do you always know what to do?” you asked hoarsely.

Euijoo smiled faintly, brushing his nose against yours. “I don’t.”

“You do.”

“No,” he murmured honestly. “I’m just obsessed with making you feel better.” A weak laugh escaped you again, and he looked absurdly pleased with himself for managing it. 

Euijoo held the kiss until your breathing evened out and your hands unclenched from the fabric of his shirt. “Stay." He whispered, as if you had any intention of moving.

Your husband moved around the kitchen gathering the first aid kit from the drawer. He guided you carefully to stay seated with a hand on your thigh before crouching slightly in front of you. 

He took your injured hand, cradling it in his own, and set about cleaning the tiny nick with an antiseptic wipe. His focus was absolute, his brow slightly furrowed in that way you loved.

Even now—even pregnant, swollen, exhausted—he looked at you like you hung the moon. It made your chest ache. You stared at him quietly while he worked.

His soft sweater sleeves were pushed up to his forearms. His hair had fallen messily over his forehead from the humidity outside. There was still tiredness lingering beneath his eyes from work, but he’d come home and immediately poured every remaining ounce of energy into you without hesitation. 

And the hormones were telling you that you didn't deserve a bit of this and that he deserved to rest properly and you were taking that away from him.

“Ju…” You said softly, “I’m not ridiculous for this, am I?”

“No baby.”  He finished applying a small, cartoon-character bandage. He smoothed the edges with his thumb, his touch lingering. “You could never be ridiculous to me. Overwhelmed? Yes. Fierce? Always. My beautiful, brave, avocado-conquering wife?” He brought your bandaged hand to his lips and kissed the knuckles. “Absolutely.”

Your lip trembled at that. Beautiful, brave—the words felt too large for someone who had dissolved into tears over produce fifteen minutes ago.

Euijoo seemed to notice the doubt flicker across your face immediately because his expression softened even further, impossibly gentle.

“Hey,” he murmured, rubbing his thumb across your knee. “What’s happening in that pretty little head?”

You looked away first, which alone told him enough.

The kitchen fell quiet except for the soft hum of the refrigerator and the distant rain beginning to patter lightly against the windows. Euijoo stayed crouched in front of you patiently, one hand still resting on your thigh. He never rushed you when you got like this, never demanded words before you were ready to give them.

“I just…” You swallowed thickly. “You work all day and then you come home and have to deal with me crying over avocados and stupid things and—”

“None of this is stupid.”

“But it feels stupid.” Your voice cracked softly. “And I feel…..difficult.”

His face changed instantly at that, something akin to hurt flashing across his beautiful eyes. Like the thought of you seeing yourself that way genuinely pained him. His hands felt warm against your skin. Like home. 

“Look at me,” he said quietly. You did and the look on his face made you want to cry all over again. Your husband, oh your darling husband. 

“I need you to understand something, my love.” His voice stayed soft, but there was certainty beneath it now. “Taking care of you is never something being taken away from me.” Your eyes stung immediately.

“I come home tired,” he admitted gently, brushing hair back from your damp face, “and then I see you, and suddenly I don’t care anymore because you’re my home too.”

A shaky breath left you. Euijoo leaned down, resting his forehead against yours again.

“You think I’d rather be resting somewhere else?” he whispered. “Than here with my wife and my baby?”

One of his hands slipped instinctively back to your stomach, spreading protectively over the curve of it. His thumb rubbed slow circles there again, soothing both of you at once.

“I love you.” He said simply. “Even when you cry. Even when that pretty mind is trying to convince you that it’s hard to love you.” His nose brushed yours lightly. “Especially then.”

The tears finally spilled over properly after that, silent and warm.

Euijoo sighed fondly the second he saw them. “Oh, sweetheart.”

“I’m sorry,” you whispered miserably.

“For what?”

“For being emotional all the time.”

He looked genuinely confused. “You’re growing a human being with your organs.” A tiny laugh escaped and he smiled warmly, that smile you’d fallen so deep in love with, “There she is,” he said immediately, eyes lighting up like he’d won something precious, “My sweet girl.”

He kissed you again—soft, lingering, full of affection that felt almost too big for your chest to hold. When he pulled away, he rested both hands around your face carefully.

“You know what I saw when I walked in here?” he murmured.

“A disaster?”

“My favorite person in the world.” Your face crumpled a little at that. Euijoo smiled softly, brushing away another tear with his thumb. “And maybe a slightly threatening avocado.”

You laughed harder this time, wet and breathless, and he grinned so brightly it made him look younger. Like making you smile was the most important thing he’d done all day.

You stayed there for a long time after that, neither of you in any hurry to move.

Euijoo stood between your knees while you leaned into him bonelessly, forehead resting against his chest, your arms loosely around his waist. One of his hands remained spread protectively over your stomach while the other moved slowly up and down your back in absentminded strokes.

The kitchen lights glowed soft and golden above you. Rain tapped quietly against the windows. Outside, the world continued moving at its usual pace, but inside your apartment time seemed to slow into something gentler. Safer. You could hear his heartbeat beneath your ear 

Home.

Every few minutes Euijoo would press a kiss into your hairline or temple like he simply couldn’t help himself. Sometimes he’d glance down at your stomach with this dazed little expression that still looked new on him every single time.

At one point the baby shifted faintly beneath his hand.

“Oh.’ He said softly, “Hi there, sweetie.” He whispered with quiet wonder.  

You smiled tiredly against his sweater. “She’s been kicking me all day.”

“Already causing trouble like her mother.”

“How dare you?” You gasped weakly. Another laugh escaped you, softer this time, and Euijoo looked ridiculously pleased by it again.

Eventually he tilted his head slightly to catch your eyes. “You wanna go lie down, baby?” he asked quietly. “You look exhausted.”

“I am,” you admitted.

“Mm.” His thumb stroked over your hip. “Bed?” You hesitated.

Euijoo noticed immediately. “What?”

“I don’t know.” You shifted your weight slightly with a small grimace. “I feel like if I lie down right now I’m gonna feel worse.” He listened carefully, nodding once like this was the most important medical briefing he’d ever received.

“The baby wants to move?” he asked solemnly.

“Your daughter,” you confirmed gravely, “wants to move.”

Euijoo hummed thoughtfully. Then a tiny smile tugged at his mouth. “Okay.”

You narrowed your eyes suspiciously. “Okay what?”

“Let’s dance.”

You blinked. “What?”

“Let’s dance.” He repeated like it was obvious. “Doctor’s orders.”

“There is absolutely no doctor that would prescribe dancing in the kitchen.”

“My medical license says otherwise.”

“You don’t have a medical license, Ju.” You laughed heartily. Your husband could be so ridiculous sometimes. You imagined what he’d be like with your daughter—inventing silly games, prescribing dance breaks for scraped knees—and your heart swelled until it ached.

Euijoo ignored your protest entirely and reached for his phone. A moment later, soft music crackled quietly through—something slow and warm, woven with strings and a gentle piano melody.

The song to which you’d had your first dance at your wedding, when the world was just the two of you and a circle of golden light.

Your husband—ever the romantic. You stared at him as he set the phone down and held his hand out toward you dramatically.

“Come on sweetheart.” His eyes softened instantly afterward, voice gentler. “Just a little.”

You looked down at yourself, oversized shirt, puffy eyes, swollen ankles. Euijoo looked at you like you were something sacred anyway, a statue carved from moonlight. 

“I look awful,” you mumbled automatically.

His expression turned scandalized. “You look like the love of my life.” Your face heated immediately. “Now,” he said firmly, wiggling his fingers at you, “dance with me before our child grows up thinking her mother hates fun.”

A reluctant smile tugged at your mouth as you slipped your hand into his. His fingers closed around yours and his other hand found the small of your back.

The kitchen seemed smaller somehow once you were in his arms, softer and warmer. The rain beyond the windows blurred the city lights into watercolor streaks while your song drifted through the apartment in quiet crackles of piano and strings, the melody wrapping around you both like memory.

Euijoo slid one hand to your waist while the other settled instinctively over your stomach again, protective and tender. You rested your hands against his shoulders, feeling the muscle beneath the soft fabric of his sweater.

And you danced.

Not the polished sway of your wedding day, but something slower and truer, a careful navigation of the new geography of your body. Your steps were small shuffles, a quiet counterpoint to the music, bare feet against cool kitchen tile.

His forehead brushed yours as he hummed softly under his breath, slightly off-key in the way he always was when he got too comfortable. It made you smile instantly.

“You’re ruining our wedding song,” you murmured.

“I’m enhancing it.”

“You sound like a dying cello, baby.”

Euijoo gasped softly in mock offense before spinning you barely half a step, careful of your balance. A startled laugh escaped you, bright and alive enough that his entire face lit up at the sound.

God.

He loved that sound. You could tell, for he looked at your laughter like people looked at sunrises and other such precious things.

The song carried on around you gently, filling all the quiet corners of the apartment with something achingly intimate. Your bodies moved together without thought, without effort, like years of loving each other had taught you a language beyond words.

Then, a flutter, a distinct, rolling thump against the place where his hand rested on your side. You gasped softly against his shoulder. 

“Oh,” you breathed.

Euijoo’s eyes widened immediately beneath yours. “Did she kick again?”

Right on cue, another tiny flutter rolled beneath his palm. Both of you froze. And then you laughed at the exact same time. The sound spilled through the kitchen, warm and helpless and full of wonder.

“Our baby likes this song,” you whispered.

“Well obviously,” Euijoo said seriously. “Excellent taste. Genetically inherited from me.”

You snorted softly, leaning closer into him until your face tucked against his neck. Another kick answered almost immediately, stronger this time.

Euijoo let out the most awed little laugh you’d ever heard from another human being. One hand stayed on your stomach as though he couldn’t bear to lose contact now that your daughter was answering him from inside you.

“Hey there,” he murmured softly to your belly. “You dancing with us too?” 

Your chest tightened so painfully with love you thought it might split open.

The three of you.

In a tiny kitchen washed gold by evening light. An avocado still abandoned on the counter. Rain whispering against the windows. Your husband humming your wedding song while your unborn daughter kicked happily beneath his hand.

And suddenly the day didn’t feel so heavy anymore.

The exhaustion was still there, the aching body, the hormones, the fear. But they no longer felt sharp enough to drown you.

Euijoo pulled back just enough to look at you again. His eyes were soft in that dangerous way they got sometimes—so full of love it almost hurt to be seen by him.

“You know,” he murmured, thumb brushing over your stomach slowly, “I think this might be my favorite version of us.”

Your throat tightened instantly. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He smiled, small and unbearably sincere. “You in my arms. Our baby dancing between us.”

The song swelled softly around you both.

You closed your eyes for a moment and let yourself sink fully into it—the warmth of his body, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your cheek, the tiny life fluttering gently inside you like a second heartbeat answering the first.

Love existed in grand declarations, yes.

But sometimes it existed here too. In kitchens, in laughter through tears, in cartoon bandages and slow dancing and a hand splayed reverently across the curve of new life. A perfect, temporary universe held in the palm of a single dance. 

And as Euijoo held you beneath the golden light, humming your song into your hair while rain painted silver trails against the windows, you thought perhaps this was what happiness truly looked like, not untouched by pain, but glowing softly beside it anyway.

In this moment, paradise truly belonged to you.

With love like this, love that felt like home.

fin.

A/N: first pregnant reader fic and i wrote it for euijoo are we surprised my good people. but yes i did cry whilst writing it like hello brain why are you giving me all this fluff i'll die. Anyways i hope all my people on ovulation are eating this up. Please do give a listen to Love like This by Fujii Kaze!!!

divider by @anitalenia

@eu1joo @kwnnies @nichozzystuffs @blueuijoo @pglpblm @ikigaijo @antonh0lic @dearvampyr @riri4andy @tokunodoll @sunsoomi @makizdoll + Shoot me an ask or comment to be added!

honestly, if you could turn back time, you would have ignored your classmate the moment she insisted on entering this ridiculous place after classes last week. you still remembered how excited she had looked while dragging you around the cramped little shop, pointing at random bottles and charms displayed across the shelves like a child in a candy store while you only wanted to go home and finish your unfinished assignment.

then, somehow, for reasons you still failed to understand, you walked out of the shop carrying a tiny pink bottle labeled “love potion.”

and that was where your problems began.

more specifically, they began three days later when euijoo accidentally drank the entire bottle.

not one drop. not half of it. but the entire thing, which, as it turned out, was enough to completely ruin your peace.

according to the label attached to the potion, one drop alone could make someone fall deeply in love. drinking the entire bottle, however, was an entirely different matter. the effect would become stronger depending on the feelings already existing inside the person who drank it.

at the time, you hadn't thought much about that part.

you should have.

because the potion turned euijoo—your quiet crush from the literature department whom you occasionally met in the library—into the most affectionate person on earth.

for the past week, he had been following you around campus like a devoted boyfriend straight out of a romance movie. he waited outside your lectures, carried your bag without asking, constantly held your hand whenever the two of you walked together, and looked at you with so much adoration that people had already started assuming you were secretly dating.

the worst part?

he said the most insane things with complete sincerity.

“you look pretty today.”

“did you eat properly?”

“i think i could stare at you forever.”

you nearly lost your mind every single time.

one time, he had even shown up outside your lecture with three different drinks in his hands because he couldn't remember which one you liked best.

“you can just ask me,” you had told him, staring at the drinks in disbelief.

“but then it wouldn't be a surprise.”

“euijoo, you bought three.”

“i wanted to make sure you got the right one.”

you had almost cried. not because you were touched, but because you were tired.

so here you were now, standing in the suspicious magic shop again and desperately hoping the old lady had something that could return your life to normal.

the old woman hummed softly behind the counter as if she remembered the potion immediately. “ah… that one.”

hope instantly appeared in your eyes.

“so there is an antidote, right?”

“no.”

your soul practically left your body.

seeing your horrified expression, the woman laughed lightly before continuing. “don't look at me like that. the effect naturally disappears after one week.”

“…really?”

“of course.” she adjusted her glasses calmly. “although, i should tell you something.”

you immediately became suspicious.

“what?”

the old lady leaned slightly closer across the counter.

“the potion doesn't create feelings out of nowhere, dear.”

you froze.

“it only brings whatever feelings are already there to the surface. the stronger the feelings, the stronger the effect.”

for a moment, you could only stare at her.

“so…”

“once the potion wears off, he will return to normal.”

relief immediately washed over you.

then the old lady added, “though he may not remember everything clearly unless something strongly reminds him of it.”

you nodded quickly, already trying not to think too deeply about what she had just said.

after thanking the old lady at least three times, you immediately left the shop with the determination to never touch anything magical ever again.

seriously, never again.

***

the next morning, you walked toward campus feeling lighter than you had in days.

finally, everything would return to normal.

no more random forehead kisses. no more euijoo waiting outside your classes with drinks in his hands. no more him carrying your bag despite your repeated insistence that it wasn't heavy. and definitely no more hearing him call you cute in front of other people without a single ounce of shame.

you were free!

or at least, that's what you thought.

because the moment you arrived near the campus gate, you spotted euijoo standing there with his backpack hanging loosely over one shoulder while scanning the crowd nervously.

your heart immediately dropped to your stomach.

there was no way... did he remember everything?

before you could turn around and escape, his eyes landed on you.

almost instantly, a small smile slowly spread across his face as he started walking in your direction.

“you're [name], right?”

you stared at him in confusion.

“…what?”

his ears immediately turned red as if he realized how ridiculous that sounded.

“i mean—obviously you are. sorry. i just got nervous.”

nervous.

the word alone caught you off guard because this version of euijoo was completely different from the overly affectionate man who had practically acted like your husband for the past week.

“y-yeah,” you answered carefully. “that's me.”

he rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, avoiding your eyes for a moment before finally speaking again.

“i was wondering if maybe you're free this afternoon? after classes, i mean. only if you want to.”

you blinked at him silently while your thoughts slowly tangled together.

suddenly, every moment from the past week replayed differently inside your head.

the way he constantly stayed close to you, the way he always remembered the smallest things, the softness in his voice whenever he called your name, the warmth in his eyes every time he looked at you, and the way he had bought three different drinks just to make sure you received the one you liked.

maybe the potion hadn't created those feelings after all. maybe it had only made them impossible for him to hide.

euijoo seemed to misunderstand your silence because his expression became noticeably flustered.

“you don't have to say yes,” he added quickly. “i just thought maybe we could get coffee together sometime.”

without realizing it, a small smile appeared on your face.

“i'm free after three.”

his entire expression brightened so quickly that your heart skipped a beat. “really?”

you nodded softly while finally letting go of the breath you had been holding since yesterday.

“really.”

the smile on his face only grew wider.

“okay. then i'll see you after class.”

as euijoo walked beside you toward campus with an unmistakably shy smile still lingering on his face, you couldn't help but glance at him from the corner of your eye.

for the first time in a week, he wasn't holding your hand nor telling you how pretty you looked. he was simply walking beside you, looking just as nervous as you felt.

and somehow, that made your heart beat even faster.

'so... that's what she mean by that.'

apparently, your feelings for him had never been one-sided.

and perhaps, this time, you wouldn't need a love potion to find out where things between you could go.

Great.

You freeze, heat flaring behind your ears. Your hands go useless for a second, hovering above the mess as if you can will it back into order.

A hand appears in your periphery—long fingers, clean nails, a silver ring catching the light. He crouches without hesitation, gathering your books with a quick, practiced rhythm, as if helping is something he does the way other people breathe.

“Here,” he says, voice soft enough that it doesn’t disturb the quiet. “This one’s yours too, right?”

He holds up a notebook—yours, yes, with the corner bent and your name scrawled on the first page. When you look up, your mouth opens on a thank you that gets snagged on your own surprise.

Because Euijoo is—beautiful, yes, but not in a distant way. More like… deliberate. Like someone who’s learned how to exist in his own skin and decided to be gentle with the world anyway. He wears a plain hoodie and a scarf that’s too thin for the weather, and his hair is damp at the ends as if he ran here through drizzle. His eyes are dark and awake and kind.

“You dropped your whole semester,” he whispers with a faint smile.

You swallow a laugh, relief loosening the tightness in your chest. “I’m trying to make an impression.”

“Mission accomplished.”

Your fingers brush when you take the notebook. Electricity is such a cliché, but you feel something—small and quick and bright—skitter through your bones like a match struck in the dark.

He stacks the last book in your arms with careful precision. “Do you want help carrying these?”

You should say no. You’re an adult! You can manage a few books. But his hands are already reaching, his posture already angled toward your burden like he’s decided you’re something worth making lighter.

“Sure,” you whisper, and then, because the quiet makes honesty feel dangerous, you add, “If you don’t mind.”

He takes half the stack and nods toward the study tables. “I don’t.”

That’s it. That’s the beginning. Not fireworks. Not a dramatic confession under moonlight. Just a Tuesday that thinks it’s a Monday, and Euijoo deciding—wordlessly, instinctively—that you matter.

…

You become a pattern in each other’s lives the way the seasons become a pattern: slowly, then all at once.

At first it’s small. Study sessions that start as coincidence and turn into agreement. Coffee runs where he remembers—somehow—that you like two sugars and no lid because you hate the taste of plastic. Messages about deadlines, jokes about professors, photos of lecture slides taken at an angle because you’re late and he’s already in the room.

You learn him in pieces.

Euijoo taps his pen against his teeth when he’s thinking. He looks up when he’s nervous, like he’s checking the ceiling for permission. He laughs with his whole body—shoulders, eyes, hands—like laughter is a thing that has to be let out or it will split him open.

And he’s good. Not performative-good, not the kind of kindness that expects applause. Just—good in the way some people are good the way some nights are clear. He holds doors, yes, but he also notices when you’re quiet for too long. He walks you home when the campus gets emptier and the streetlights flicker, and he never makes it feel like a favor. He just… does it. Like it would be stranger not to.

One evening in late October, you’re sitting on the grass outside the student union, sharing fries that taste like salt and oil and comfort. The air smells like fallen leaves and distant smoke from someone’s cigarette. Euijoo has his knees pulled up, arms folded over them, scarf looped too loose.

You’re telling him about your family—some half-complaint, half-confession—and your voice does that thing it does when you’re trying not to be vulnerable.

He listens without interrupting. When you finish, you stare at the fries so you don’t have to stare at him.

“Hey,” he says quietly.

You glance up.

His eyes are steady, almost solemn. “You don’t have to earn love.”

The words hit you like a hand on your chest—not pushing, but anchoring.

You blink. “I—”

“You don’t,” he repeats. And then, softer, like he’s telling himself as much as you, “You’re already… you.”

You swallow. Something inside you shifts, like the world has tilted a degree in a direction you didn’t know existed.

For a second, you think you might cry. Instead, you steal a fry and point it at him like a weapon. “Are you always this serious?”

He breaks, smiling, tension falling away. “Only when it matters.”

“Does this matter?” you ask, waving the fry.

He watches you, eyes warm and bright. “Yes,” he says, and then he leans forward and bites the end of the fry you’re holding.

Your fingers freeze.

His lips brush your knuckles.

It lasts half a second. It feels like a lifetime.

You stare at him, caught somewhere between laughter and panic, and Euijoo’s gaze flickers—down, then up—like he knows exactly what he just did.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, but he doesn’t look sorry. He looks… struck. Like he’s just realized something about himself and he doesn’t know where to put it.

You manage, very calmly, “It’s just a fry.”

He nods, eyes dropping again, voice rougher. “Yeah. Just a fry.”

But you both know it wasn’t.

…

The first time he kisses you is not planned, and that’s what makes it feel inevitable.

It happens in December, when the cold becomes a personality trait and the sky goes dark at four in the afternoon. Finals week has turned everyone into ghosts with caffeine breath. You’re exhausted in a way that feels like your bones are full of sand.

Euijoo finds you in an empty hallway outside a lecture room you’re not even supposed to be in, sitting on the floor with your back against the wall, your notes spread around you like you exploded.

He crouches beside you. “Hey.”

You lift your head. Your eyes burn. “I’m failing.”

“You’re not,” he says immediately, like he’s correcting an insult.

“I don’t understand anything,” you whisper, and the worst part is how true it feels in the moment. Like your brain is a locked door and you’ve lost the key.

Euijoo’s hand hovers near your shoulder, then settles there gently. His thumb moves once, a small stroke through your sweater. “Look at me,” he says.

You do.

He holds your gaze, steady as a heartbeat. “You’re tired,” he says. “Not stupid.”

Something in your throat tightens. “I can’t—”

“Breathe,” he tells you. “Just breathe with me.”

You inhale. He inhales. You exhale. He exhales. His eyes never leave yours, as if he’s physically keeping you from falling apart.

The hallway is silent, the fluorescent lights buzzing faintly above you, the distant sound of someone laughing far away like another world.

You don’t know who moves first. You only know that Euijoo’s face is suddenly closer, his hand sliding from your shoulder to your cheek, his palm warm against your cold skin. His eyes flick down to your mouth and back up, a question he doesn’t ask out loud.

You nod, barely.

He kisses you like he’s been carrying it for months. Like he’s been holding his breath and finally decided he’s allowed to exhale.

It’s not desperate. It’s not messy. It’s—precise, careful, reverent. He pulls back after a second, forehead almost touching yours, and you see it: the stunned softness in his eyes, the way his pupils look blown wide, as if he can’t believe this is real.

“Okay?” he whispers.

You laugh, shaky. “Yeah.”

He swallows. “I… I wanted to do that for a long time.”

Your heart kicks hard. “Why didn’t you?”

His gaze drops, and for the first time you see him looking unsure—Euijoo, who always seems so quietly certain.

“Because,” he says, voice low, “I didn’t want to be the kind of person who takes something you weren’t ready to give.”

You stare at him.

His eyes flick up again, earnest enough to hurt. “I don’t want to ruin you. Or—well, us.”

You lift a hand and press your fingers to his scarf, anchoring him the way he anchored you. “You didn’t.”

Something shifts in his expression—relief, tenderness, a bloom of something older than a crush.

He kisses you again, slower, and you swear you feel it all the way down to your ribs.

…

After that, you become each other’s home in the middle of everything that keeps changing.

You learn the shape of Euijoo’s affection: the way he tucks you into his side when you’re waiting for the bus, palm splayed on your shoulder like a claim that isn’t possessive, just protective. The way he watches you when you talk, like he’s memorizing the movement of your mouth, the curve of your smiles, the moments your eyes light up. The way he says your name like it’s a secret and a prayer.

Sometimes you catch him staring.

Not in a creepy way. In a wrecked way.

Like he’s looking at you and remembering that you exist, and it hurts him because it’s so beautiful it’s almost unbearable.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” you ask once, half teasing, half self-conscious. You’re sitting in his tiny dorm room, legs tangled on his bed, a cheap movie playing on his laptop. The air smells like laundry detergent and instant noodles.

He blinks, as if returning from somewhere far away. “Like what?”

“Like I’m—” You wave a hand, searching. “Like I’m the answer to a question you didn’t know you asked.”

His mouth twitches, but his eyes don’t soften into humor. They stay serious, almost raw.

“You are,” he says simply.

You laugh, because you don’t know what else to do when someone says something that honest. “Euijoo.”

He reaches out and takes your hand, threading your fingers together. His grip is firm—not painful, but solid, like a promise.

“I mean it,” he says, voice quiet over the movie’s dialogue. “Sometimes I look at you and I think… how is this real?”

Your chest tightens. “It’s real.”

He nods, but his gaze flickers, betraying something inside him that doesn’t fully believe he gets to keep good things.

You squeeze his hand. “Hey.”

He looks at you.

“Don’t make yourself suffer over something you haven’t lost,” you whisper.

For a moment, his eyes shine like he might cry. Then he lifts your hand and presses his mouth to your knuckles—gentle, devotional.

“Okay,” he breathes. “I’ll try.”

But you learn, over the months, that Euijoo’s love is not a simple thing.

It’s not light. It’s not casual.

It’s deep and old, like it was waiting in him long before he knew what to call it.

…

By spring, everyone knows you’re together.

Not because you make a show of it, but because Euijoo looks different when you’re near. Softer. Brighter. Like his body relaxes into a shape it prefers.

He walks you to class and carries your bag when you’re tired. He buys you ridiculous little things—a keychain shaped like your favorite animal, a cheap bouquet from the corner store because it “looked like you.” He leaves notes in your textbooks when you’re not looking: Eat. Sleep. Don’t die. I love you.

The first time he says it out loud is in April, on a night the wind is warm enough to feel like a hand.

You’re sitting on the roof of a campus building you’re probably not supposed to be on, legs dangling over the edge, the city sprawled below like a sea of lights. Euijoo has brought two cans of soda and a blanket that smells like him.

You’re talking about nothing—summer plans, internships, how adulthood feels like standing at the edge of a cliff and pretending you’re not scared.

Euijoo goes quiet. When you look at him, he’s staring at his hands, fingers worrying the tab of the soda can.

“What?” you ask gently.

He exhales, and the sound trembles. “I’m thinking,” he says.

“About what?”

He turns his head and looks at you.

And the expression on his face makes your breath catch—like he’s standing in front of something sacred. Like he’s terrified of saying the wrong thing and breaking it.

“I love you,” he says.

The words aren’t dramatic. They’re not shouted into the wind. They’re said like a fact. Like a confession. Like something he has carried for so long it has become part of his spine.

You stare at him, stunned for a second. And then warmth floods your chest so fast you almost choke on it.

“I love you too,” you whisper.

Euijoo’s eyes squeeze shut for a heartbeat, as if he’s absorbing it physically. When he opens them, they’re wet.

“Hey,” you say, voice soft. “Why are you crying?”

He laughs, but it’s broken. “Because—” He swallows hard. “Because I didn’t think I would get this.”

You reach for him, pulling him into your arms. He clings like he’s been starving. His hold is careful but fierce, hands spread over your back, his forehead pressed to your shoulder.

And you feel it: the way his body shakes, the way his breathing stutters, like his heart is trying to learn a new rhythm.

It hits you then, quietly, like a truth settling into place.

Euijoo loves like he’s afraid.

Not of you. Not of love.

Of losing it.

…

Time moves the way it always does—relentless and tender. You survive finals. You survive summers that stretch like taffy and winters that make your cheeks sting. You move from dorm rooms to tiny apartments, from instant ramen to grocery lists and shared chores, from “I miss you” texts between classes to “What do you want for dinner?” shouted from the kitchen.

You grow up together in all the unglamorous ways that matter.

And somewhere along the line, Euijoo changes.

Not in the sense that he becomes a different person—he doesn’t lose his gentleness, his quiet humor, his habit of tapping his pen against his teeth. But something in him settles. Deepens. Hardens into certainty.

You see it in the way he stands behind you when you’re cooking, arms wrapped around your waist, chin on your shoulder. In the way he looks at you at parties, across crowded rooms, eyes finding yours like a compass needle snapping north. In the way he reaches for your hand in public without thinking, like your fingers belong there.

At first, his love feels like a bright, frantic thing—like he’s afraid that if he doesn’t hold you, you’ll disappear.

Then, gradually, it becomes something else.

Something older.

Something that doesn’t just want you.

Something that wants a life.

…

It happens on an ordinary day, which is how you know it’s real.

You’re in a grocery store aisle arguing about cereal, because you’ve reached that stage of intimacy where your biggest conflicts are about sugar content and brand loyalty. Euijoo has a box of something aggressively healthy in his hand, and you’re holding a bright, childish, chocolate-covered option like it’s the only joy left in the world.

“You can’t eat that every day,” he says, trying to sound stern.

“You eat instant noodles like it’s a personality,” you shoot back.

He huffs, amused. “That’s different.”

“It’s literally not.”

He looks at you, eyes narrowing, and you prepare for him to make some ridiculous comeback.

Instead, his gaze shifts—past you, down the aisle.

You follow it and see, near the endcap, a young couple with a toddler. The child is in a puffy jacket too big for her, hair sticking up in staticy wisps, cheeks flushed. She’s holding her parent’s finger with both hands, babbling happily while the adults laugh and try to wrangle her toward the cart.

It’s nothing special. Just life.

But Euijoo goes still.

Not stiff. Not tense. Just… quiet, as if something inside him has stopped moving long enough to listen.

You glance at him. “Euijoo?”

He doesn’t answer at first. His eyes are fixed on the child’s tiny hands, the way she leans into the safety of her parents like she has never doubted she’ll be caught.

When he finally looks at you, it’s like he’s seeing you in a new light.

His pupils are wide. His mouth is slightly open, like he’s been punched with the thought.

“What?” you ask, suddenly nervous.

He swallows. His throat moves hard. “I—” He stops, as if he doesn’t know how to say what’s in him without breaking it.

You step closer, lowering your voice. “What is it?”

His gaze drops to your mouth, then to your hands, then back to your eyes, like he’s trying to anchor himself.

“I don’t think,” he says slowly, “I love you like a boy loves someone anymore.”

Your breath catches.

He keeps going, voice raw, as if once he starts he can’t stop. “I think… I love you like—” He presses a hand to his chest, fingers splaying over his heart. “Like something in me is old.”

You blink, stunned. The grocery store hums around you: carts squeaking, a kid whining somewhere, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead.

Euijoo’s eyes shine. “Sometimes I look at you and it feels like my bones crack if I don’t hold you,” he whispers, and there’s a faint, trembling laugh in the words, like he knows it sounds insane but it’s true anyway. “And it scares me, because it’s not just… wanting you. It’s not just missing you.”

He leans closer, voice dropping to a confession meant only for you. “It’s like my soul knows you. Like it’s been waiting.”

Your hands tighten around the cereal box.

Euijoo reaches out and covers your fingers with his, warm and steady. “I keep thinking about… years,” he says. “Not just weekends. Not just next semester. Years. Like—”

He swallows again, and this time his voice breaks slightly. “Like I want to marry you.”

The words land in you like a bell struck deep.

Euijoo’s eyes fill. He looks almost anguished, like saying it hurts, like wanting you this much is something he both craves and fears.

“I want to call you my wife,” he whispers, and his expression twists, love and terror braided together. “I want… kids. I want to watch you hold our baby like it’s the only thing in the universe. I want to watch us get old and complain about our backs and still reach for each other in our sleep. I want to sit at a table with you and our grandchildren and think—we did it.”

Your throat tightens until you can barely breathe.

Euijoo’s voice drops even softer, almost a plea. “And it makes me feel like I’m breaking, because if I want it that much—if I let myself want it—then losing it would kill me.”

He looks at you like you’re the sun and he’s been orbiting you without admitting it. Like he’s terrified you’ll say no and confirm his worst fear: that good things aren’t meant to stay.

You set the cereal down carefully on the shelf, hands shaking just a little.

Then you step into him.

Euijoo inhales sharply when your arms wrap around his waist. For a second he’s frozen, as if he can’t believe you’re doing it, and then he folds around you—tight, fierce, protective. His hold is the kind of hold that says mine without ownership, home without walls.

You bury your face in his shoulder. “Euijoo,” you whisper, voice thick.

He presses his cheek to your hair. His breathing is uneven. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Don’t apologize,” you cut in, pulling back just enough to look at him.

His eyes are wet. He looks wrecked.

You cup his face with both hands. “Look at me.”

He does, trembling.

“I want that,” you say.

He stares. “What?”

“You,” you whisper. “All of it. The years. The old love. The terrifying love. The stupid grocery store fights. The kids, if we decide. The getting old. The being yours.”

Euijoo’s breath leaves him like he’s been shot.

“You mean it?” he asks, voice cracked.

You smile through the ache in your chest. “I’ve meant it.”

His face crumples with something so intensely relieved it hurts to witness. He closes his eyes, forehead dropping to yours, and a sound escapes him—half laugh, half sob.

“I’m going to take care of you,” he whispers, words desperate with sincerity. “I’m going to love you so well. I’m going to—”

“You already do,” you murmur.

He shakes his head, as if he can’t accept that it’s enough. “No,” he says. “More. I will—more.”

And then, right there between the cereal and the pasta sauce, Euijoo kisses you like a man who has found the thing he intends to keep for the rest of his life.

Not reckless. Not showy.

Burning.

Deep.

Old.

Like he’s making a vow with his mouth.

When he pulls back, his eyes are shining so brightly it feels like staring into a flame.

He looks at you the way people look at miracles.

And you realize something too, in the quiet after his confession:

Euijoo doesn’t love you like a story.

He loves you like a future.

…

Later, when you’re home and the groceries are half-put away and you’re both still dazed from what happened in aisle seven, he comes up behind you in the kitchen.

You’re rinsing apples at the sink. The window above it is dark, reflecting your own faces back at you: you in a soft sweatshirt, hair messy, Euijoo behind you like a shadow made of devotion.

He wraps his arms around your waist.

His chin settles on your shoulder.

You feel him breathe in, slow and deep, like he’s inhaling you into his lungs.

“You’re real,” he murmurs.

You turn your head slightly. “I’m real.”

His grip tightens, just a little. The kind of tightness that says he’s trying to fuse you into him.

You cover his hands with yours. “Hey,” you whisper. “You don’t have to be afraid.”

He exhales, shaky. “I’m not afraid of you,” he says.

“I know.”

He nuzzles your shoulder, voice low. “I’m afraid of how much I want this. Because it’s… huge.”

You turn around in his arms and face him fully. His eyes are soft but haunted, like the depth of his love sometimes scares even him.

You reach up and smooth your thumb under his eye, catching the smallest hint of moisture. “Then we’ll hold it together,” you say. “We don’t have to carry it alone.”

Euijoo stares at you like you’ve just handed him the missing piece of himself.

Then he smiles—small, trembling, utterly ruined.

“Wife,” he whispers experimentally, like he’s tasting it.

Your heart stutters.

You laugh, breathless. “Not yet.”

He nods, serious as a vow. “Someday.”

You lean into him, forehead against his, and for a moment the whole world narrows to the space between your breaths.

Euijoo’s arms tighten around you, and you understand what he meant about bones and cracking and needing.

His love is not gentle because it is weak.

It’s gentle because it is powerful enough to be careful.

“Someday,” you agree softly.

Euijoo closes his eyes, and his soul—no longer crying, no longer breaking—sounds like it’s finally found a place to rest.

And when he kisses you again, it’s not like a boy.

It’s like a man who has already chosen you for every version of the future.

Every season.

Every lifetime.

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