#jongho angst

Jongho was twelve years old the first time he understands what loyalty costs.

There’s blood on the pavement—too dark, too much of it—and the man on the ground isn’t moving anymore.

Jongho doesn’t know his name. He’s told later that names don’t matter in this line of work. What matters is who gave the order, and who carried it out.

Your brother is standing beside him.

Not yet the man he’ll become, but already dangerous in that quiet, inevitable way. 

He places a hand on Jongho’s shoulder—not comforting, not cruel. Just grounding.

“You didn’t look away,” your brother says.

Jongho swallows. His hands are shaking, but he keeps them at his sides.

“I didn’t,” he replies.

That’s when your brother decides Jongho will belong with him.

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Jongho grows up fast after that.

Too fast.

He learns how to fire a gun before he learns how to dream. Learn how to break bones without leaving marks. 

Learn how to listen without speaking, how to stand without flinching, how to obey without asking why.

Your brother saves him from the streets. Gives him food. 

Shelter. Purpose.

And Jongho repays that debt with absolute devotion.

He becomes the man sent when things need to be finished. Not loud. Not cruel. Just effective. The kind of man people whisper about but never really see.

By the time Jongho is twenty, he has a reputation.

By the time he is twenty-three, he has a body count.

And by the time he is twenty-six, he believes there is nothing left inside him that can be ruined.

That’s when you enter the picture.

Jongho hears about you long before he meets you.

Not in detail. Just fragments.

My sister’s in town. She’s staying at the house for a while.

Keep an eye out, yeah?

It’s said casually, like you’re an afterthought.

You are not supposed to matter to him.

The first time Jongho sees you, it’s late.

The house is quieter than usual—guards posted outside, lights dimmed. Jongho’s there to report on a shipment gone wrong, blood still drying beneath his sleeves.

You’re in the kitchen.

Barefoot. Wearing one of your brother’s old shirts, sleeves too long, hair loose like you don’t know what kind of house this really is. 

You’re standing on your toes, trying—and failing—to reach something on the top shelf.

Jongho stops short.

This is wrong. Instinctively, immediately wrong.

You turn when you hear him.

“Oh—sorry,” you say, startled. “I didn’t know anyone else was here.”

Your voice is soft. Normal. Untouched.

Jongho doesn’t move.

You smile, a little awkward, and step aside. “You can go ahead. I’m just stealing snacks.”

Stealing.

From a house built on blood money.

Something in Jongho’s chest tightens.

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Your brother finds you talking to Jongho ten minutes later.

He freezes.

Not visibly. Not in a way anyone else would catch. But Jongho sees it—the subtle shift, the sharp attention.

“Hey,” you say easily. “Your friend was helping me find—”

Your brother cuts in. “You shouldn’t bother him.”

Jongho stiffens. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not,” your brother says, too quickly. Then, correcting himself, calmer: “He’s working.”

You glance between them. “Right. Sorry.”

You walk away without argument.

Jongho watches you go, unease pooling in his gut.

Later, your brother corners him in the hallway.

“Don’t get attached,” he says quietly.

Jongho frowns. “To what?”

“To her.”

There it is.

“She’s not part of this world,” your brother continues. “She never will be. And I won’t have you dragging her into it.”

Jongho nods immediately. “I understand.”

He means it.

At least, he thinks he does.

From that night on, Jongho avoids you.

Not obviously. Just enough.

If you enter a room, he leaves.

If you speak to him, he answers politely, briefly.

If you smile, he looks away.

It works. For a while.

Until one afternoon, you corner him in the hallway.

“Did I do something wrong?” you ask.

He hesitates.

“No.”

“Then why do you act like I’m invisible?”

Because you’re not supposed to exist to him. Because caring about you would be a weakness.

Because your brother is right.

Jongho lowers his gaze. “It’s safer this way.”

“For who?” you ask.

He doesn’t answer.

That’s the first lie he tells you.

And it’s the one that will eventually destroy everything.

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Avoiding you becomes Jongho’s second job.

He learns your schedule without meaning to. The times you wake, the way you linger in doorways like you’re undecided about the world, the habit you have of humming under your breath when you’re bored. He notices all of it while pretending he doesn’t.

That’s the problem.

Watching is what he’s good at.

You notice him too, of course. You’re not stupid. You catch the way his eyes flick to you and then away. How conversations stop when you enter a room. How your brother suddenly insists you don’t go out alone anymore.

“You’re acting weird,” you tell your brother one night.

He exhales through his nose. “This life isn’t safe.”

“I know that.”

“You don’t,” he says sharply, then softens. “Just—trust me.”

You do. You always have.

Jongho hears the whole thing from the hallway. He hates that your trust is so easy. He hates that it makes him want to deserve it.

The second message is clearer than the first.

A photograph. Grainy. Taken from across the street.

It’s you, stepping out of a café. Laughing at something on your phone. Unaware.

Jongho feels something cold slide down his spine.

Your brother stares at the image for a long time before he finally speaks. “They’re testing me.”

Jongho already knows what comes next.

“She needs eyes on her,” your brother continues. “All the time.”

Jongho doesn’t hesitate. “I’ll do it.”

Your brother looks up, surprised. Not suspicious. Just… thoughtful.

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

It’s not the right answer.

It’s the only one Jongho can give.

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You find out over breakfast.

“What do you mean I have a bodyguard?” you demand.

“Not a bodyguard,” your brother corrects. “Protection.”

“That’s the same thing.”

“It’s Jongho.”

You stop mid-sentence.

Your eyes flick to him instinctively, like you’re looking for confirmation. Jongho keeps his face neutral, hands folded neatly in front of him.

“You?” you say. “Why you?”

“Because I trust him,” your brother answers.

You laugh once, incredulous. “You barely let him look at me.”

Jongho’s jaw tightens.

“This isn’t permanent,” your brother adds. “Just until things settle.”

You cross your arms. “And I don’t get a say?”

“No.”

You look at Jongho again, sharper this time. “Do you want this job?”

It’s the first time you’ve ever asked him what he wants.

Jongho meets your gaze.

“Yes,” he says quietly.

You don’t know it yet, but that word seals your fate.

Being assigned to you changes everything.

Jongho walks behind you now—not out of avoidance, but strategy. His presence is constant, unavoidable. You feel it like pressure at your back.

“You’re staring,” you accuse one afternoon.

“I’m watching.”

“That’s worse.”

“Get used to it.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s no real bite to it. You’re adjusting faster than he expects. Asking questions. Testing him.

“What happens if I run?”

“I catch you.”

“What if I scream?”

“I remove the threat.”

“What if the threat is you?”

Jongho stops walking.

You turn, startled by the sudden stillness. His expression is unreadable, but his voice is careful when he answers.

“Then I remove myself.”

Something twists in your chest at that.

You don’t run anymore.

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It happens in a crowd.

Someone bumps into you hard enough to knock you off balance. Before you can fall, Jongho’s hand closes around your wrist.

Firm. Certain.

Alive.

It lasts less than a second. He lets go immediately, like he’s burned.

“Sorry,” he mutters.

You stare at your wrist long after he’s released it. The warmth lingers.

That night, Jongho washes his hands twice.

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You start noticing the cracks in him.

The way his shoulders tense when your brother raises his voice.

The scars you glimpse when his sleeves ride up.

The exhaustion he carries like something permanent.

“You ever sleep?” you ask.

He answers honestly. “Lightly.”

“Why?”

“So I don’t miss anything.”

“Like what?”

He looks at you then. Really looks.

“Like you.”

That’s when it starts to become dangerous.

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Thunder wakes you.

It’s loud enough to rattle the windows, close enough that the air feels charged. Your heart kicks hard against your ribs before you can stop it.

You sit up, breathing shallow.

The hallway light is on.

You open your door.

Jongho is sitting on the floor outside it.

Back against the wall. Knees bent. Gun resting in his hand like an extension of his body.

“You’re serious,” you whisper.

He looks up instantly. “Did I wake you?”

“No,” you say. “I woke you.”

A pause.

“I can move.”

“…don’t.”

He stays.

And somewhere deep in his chest, something gives out.

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It happens on a night that’s supposed to be normal.

You’re leaving a restaurant—late, laughing, distracted in that way Jongho has learned to hate because the world never deserves your carelessness. The street is crowded, lights reflecting off wet pavement, noise blurring the edges of danger.

Jongho feels it before he sees it.

A shift. A wrongness.

“Stay close,” he murmurs.

You don’t have time to ask why.

A man steps into your path too smoothly, smile too rehearsed. Another appears behind you.

The crowd keeps moving, unaware.

“Wrong girl,” Jongho says calmly, already positioning himself between you and them.

One of the men laughs. “Doesn’t look wrong to me.”

The hand that reaches for you never makes it.

Jongho moves fast—faster than you’ve ever seen him move. There’s a sharp crack, a gasp, and suddenly one man is on the ground, wrist bent at an angle that makes your stomach lurch.

The other pulls a knife.

Jongho doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t rush.

He disarms him in three precise motions and slams him into the brick wall hard enough to knock the air from his lungs.

“You don’t touch her,” Jongho says softly. “Ever.”

Sirens wail somewhere distant.

Jongho grabs your hand—this time he doesn’t hesitate—and pulls you away.

You don’t speak until you’re safely inside the car.

Your hands are shaking.

“So,” you say faintly, “that’s what you do.”

Jongho grips the steering wheel. His knuckles are white.

“Yes.”

You swallow. “Did you… enjoy it?”

He closes his eyes.

That's enough to answer.

That night, Jongho doesn’t sit outside your door.

You find him in the kitchen instead, blood staining the sink as he scrubs his hands too hard, too long.

“You’re bleeding,” you say.

“It’s not mine.”

The words chill you.

“You scared me,” you whisper.

He finally looks at you then. Really looks. His eyes are dark, conflicted, raw.

“I scared myself.”

You step closer before you can think better of it. Gently, you take his wrist, still his shaking.

“Thank you,” you say. “For protecting me.”

Something in his face fractures.

“You shouldn’t thank me,” he says hoarsely. “Not for this.”

“Why?”

Because he liked it. Because it felt right.

Because hurting someone for you felt dangerously close to purpose.

“I crossed a line,” he says instead.

You don’t let go.

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Your brother notices immediately.

Not the bruises. Not the rumors. The change.

Jongho is sharper now. More alert. More volatile in ways only someone who knows him intimately would see.

And you.

You stand closer to him without realizing it. You glance at him before answering questions. You trust him instinctively.

Your brother watches it all with narrowing eyes.

One night, he corners Jongho alone.

“You’re getting sloppy,” he says.

“I’m efficient.”

“You’re emotional.”

Jongho stiffens. “No.”

“She’s affecting you.”

A beat.

“Is that a problem?” Jongho asks.

Your brother studies him carefully. “It is if you forget where you belong.”

Jongho doesn’t answer.

For the first time in years, silence is not obedience.

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It’s raining. Hard.

You’re stuck waiting in the car while Jongho deals with something inside one of your brother’s properties. The storm rattles the windows, thunder cracking overhead.

Your breathing quickens before you can stop it.

By the time Jongho returns, you’re curled into yourself, eyes glassy.

“Hey,” he says softly, instantly kneeling in front of you. “Hey. Look at me.”

You try. Fail.

He hesitates—just a second—then pulls you into his arms.

You cling to him.

He smells like rain and metal and something warm beneath it all.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs, hand steady on your back. “I’ve got you.”

Your face is pressed against his chest. His heartbeat is fast. Too fast.

You look up.

He’s too close.

Too gentle.

For a moment—just one—he leans down.

Stops.

His forehead rests against yours instead.

“I can’t,” he whispers.

You nod, even though your chest aches.

“Okay.”

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The next threat is deliberate.

A package. No return address.

Inside: a phone.

It rings once.

Your brother answers on speaker.

A distorted voice speaks.

“You’ve got something we want.”

Your brother’s gaze flicks to you.

Jongho steps forward instinctively, positioning himself in front of you without thinking.

“We can make this easy,” the voice continues. “Or we can make it hurt.”

The call ends.

Silence crashes down around you.

Your brother exhales slowly.

“They’re escalating.”

Jongho already knows what this means.

You are no longer collateral.

You are the target.

And Jongho realizes, with sickening clarity, that there will come a moment when he’ll have to choose.

Between the man who saved him. And the girl he’s already lost himself to.

Jongho doesn’t sleep that night.

He sits at the small table in the corner of his apartment, gun disassembled in front of him, cleaning each piece with methodical care. It’s muscle memory—something to keep his hands busy while his thoughts spiral.

You’re down the hall, asleep. Or trying to be.

He can hear the way you shift in bed. The soft hitch in your breathing that tells him you’re dreaming badly.

That’s when it hits him.

Not like lightning.

Like gravity.

This is it.

This is the thing he was trained his entire life to avoid.

If they take you, he will burn the world.

If your brother orders him away, he will disobey.

If loving you means dying, he will not hesitate.

There’s no version of the future where he survives this untouched.

Jongho closes his eyes.

He is in love with you.

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The next morning, you find him on the balcony.

He hasn’t slept. You can tell by the shadows under his eyes, the way his shoulders are too tense, like he’s holding himself together by force alone.

“You okay?” you ask gently.

He nods. Then shakes his head.

“Come here,” he says quietly.

You do.

He doesn’t touch you. Just stands close enough that you can feel his warmth, his presence steady and grounding.

“If anything happens,” he says, voice low, “you listen to me. You don’t argue. You don’t hesitate.”

You frown. “That sounds ominous.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I,” you reply. “You’re not allowed to disappear on me.”

Something flashes in his eyes—pain, affection, resignation.

“I would never leave you,” he says.

Not won’t.

Wouldn’t.

The distinction terrifies you.

Your brother calls Jongho alone that night.

The room is dim, heavy with cigar smoke and unspoken truths. Your brother doesn’t waste time.

“They want leverage,” he says. “And you’re too close.”

Jongho doesn’t pretend not to understand.

“You’re stepping back,” your brother continues. “Effective immediately. Another team will handle her security.”

“No.”

The word is quiet. Firm.

Your brother’s gaze sharpens. “That wasn’t a suggestion.”

“She trusts me.”

“That’s the problem.”

Silence stretches.

“You taught me loyalty,” Jongho says carefully. “You taught me protection. I’m doing exactly what you trained me to do.”

Your brother stands. Walks closer.

“I taught you to choose the family,” he says. “Not yourself.”

Jongho meets his eyes.

“I am.”

The room goes cold.

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You feel it immediately.

Jongho pulls back. Not physically—he’s still there, still guarding you—but something vital withdraws. His voice is clipped. His eyes never linger.

“Did I do something?” you ask finally.

“No.”

“You’re lying.”

He exhales slowly. “I’m trying to keep you safe.”

“By freezing me out?”

“By not wanting what I shouldn’t.”

The words slip out before he can stop them.

Your heart stutters. “And what’s that?”

He looks at you like you’re the answer and the problem all at once.

“You,” he says.

The air between you crackles.

You step closer. “Then stop fighting it.”

He takes a step back instead, jaw clenched.

“If I stop,” he says hoarsely, “everything falls apart.”

The attempt happens two days later.

A staged accident. A car that doesn’t stop. Glass shattering. Screams.

Jongho sees it unfold in slow motion.

He throws himself between you and the impact, slamming you to the ground as the car clips his shoulder and spins out.

Pain explodes down his arm.

You’re crying. Shaking. Alive.

That’s all that matters.

Sirens scream closer.

Jongho presses his forehead to yours briefly, fiercely.

“That’s it,” he whispers. “I’m done listening.”

“What?”

“I’m taking you out of here.”

“You don’t have permission—”

“I don’t care.”

And in that moment, Jongho chooses.

Not the family. Not the debt.

Not the man he was made to be.

He chooses you.

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Jongho moves fast.

Cash. Documents. New phones. He’s been preparing for this possibility longer than he ever admitted to himself.

You watch him pack with shaking hands.

“You’re serious,” you whisper.

“I always am.”

“What about my brother?”

Jongho pauses.

“I’ll handle him.”

He doesn’t explain how.

When you reach the door, he stops you.

“There’s something you need to understand,” he says quietly. “Once we leave, there’s no going back.”

You look at him—really look at him. The man who stood outside your door. Who bled for you. Who loved you in every way except the one he wasn’t allowed to.

You nod.

“Then don’t leave me behind.”

He cups your face, finally—finally—and presses his forehead to yours.

“I never could.”

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Jongho doesn’t sleep that night.

He sits at the small table in the corner of his apartment, gun disassembled in front of him, cleaning each piece with methodical care.

It’s muscle memory—something to keep his hands busy while his thoughts spiral.

You’re down the hall, asleep. Or trying to be.

He can hear the way you shift in bed. The soft hitch in your breathing that tells him you’re dreaming badly.

That’s when it hits him.

Not like lightning.

Like gravity.

This is it.

This is the thing he was trained his entire life to avoid.

If they take you, he will burn the world.

If your brother orders him away, he will disobey.

If loving you means dying, he will not hesitate.

There’s no version of the future where he survives this untouched.

Jongho closes his eyes.

He is in love with you.

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The next morning, you find him on the balcony.

He hasn’t slept. You can tell by the shadows under his eyes, the way his shoulders are too tense, like he’s holding himself together by force alone.

“You okay?” you ask gently.

He nods. Then shakes his head.

“Come here,” he says quietly.

You do.

He doesn’t touch you. Just stands close enough that you can feel his warmth, his presence steady and grounding.

“If anything happens,” he says, voice low, “you listen to me. You don’t argue. You don’t hesitate.”

You frown. “That sounds ominous.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I,” you reply. “You’re not allowed to disappear on me.”

Something flashes in his eyes—pain, affection, resignation.

“I would never leave you,” he says.

Not won’t.

Wouldn’t.

The distinction terrifies you.

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The city looks different at night when you’re not sure you’ll ever see it again.

Streetlights blur past the car windows as Jongho drives with one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the gun tucked under his jacket. 

His jaw is tight, eyes sharp, scanning mirrors and shadows like the past might physically reach out and grab you.

You don’t speak.

Every word feels too loud.

When you cross the city line, something in your chest loosens—and tightens all at once.

“Are we safe?” you whisper.

Jongho doesn’t lie. “Not yet.”

The safehouse is small, anonymous, tucked into a stretch of highway no one looks at twice. Jongho checks every room before letting you inside.

He locks the door. Then the windows. Then the door again.

Only when everything is secured does he finally sag against the wall, breath shuddering out of him.

“You’re hurt,” you say.

“It’ll heal.”

You step closer. Gently, you take his injured arm, guiding him to sit.

As you clean the cut, you notice how still he is. How careful.

“You don’t trust yourself,” you murmur.

He swallows. “I trust myself too much.”

Sleep doesn’t come easily.

You lie on the narrow bed, listening to Jongho move around the room. He stops just short of the mattress.

“I’ll take the floor.”

“You’re injured.”

“I’ll be fine.”

You reach out, fingers brushing his sleeve.

“Stay.”

He hesitates.

Then, slowly, he lies beside you—careful not to touch, not to crowd.

The space between you is unbearable.

“You don’t have to be afraid,” you whisper.

“I’m not afraid of you,” he replies softly. “I’m afraid of what I’d do for you.”

You turn, facing him.

“Then do it.”

He exhales, shaky. Wraps an arm around you like he’s holding something fragile.

For the first time, he sleeps deeply.

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Your brother doesn’t call.

That’s worse than anything.

Jongho knows what silence means. Retaliation isn’t loud—it’s patient.

Days pass. Then weeks.

You move again. Then again.

Each place is smaller, quieter. Each one costs Jongho a little more of himself.

He takes work where he can—construction, repairs, anything honest enough to keep you fed and hidden. His hands grow rougher, his shoulders heavier.

But at night, he softens.

He learns how to make you laugh again. Learns how to cook badly but earnestly. Learns how to touch you without fear.

“You could’ve left,” you say one night.

He presses a kiss to your hair. “Never.”

Jongho carries it like a second spine.

Every time you flinch at a loud noise.

Every time you ask about your brother and he doesn’t answer.

Every time you look at him with trust instead of fear.

“I stole you,” he says once, voice raw.

“You chose me,” you reply.

“That doesn’t make it better.”

“It makes it ours.”

He doesn’t argue—but the guilt never leaves. It just settles deeper.

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It’s a stranger who lingers too long at the gas station.

Jongho notices immediately.

That night, he packs again.

“We can’t stay,” he says.

You grab his wrist. “We’re always running.”

“I won’t let them find you.”

“What about what I want?”

He freezes.

Slowly, he turns to face you.

“I want a life,” you say. “Not just survival.”

For a long moment, Jongho says nothing.

Then he nods. “Then we stop running.”

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You settle in a town small enough to forget the world.

Jongho builds a routine. A real one. Morning coffee. Honest work. Evenings spent with you on the couch, your feet tucked under his thigh.

He starts laughing more.

You start sleeping better.

For the first time, Jongho lets himself believe.

Maybe this is enough.

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Your brother finds you on a quiet morning.

He looks older. Tired. Human.

Jongho steps in front of you instinctively.

“I trusted you,” your brother says.

“I know.”

“You broke that trust.”

“Yes.”

A pause.

“You kept her alive,” your brother says quietly.

Jongho nods. “That was the point.”

Your brother lowers his gun.

“Take care of her,” he says.

Jongho bows his head. “With my life.”

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Years later, when the world is quieter, Jongho holds you like he’s still afraid you might disappear.

“I was made to be a weapon,” he murmurs.

You kiss his scars. “And now?”

“And now,” he says, pressing his forehead to yours, “I’m just a man who chose love.”

He swore to protect you.

He did.

Just not from himself.

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© lcvejjoong, 2026

You don’t notice the phone at first.

What you notice is the way the grocery bags are cutting into your fingers, thin plastic biting into skin as you shift your grip for the third time, annoyed, tired, already replaying this exact moment in your head.

“I told you,” you say, breathless, stopping just outside the automatic doors, “we were out of the reusable bags.”

Jongho stops too. He’s holding more than you—he always does—but that doesn’t stop you from glaring at him like this is somehow his fault.

“I know,” he says, voice calm in a way that only makes you more irritated. “I said it was fine.”

“It’s not fine. They’re going to rip.”

“They won’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

He looks at you then, really looks, eyebrows raised slightly, mouth tugged into something that’s half patience, half challenge. “You want to trade?”

“No.”

“Then what are we doing?”

You huff, shifting the bags again. One of them stretches ominously.

“This,” you say, gesturing between the two of you, “is what happens when you assume I’ll just carry it.”

“I’m carrying more than you.”

“That’s not the point.”

“Then what is the point?”

Your voices are louder than you realize. Not shouting—never shouting—but sharp enough, familiar enough. The kind of argument that only happens between people who’ve had the same argument before.

And before. And before.

You step closer to him without thinking, finger pressing lightly into his arm. “The point is we talked about this.”

“We talked about buying more bags.”

“And you forgot.”

“I didn’t forget. I just—”

“Jongho.”

He exhales through his nose, shoulders dropping a fraction. “Okay. Okay. I messed up.”

That should be enough. It usually is.

But today, you’re tired. Your feet hurt. The store was crowded. 

You spent fifteen minutes arguing with a self-checkout machine that kept insisting you hadn’t scanned your milk.

So instead of letting it go, you say, quieter but sharper, “You always do this.”

His eyes flicker. “Do what.”

“Act like it doesn’t matter.”

“It does matter.”

“Then why do I feel like I’m the only one thinking ahead?”

That lands heavier. You see it immediately—the way his jaw tightens, the way his grip on the bags shifts so the weight redistributes, like he’s grounding himself.

“I think ahead,” he says. “All the time.”

“Then prove it.”

He opens his mouth, closes it again.

And that’s when a bag finally gives up.

The plastic tears clean through, the bottom dropping out as a carton of eggs tips dangerously. You gasp, lunging forward.

Jongho moves faster.

He catches the carton with one hand, steady as always, while the other grabs your wrist, stopping you from stepping straight into the crosswalk as a car passes a little too close.

“Hey,” he says, low. “Careful.”

Your heart thuds. You’re suddenly too aware of his hand on your skin, warm and firm, thumb pressing gently like he’s making sure you’re real.

You pull back, embarrassed. “I had it.”

“I know.”

There’s a pause. The kind that stretches, awkward and intimate.

You bend to gather the fallen groceries, cheeks warm. “This is exactly what I’m talking about.”

He crouches too, silently helping you repack things into what bags are left, redistributing weight again so you don’t have to carry the heavy stuff.

“You don’t have to do everything alone,” he says quietly.

“I’m not.”

“You act like you are.”

That stings, because it’s true in ways you don’t want to unpack on a sidewalk.

By the time you stand again, the argument has lost its sharp edge, dulled into something softer, heavier. 

You start walking without another word, Jongho falling into step beside you like he always does.

You don’t see the phone tucked into someone’s hand.

You don’t hear the whispered, “Oh my god, they’re totally together.”

You don’t know that by the time you get home, your argument will have a caption.

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

It starts small.

A shaky video. Twenty seconds. You and Jongho outside a grocery store, arguing over bags like it’s a life-or-death issue.

Captioned:

“saw this couple arguing like they’ve been married for 5 years 😭”

By morning, it has half a million views.

Jongho finds out first.

You’re halfway through making coffee when your phone buzzes nonstop on the counter. 

Group chat. Missed calls. Notifications stacking like a tower about to fall.

You ignore it until Jongho clears his throat.

“Um,” he says.

You look up. He’s leaning against the doorway, phone in hand, expression caught somewhere between confused and alarmed.

“Are we… famous?”

“What?”

He turns the screen toward you.

It’s you. Him. The grocery store. The bags.

Your stomach drops.

“Oh my god,” you whisper.

He scrolls. Comments fly by too fast to read all of them.

“THE WAY HE GRABBED HER WRIST???” “they’re arguing but standing so close 😭” “married behavior fr” “this is literally my parents”

You sink into a chair. “We’re not even—”

“I know,” Jongho says quickly. “I mean. I know we’re not—”

He stops, cheeks faintly pink.

You glance up at him. “What?”

“Nothing.”

The silence stretches.

Outside, the world keeps moving. Inside, something has shifted, subtle and terrifying.

Because the internet is wrong.

But it’s also… not entirely.

And as your phone keeps buzzing, as Jongho stays standing there instead of leaving like he could, you realize this argument didn’t just go viral.

It exposed something neither of you was ready to name.

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

You think the worst part is the comments.

It’s not.

The worst part is how normal everything feels despite them.

The internet is convinced you and Jongho are married, and yet here you are—standing in your kitchen the next evening, shoulder to shoulder, chopping vegetables like nothing has fundamentally shifted in the universe.

Jongho reaches past you for the salt without asking.

You move aside instinctively.

It’s muscle memory. Familiar. 

Domestic in a way that makes your chest ache if you think about it for more than a second.

“So,” you say, a little too casually. “My aunt sent me the video.”

He winces. “Already?”

“She added crying emojis.”

“Of course she did.”

You glance at him. He’s focused on the cutting board, jaw tight, hair falling into his eyes. He looks… fine. Calm. 

Like this is just another minor inconvenience.

It irritates you. Comforts you. Both.

“We should probably say something,” you add.

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. Clarify?”

He finally looks at you then. “Clarify what.”

“That we’re not—” You stop yourself. “You know.”

He nods slowly. “Right.”

A beat.

“We’re not together,” he says.

The words land heavier than they should.

“Right,” you echo, too fast. “Obviously.”

Another beat. The stove clicks as he turns it on. Oil sizzles.

Online, the video has climbed past two million views.

Someone has added music to it. A romantic one.

Someone else has stitched it, pausing at the exact moment Jongho grabs your wrist.

“This,” the voice says solemnly, “is not how strangers touch.”

You try not to think about that.

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

You do try to clarify.

It doesn’t work.

A comment under the original video blows up:

“plot twist: they say they’re ‘not together’ but that’s just because they haven’t confessed yet.”

Someone finds Jongho’s old university photos. Someone else finds yours. There’s a blurry picture from years ago where you’re both in the background of the same café, backs turned, completely unaware.

“THEY’VE BEEN ORBITING EACH OTHER FOR YEARS.”

You show Jongho the edit while sitting on the couch, knees barely brushing.

“This is insane,” you say.

He hums. “They are very committed.”

“They’re delusional.”

“Maybe a little.”

You expect him to laugh. He doesn’t.

Instead, he rewatches the clip, thumb hovering near the screen.

“They really think we’re… comfortable,” he says.

“Well, we are,” you reply automatically. “We’ve known each other forever.”

“Yeah.”

His voice is quieter than usual.

Comfortable.

That word sticks.

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

Your friends are worse.

“So when’s the wedding?” one texts.

“Jongho carries your groceries???” another adds. “That’s husband behavior.”

“He’s just like that,” you insist, defensive without knowing why.

They send you screenshots of comments highlighting every tiny detail you never noticed before.

The way Jongho positions himself slightly between you and the street.

The way he lets you complain, uninterrupted.

The way you never step away from him, even when annoyed.

“You don’t fight like people who don’t care,” someone comments.

That one keeps you up at night.

Jongho starts walking you home more often.

Not because of the video, he says. Just because it’s late.

Not because people might recognize you. Just because he wants to make sure you get back safe.

You let him.

You always have.

One night, you catch someone across the street whispering excitedly, phone angled in your direction.

Your stomach twists.

Jongho notices instantly. He shifts closer, hand hovering near your back—not touching, but close enough that you feel the heat of him.

“Do you want to take a different route?” he asks softly.

You nod.

He doesn’t say anything else. Just guides you down a quieter street, steps matching yours, presence solid and grounding.

“This is weird,” you mutter.

“Yeah.”

“I don’t like being watched.”

“I know.”

“I didn’t sign up for this.”

He hesitates. “If you want me to stop walking with you—”

“No,” you say too fast.

He glances at you.

You swallow. “I mean. It’s fine. I like— I don’t mind.”

He doesn’t tease you. Doesn’t smile knowingly.

He just nods. “Okay.”

That might be worse.

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

The first time someone recognizes Jongho alone, he panics.

You’re not there. He’s grabbing coffee, minding his business, when a stranger squints at him and goes, “Wait… are you the grocery store guy?”

He freezes.

“Yes?” he says cautiously.

“Oh my god,” she squeals. “Where’s your girlfriend?”

He opens his mouth.

Closes it.

“She’s not—” He stops himself. “…not here.”

The hesitation is enough.

It ends up online anyway.

Caption: “Grocery store boyfriend spotted without his wife 😔”

You watch the clip later, heart doing something stupid in your chest.

He looks… flustered.

You didn’t know he could look flustered.

You finally talk about it on a quiet night, sitting on opposite ends of the couch, the space between you heavy with unsaid things.

“This can’t keep going,” you say.

Jongho nods. “I know.”

“We’re not together.”

“I know.”

“But people think we are.”

“I know.”

“And—” You stop. Press your lips together. “And it’s weird.”

He studies you carefully. “Is it weird because it’s not true… or because it feels too close to something that could be?”

The room goes very still.

You stare at him. “That’s not fair.”

“I’m not trying to trap you,” he says quickly. “I just— I need to understand.”

Understand what?

Your chest tightens when he says “we’re not together.”

Why the idea of correcting the internet feels like erasing something fragile before it fully forms.

You look away. “I don’t want to lose what we have.”

His voice softens. “Me neither.”

Silence again. Loaded.

“What do we have?” he asks.

You don’t answer.

Because the truth is: you don’t know.

And that scares you more than the comments, the cameras, the rumors—more than going viral ever could.

And outside, somewhere, someone is editing another compilation of you and Jongho.

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

The idea is stupid.

You say that immediately, reflexively, like if you say it out loud enough times it’ll stop being suggested.

“It’s not stupid,” your friend argues over speakerphone. “It’s strategic.”

“Strategic for what?” you snap. “I didn’t ask to be in a PR crisis.”

“You kind of are, though,” they say gently. “And honestly? People are already convinced. You might as well control the narrative.”

Across the room, Jongho is pretending very hard not to listen.

He’s wiping down the counter that is already clean, movements slow and careful, like he’s trying not to break something fragile in the air between you.

“You want us to lie,” you say.

“Temporarily,” your friend replies. “Soft launch. A couple posts. Maybe one appearance together where you’re clearly… affectionate.”

You choke. “Affectionate?”

Jongho’s hand stills.

“It doesn’t have to be dramatic,” your friend rushes on. “Just enough so people stop speculating and move on. You are close anyway.”

You close your eyes. That word again.

Close.

After you hang up, the apartment feels too quiet.

You lean against the counter, rubbing your temples. “This is insane.”

Jongho finally turns to face you. “You don’t have to do it.”

“I know.”

“If it makes you uncomfortable—”

“It doesn’t,” you interrupt. Then, softer, “That’s kind of the problem.”

He watches you carefully, like he’s trying to read a language he doesn’t want to misinterpret.

“What are you afraid of?” he asks.

You laugh once, breathless and humorless. “Everything.”

You don’t agree right away.

You argue about it for two days, going back and forth in circles that feel suspiciously like the grocery store argument—familiar, loaded, unresolved.

Jongho never pushes. He just listens, steady as always, like he’s anchoring the conversation so it doesn’t drift somewhere dangerous.

Eventually, you’re the one who says it.

“…If we do this,” you say slowly, “we need rules.”

He nods immediately. “Of course.”

“No real feelings.”

A pause. “Okay.”

“No crossing lines.”

“Right.”

“No confusing each other.”

His jaw tightens. “That’s fair.”

You swallow. “This is just for the internet.”

He looks at you for a long moment, eyes unreadable.

“Okay,” he says again.

You don’t notice how careful his voice sounds.

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

The first post goes up on a Sunday afternoon.

A photo someone else takes—your friend, grinning behind the camera—of you and Jongho sitting at a café, shoulders touching, his arm resting casually behind you on the chair.

Caption:

“guess we should stop pretending 😅”

The reaction is immediate.

Explosive.

The internet celebrates like it just won a war. 

“I KNEW IT”  “WE DID THIS”  “THE GROCERY STORE WAS FORESHADOWING”

Your phone buzzes nonstop.

Jongho’s does too.

You sit side by side on the couch, scrolling in silence, the glow of your screens painting everything blue.

“Well,” you mutter. “They’re happy.”

He lets out a quiet breath. “Yeah.”

“You okay?”

He glances at you. “Are you?”

You consider it. The truth feels complicated.

“I don’t hate it,” you admit.

Something flickers in his eyes—relief, maybe, or something more dangerous.

“Me neither,” he says.

You expect fake dating to feel… fake.

It doesn’t.

Jongho slips into the role with terrifying ease.

He remembers to hold doors, to check in with you silently when people are around, to keep a respectful but convincing closeness that makes everyone around you nod knowingly.

He never overdoes it. Never performs.

It’s all small things.

A hand at your lower back when cameras appear.

A gentle “you cold?” murmured just for you.

His jacket draped over your shoulders without a second thought.

“Stop being so convincing,” you joke once, nerves buzzing.

He smiles faintly. “Sorry. A habit.”

That word again.

The problem is that the rules start blurring.

Not all at once. Slowly. Dangerously.

You start leaning into him instead of away.

He starts brushing your fingers when he passes you things, not pulling back as quickly as he should.

One night, you fall asleep during a movie, head tipping onto his shoulder.

You wake up hours later, lights dim, the credits long gone.

Jongho hasn’t moved.

His head is tilted slightly toward yours, breath even, arm relaxed at his side like he’s afraid that if he shifts, you’ll disappear.

You lie there, heart hammering, pretending to sleep.

When you finally sit up, he stirs instantly.

“Sorry,” you whisper. “Did I—”

“It’s okay,” he says quickly. “I didn’t mind.”

You don’t look at each other.

Neither of you moves away.

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

The internet eats it up.

There are compilations now. Analyses. Think pieces.

Someone creates a name for you as a couple.

Someone else designs merch.

It should feel ridiculous.

Instead, it feels like living inside a glass box, every small moment magnified.

And then—inevitably—there’s jealousy.

It hits you sideways, unexpected.

You’re at an event together—nothing fancy, just a small gathering where people already know your faces—when someone approaches Jongho.

She’s pretty. Confident. Laughs easily.

She touches his arm when she talks.

You tell yourself you don’t care.

You tell yourself this is fake.

So why does your chest tighten when Jongho laughs back?

Why do you feel suddenly, irrationally cold?

You excuse yourself, slipping away to the balcony, breathing in night air like it might steady you.

Footsteps follow.

“Hey,” Jongho says softly. “You okay?”

You nod too fast. “Yeah. Just needed air.”

He studies you. “Did I do something?”

“No,” you say. Then—because you’re tired of pretending—“…I didn’t like the way she touched you.”

The words hang between you, fragile and terrifying.

Jongho freezes.

“You’re allowed to,” he says slowly.

“I am?”

“You’re my—” He stops himself. Swallows. “You’re with me. At least publicly.”

That’s not what you meant.

And he knows it.

“I don’t want to cross lines,” you say quietly.

“I know,” he replies. His voice is rougher now. “I’m trying not to.”

You finally meet his eyes.

“And if we already have?” you ask.

The city hums below you. Somewhere inside, people are laughing, unaware that something delicate is unraveling.

Jongho looks at you like you’re something precious and dangerous all at once.

“Then we need to stop pretending this is just for them,” he says.

Your heart pounds. “Jongho—”

“I care about you,” he says. No jokes. No softness to cushion the blow. Just the truth.

“I always have.”

The world tilts.

You whisper, “We said no real feelings.”

He nods. “I know.”

Silence.

Then, he says quietly: “I lied.”

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

The internet notices the absence before you do.

There are no new posts. No candid clips. No soft touches to dissect. The grocery store couple—once everywhere—is suddenly nowhere.

People speculate.

“did they break up?”

“pls tell me this isn’t the end”

“they were my emotional support couple”

You don’t read most of it.

You’re too busy missing Jongho in the quietest, most unbearable ways.

You miss the way he wordlessly hands you water when you forget to drink.

The way he always walks on the side closest to the road.

The way he listens—not just to respond, but to understand.

You told yourself distance would make things clearer.

It does.

Painfully so.

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

A week passes.

Then two.

You run into him by accident—because of course you do.

The same grocery store.

Different day. Same automatic doors. Same fluorescent lights.

He’s in the cereal aisle, staring at a box like it’s personally betrayed him.

You freeze.

He looks up.

For a second, neither of you moves.

Then Jongho smiles. Small. Careful. Familiar in a way that makes your chest ache.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey.”

You stand there, awkward, hearts doing things they shouldn’t.

“You… uh,” he gestures weakly. “Need help finding anything?”

You almost laugh.

“No,” you say softly. “I just— I wanted to say hi.”

Silence stretches. Not uncomfortable. Just honest.

“You okay?” he asks.

You nod. Then—finally—shake your head. “No.”

His expression softens instantly. “Do you want to talk?”

You swallow. “Yeah. I really do.”

You sit outside on the low concrete wall, grocery bags forgotten between your feet.

This time, no one is filming.

This time, it matters more.

“I was scared,” you admit. “Of being seen. Of being wrong. Of losing what we had if I named it.”

Jongho listens. Always does.

“I thought pushing you away would protect us,” you continue. “But it just made everything worse.”

He nods slowly. “I figured.”

You glance at him. “You did?”

“I know you,” he says gently. “You run when something feels too important.”

You exhale, shaky. “I don’t want to anymore.”

That gets his full attention.

You turn toward him fully now, heart pounding. “I don’t want to be fake. Or safe. Or pretending. I want—” You hesitate, then say it anyway. “I want you. If you still want me.”

Jongho doesn’t answer immediately.

For one terrifying second, you think you’re too late.

Then he laughs—soft, breathless, disbelieving.

“I never stopped,” he says. “I just didn’t want to pressure you.”

Your eyes burn. “I’m choosing you. On purpose. Not because the internet decided. Not because it’s easy.”

He reaches out, hesitates—old habit—then cups your hand fully.

“Good,” he says. “Because I choose you too. Every version. Even the scared one.”

You don’t make a move yet.

You just sit there, hands entwined, grinning like idiots.

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

The internet finds out eventually.

Not from a dramatic announcement.

From a boring, almost accidental post.

A grocery bag photo. Two sets of hands. One caption.

“this time, we brought the reusable bags.”

The comments explode.

But this time, you don’t read them right away.

Because Jongho is beside you, arm warm around your shoulders, laughing softly as he leans in.

“No arguing?” he teases.

You smile, resting your head against him. “We’ll save it for later.”

“For the record,” he says, squeezing you gently, “I still think the bags wouldn’t have ripped.”

You laugh. “You’re wrong.”

“Married people argue about this all the time.”

You glance up at him. “Married, huh?”

He grins. “Too soon?”

“Ask me again after dinner.”

His smile widens—bright, fond, full of promise.

This time, when the internet ships you, it’s not guessing.

It’s just… late to the truth.

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

© lcvejjoong, 2026

He had bought some shelves and other things to set up in the room. When the items arrived he did not hesitate to start working on the closet. He had set up shelves on one side of the room then a large mirror on the other and set up a vanity for his accessories and colognes. 

It was one of his proudest works. 

Stepping into the room, he reaches for his camo uniform and starts changing into them. Then lastly he grabs his cap, slipping it onto his head before applying some cologne. He applied his favorite one today. It was a middle eastern oil based Oud cologne gifted to him by a friend from Dubai. He had to be careful with this one, he learned the hard way the first time he applied it that just a little drop went a long way. His friend laughed at him when he told him of his mishap. 

He uncapped the bottle, and a wave of deep woodiness unfurled into the air. The oud was rich and earthy, like aged timber soaked in resin. He pulled the cap up and gently pressed the wand against his wrist, making sure to only apply just a small line on his wrist because if he applied just a bit too much, the smell would be overbearing to all those around him. He then placed the wand back into the small glass bottle then rubbed his wrists together before rubbing them against his pulse points behind his ears. 

Before leaving his apartment he grabs a protein shake from the fridge and takes the elevator down to the parking garage, finding his car.

He hops into his 2023 metallic gray BMW M3. It wasn’t his dream car, but it was still on his list of cars he'd love to own someday. He worked his ass off for this car, so he treasured it. So much so that he never let a single soul get behind the wheel for a test drive. 

He starts up the engine and grabs the wheel, driving out the garage heading towards base to get his day started. 

When he arrived at base he grinned proudly to see some soldiers already started on their morning run. Normally he liked to run on his own, but he wanted to encourage the fresh faces on base. Although some called it torture because he liked to make them run extra laps. But tomato tomahto, right? 

He starts jogging making his way towards them to join them, he comes to their side falling into stride with them. 

“Good morning, Soldiers!” he shouted, his deep voice carrying naturally over the courtyard.

“Good morning, Staff Sergeant Song!” The recruits barked back in unison, their voices sharp but not quite matching his power. 

A wide grin spread on his cheeks, “hope you guys don't mind that I joined your run this morning?” he was sure they were all cursing internally. 

“No, Sir!” The soldier in lead responded. 

“Good, because I'd like some company, hope you guys can catch up.” 

And so the torture starts. 

Usually the soldiers would run around five or six laps around the track before calling it. But with Staff Sergeant Song in stride beside them, the number always seemed to creep higher.

He didn’t shout or bark like a drill instructor, he didn’t need to. His presence alone kept them on edge, his long strides setting a pace just quick enough to have them struggle a little to match pace.

By the seventh lap, some of the recruits were already groaning under their breath. Mingi only grinned wider. “What’s wrong? Thought you said you didn’t mind me joining.”

“Yes, Staff Sergeant!” they chorused back, voices tight with effort.

“Good,” he said, settling back into rhythm as if the run had just begun. “Then keep up.”

And so, as always, their five laps turned into ten.

Soon he spotted his friend, another Staff Sergeant, who also happened to be the NCO of this group of new recruits platoon. 

“Good work soldiers! Keep this up tomorrow as well, I'll leave you to it.” He waves them off and runs towards his friend standing at the sideline. The soldiers behind them all caught their breath, bent over, holding onto their knees while others sat on the ground. 

“You gotta stop messing with my soldiers, Mingi,” Mingi chuckled, dapping up his friend, bumping shoulders. 

“What do you mean? I'm encouraging them, helping them push themselves y'know? They're gonna have great stamina because of me.” The shorter man rolled his eyes then shouted to the soldiers.

“Alright, soldiers, you're free to go! Breakfast in 20!” The soldiers all began running past the two men. 

“Since you like them so much, you can have them,” the man snickered. 

“No thanks, San, you can keep your kids, I'm not ready to be a father,” San rolled his eyes and the two began making their way to the cafeteria. 

Once San and Mingi had their breakfast together and got caught up, the two went back to work taking care of their duties. 

The day started off with a briefing followed by Mingi checking in on his subordinates and making sure things are running smoothly and the way they’re supposed to. He eventually reports his findings to the higher ups before finally checking into the military lab, getting straight to work on his assigned project with his team. Some of the staff in the lab were military personnel, while others were civilians. Mingi was the lead of a team of interns from different big name universities who were picked carefully following strict standards.

He was proud of his team. He was lucky to have a team of smart, hard working individuals. He saw a lot of potential in them. One girl in particular, a girl named Areum, caught his attention though. She was the first in the team to arrive and last to leave. Some days it seemed like she was there out of pure passion and intrigue, other days it just seemed like it was for distraction, an escape. 

He kept a close eye on her, mostly out of concern. He didn’t know why he was concerned, but something in him told him to watch out for her. Especially after he got a call from a friend a month after she had joined the team. 

It was his friend, Professor Jeong Yunho, who had called him. They’d first crossed paths in graduate school, when Yunho was already working as a teaching assistant, halfway out the door and well on his way toward becoming a professor. Mingi, still grinding through the final years of his own program, hadn’t expected much more than a passing acquaintance. But Yunho had a way of pulling people in, sharp, dependable, and supportive. Over time their connection solidified into a friendship that lasted long after school ended.

So when Yunho asked him for a personal favor, Mingi didn’t hesitate. The request was simple enough: keep an eye on her. Make sure she is doing alright. Push her when she needs it. Take care of her. Yunho didn’t elaborate much, only mentioning that she’d been through a lot recently and sometimes drifted into herself. Nothing more, nothing less.

Mingi respected that. He wasn’t one to pry into someone’s life uninvited. He preferred to let people open up to him when they were ready. Still, if someone looked like they were in trouble, he wasn’t the type to stand by and do nothing. He’d step in quietly, careful not to push too far but he would never let anyone slip too far on his watch, especially not when a friend like Yunho had asked him to look after them.

Needless to say, he quietly watched over Areum. 

The rest of his day went smoothly. After lunch, he finished a stack of reports, then headed back to the lab to wrap up a few tasks. Later, he sat through a meeting with the other staff sergeants and several higher-ups. Once it concluded, the sergeants filtered out together, deciding to grab dinner off base.

Halfway to the parking lot, Mingi patted his pockets and realized his wallet was still in the office. With a quick apology, he waved them on. “I’ll catch up,” he called, jogging back toward the lab.

Inside, the building was quiet. He slipped into the office, found his wallet on the desk, and tucked it into his back pocket before heading out again. But just as he passed the lab corridor, he stopped. A faint glow spilled from beneath the door. He could’ve sworn the lights had been off earlier.

Curious, he backtracked and pushed the door open.

Areum was inside, still bent over her workbench. Papers and glassware surrounded her in the sterile glow of the fluorescents. It wasn’t the first time he’d caught her like this, staying long after hours, working alone.

He watched her work for a moment, a smile creeping on his face. She didn’t look tired this time, she actually looked like she was having fun, discovering something new. Although he didn’t want to ruin it for her, he had to. It was getting late. 

He knocks softly on the door to get her attention, trying not to startle her. 

“Areum.”

Her head snapped up, eyes wide. “Sergeant Song! I didn’t know you were still around…”

Mingi raised a brow. It had been months since she joined the team, and despite him telling her more than once that she didn’t need to call him Sergeant, she still did. Eventually, he let it go.

“It’s late. You should be heading home.” He checked his watch, it was nearly 8 p.m. “Don’t you have a bus or train to catch?”

Her shoulders dropped, lips pressing into a pout. But it was her eyes that caught him off guard, the way the light of excitement turned into disappointment. The sight hit him like a blow to the chest, leaving him suddenly unsure if he’d said the wrong thing.

“Oh… yeah, you’re right, I guess. I’ll pack up and head out.” She turned back to her desk, the pout still lingering as she began to tidy up.

“I can give you a ride, if you need. I’m not sure when the next bus comes around,” he offered quietly.

She shook her head. “It’s alright, I should still be able to catch the next one. Thank you, though, I appreciate it.” She gave him a small smile before returning to cleaning up.

He lingered in the doorway for a moment.

“I’ll see you later, then. Be careful getting home.” With that, he turned and stepped out, leaving her to the glow of the lab. 

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

Areum stood at one of the workstations, carefully pipetting a reagent into the wells of a plate while her laptop displayed a spreadsheet of data she’d been logging since morning. Her eyes burned from the screen time and her hand was starting to cramp, but she was almost done.

A few feet away, Mingi was checking on the progress of the team, from person to person. He gave advice and guided each person as needed, answering what he could when they had questions. Eventually he made it to Areum.

“Your form’s solid,” Mingi said quietly, nodding toward her precise handling of the pipette. She glances over to him for a quick moment. He was so close it got her a little flustered. Clearing her throat she forced a small smile in response before bringing her attention back to what she was doing. 

He could feel her energy practically glooming over her. It only took a small glance at her face to see that she was not in her element today. 

As she lifted the pipette toward the next row, he noticed she hadn’t changed the tip. His hand came up slightly in a subtle stop.

“New tip,” he reminded her, voice low but firm.

Her hand froze midair. She blinked, realizing her mistake, and quickly swapped it out. “Right… thanks,” she murmured.

Mingi gave a small nod, but his eyes lingered on her for a beat longer. Her technique was fine, but not so much the look in her eyes.

“You been getting enough rest?”

Areum was about to reply before getting interrupted by the buzzing of her phone sitting in her jean pocket. She pulls the phone out and glances at the screen. Mingi notices her shoulders slumping down, concern in her expression.

Her fingers tightened slightly around the pipette before she set it down quickly, taking her gloves off.

“I need to take this,” she muttered, already stepping toward the hallway.

Mingi watched her go feeling the tension in the air.

After some time he realizes Areum still hasn't come back. He excuses himself from the team to go check on her, stepping out to the hall. 

There he sees her whisper yelling into the phone. 

“Stop ignoring my calls and pick up, Jongho! You cannot keep skipping out on your classes like this, for gods sake at least answer my text messages.” She hung up the phone with a groan followed by a heavy sigh. She leans back against the wall, brushing her bangs back. 

“Is everything okay?” Areum looks up, relaxing when she sees Mingi. 

“Yes…no? I don't know…”

“I’m all ears if you want to talk about it.” Mingi leaned against the wall beside her, leaving just enough space so she wouldn’t feel crowded.

Areum dropped her gaze to her shoes, chewing on her bottom lip. She hesitated before finally speaking. “My brother… he’s skipping classes again, and he won’t answer his phone.” She flicked her eyes to the screen in her hand, as if hoping a message might suddenly appear, though she already knew it wouldn’t.

“Do you need to leave early? I’ll let the manager know, he’ll understand.”

She shook her head and pushed herself off the wall. “No. No point in that. I’ll just talk to him when I get home.”

She started toward the lab again, and Mingi fell into step beside her. “You’re not worried?”

“Very worried,” she admitted, her voice low. “But this isn’t the first time. He always comes home eventually.”

Mingi didn’t press. He just nodded, his expression thoughtful. “Ah, a troublemaker, huh? Reminds me of myself when I was in high school.” He gazes into the distance dramatically as if he was reminiscing. 

Areum giggled softly, and the two of them slipped back into their work. Still, throughout the rest of the shift, Mingi’s eyes kept flicking toward her in quiet concern. 

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

01:18 A.M 

Areum stared at the time on her phone, fingers turning white from how tight she was gripping onto it, a thumb sitting between her lips as she bit down on her nail. She had one leg up on the sofa while the other was hanging off of it, bouncing uncontrollably.

Her eyelids were getting heavier and heavier by the minute. She had been fighting off sleep for the past three hours. She needed sleep, her body was begging for it. 

But how could she? Not with her heart racing, not when she didn’t know where her brother was. 

Despite her calling and leaving messages he never replied once.  

It's not like any of this was new with him. He almost never did call back. He came home late pretty often as well. But despite all this being the usual, Areum can't help but worry. She couldn't help her anxiety as she wondered where he could be, if he was safe, and if she would see him again when she woke up. 

Closing her eyes, she let out a long sigh, thinking about what she could say to him. 

As she was beginning to drift off to sleep, she was immediately woken up by the sound of the front door opening.

She jumped off the sofa and moved to the doorway, fists clenched at her sides.

Jongho frowned when he saw his sister waiting there. She didn’t say a word until he finished slipping off his shoes.

As soon as he stepped inside, she planted herself in front of him. He tried to sidestep, but she blocked his path.

“Move.”

“No. We need to talk.”

“I have nothing to talk about.” He shifted again, and again she blocked him.

“Well, I do.”

He rolled his eyes. “Fine. What?”

“Where have you been?”

He stayed silent.

Her voice wavered, softer now. “You know what? Fine. Don’t tell me. But the least you could do is text me… just let me know you’re okay. Let me know when you’re coming home.” The words caught in her throat, more a plea than a demand. 

“I don’t have to do anything. Now get out of the way.”

“Do you understand how anxious I get when I don’t know where you are? Or if you’re even safe?”

“I don’t care.”

Her hands trembled at her sides, but her voice only grew firmer. “I’ve been trying to go easy on you, Jongho, I've been trying not to push, trying not to pressure you. But that was a mistake on my part.” She drew in a shaky breath. “From now on, there are rules. You need to be home by ten p.m. even on the weekends. And if you’re going to be late, you tell me.”

“What are you—” Jongho started, but she cut him off.

“And from now on you reply to me. You don’t want to talk on the phone, fine. But you answer my texts. Every time.”

He stood frozen, bewilderment flickering in his eyes as he searched hers to see if she was being serious. His fists clenched, irritation building.

He didn’t want to be controlled. Who was she to tell him what to do? This was his life, his choice. What right did she have to dictate it?

“The fuck I am. You don’t tell me what I can and can’t do. Now get out of my damn way.” He shoved past her, and she stumbled back, the words cutting deeper than the push. He had never spoken to her like that before. Ever.

He stormed to his room, and she followed, refusing to give in.

The door slammed, the lock clicking into place.

“Choi Jongho!” she shouted, her fist hammering against the wood.

Her voice cracked, softer now despite the words. “I’m serious, Jongho. You only get a couple of chances. After that… after that, you start losing privileges, like your allowance and your computer.” She pressed her forehead to the door, her tone unsteady. 

There was no response. Just silence. 

She didn't realize she was holding her breath until it came out in a long sigh. Stepping away from his door, her shoulders drop. She makes her way to her room, climbs into her bed and hides under her covers curling into herself.

What the fuck am I supposed to do?

You never imagined that a single moment could unravel the careful, orderly life you had built in college.

Not the exams you crammed for, not the late nights in the library, not the lectures that blurred together in endless monotony.

Yet here you are, sitting on your dorm floor, a tiny plastic stick shaking in your hand, the faintest pink lines etched into its surface like a cruel signature.

Two lines.

Pregnant.

Your chest tightens. Your stomach twists.

You press your palm against your mouth to hold back the sobs, as though sound itself might shatter you completely. The world tilts in ways you can’t control.

You were careful. You always thought you were careful.

But life has a way of moving faster than caution, slipping between your fingers when you’re not paying attention.

And then there’s Jongho.

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

freshman year

You were sitting in Literature.

Pen poised over your notebook, trying to capture the rambling lecture about Romantic poetry. You had been struggling to focus all semester, your attention wandering to the girl in the row behind you—or, rather, to him.

Jongho.

He sat two rows behind, a quiet presence in the room, dark hair falling just above his eyes. His notebook was filled with neat margins, a careful record of every word the professor uttered. You noticed the way his pencil tapped lightly on the page, a rhythm that didn’t match the lecture but seemed entirely natural to him.

When your pen slipped from your grasp, rolling down the aisle, he was the one who bent to pick it up. His hand brushed yours lightly as he handed it back. A flicker of warmth shot through you—small, fleeting, but undeniable.

“Thanks,” you whispered.

He simply nodded, a faint curve of his lips betraying nothing.

But that was enough.

Weeks passed before he even looked at you, and when he did, it was like sunlight breaking through clouds you hadn’t realized had been hiding the world.

You began noticing the small things: how he hummed softly when no one was listening, the way he lingered at the edge of conversations, the gentleness in his movements.

You didn’t understand it then, but you were already falling.

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

Now, he sits across from you in Economics, his notes neat and precise, his jaw set in concentration.

You notice the way his sleeve fits tighter over his forearm, the faint tension in his shoulder as he reaches for his pen.

Small things. Details he doesn’t even notice himself.

You tug at your hoodie nervously.

It’s looser than usual, hiding the subtle curve of your stomach that wasn’t there weeks ago. Jongho glances up, and you catch him looking.

His brow furrows, just slightly, but he says nothing. He never says anything.

That’s Jongho. Careful. Reserved.

Silent in ways that leave you aching for words he can’t seem to give.

You press your hand to your stomach under the desk, a protective gesture you’ve started doing instinctively. The nausea hits again, a low wave of heat and queasiness that curls in your stomach.

You close your eyes, trying not to draw attention, trying not to let him see.

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

in the rain

It was raining when you kissed him for the first time.

A cold, persistent drizzle that blurred the edges of the campus, making the world seem smaller, more intimate. You were walking together under his umbrella—one of the cheap campus ones that barely covered both of you.

“You’ll get sick,” you said, tugging the hem of your jacket over your wrists.

“Then you’ll have to take care of me,” he replied softly, his voice low, almost shy.

You stopped walking. He blinked at you in confusion.

Rain clung to his dark hair, eyelashes heavy with droplets. You leaned in before you could second-guess yourself, pressing your lips to his.

His breath caught. Then, hesitantly, he kissed you back.

Clumsy. Awkward. Perfect.

That night, you lay awake thinking about the warmth of his hand in yours, the steady beat of his chest beneath your ear, the way his thumb had brushed over your knuckles.

You didn’t know it then, but that moment was the first thread tying your hearts together.

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

Jongho’s voice calls your name softly during a group discussion, pulling you out of your spiraling thoughts.

You respond mechanically, trying to smile, trying to be normal.

He watches you, eyes gentle but searching, and for a fleeting moment, you imagine confessing everything. The test, the nausea, the fear curling inside you like a living thing.

But the words stick. Again. Always.

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

that night

It happened in his apartment, a weekend when his roommates had gone home.

The room smelled faintly of laundry detergent and the coffee he’d brewed hours ago.

You were watching some movie neither of you really cared about, lying tangled together on the couch.

He hummed softly to himself, oblivious to the world, and you watched, heart swelling.

Then your faces met. One kiss led to another.

Hands fumbled, exploring, learning. You should have stopped. But something in the quiet intimacy—the safety, the warmth—made it impossible.

Afterwards, you lay in his arms, your head on his chest, listening to the slow rise and fall of his breathing. You thought about telling him you loved him. You wanted to. The words formed on your lips, trembled, and then dissolved.

Instead, you whispered about making ramen. He smiled, soft, small, and unsteady. “Extra egg?”

You laughed. And in that moment, you felt something fragile but complete, something you were terrified to name.

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

The morning sickness worsens.

You skip breakfast, pretending you’re late. You eat smaller portions for lunch, always careful to avoid smells that make your stomach twist. Clothes that used to fit loosely cling too tightly now, subtle curves betraying the secret you hide.

Jongho notices.

He leaves subtle notes in your bag: “Are you feeling okay?” “Do you want me to bring water?” Small gestures, quiet, consistent.

His love language, unspoken, showing through the tiniest acts.

You ache to tell him. To trust him.

But fear holds your tongue hostage. You imagine the shock, the anger, the questions.

Imagine him leaving. Imagine him staying and never loving you the same.

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

the fight

It was quiet at first, almost innocuous, until it erupted in the kitchen one night.

“You never tell me how you feel, Jongho. You just shut down,” you said, voice trembling.

He stared at the counter. “I don’t know how to say things right.”

“That’s not an excuse.”

His jaw tightened. “I’m trying.”

You wanted to believe him. You did.

But you felt like you were slipping through his fingers, like he didn’t realize how fragile you were, how fragile everything between you had become.

You left that night with your chest burning, his silence trailing behind like smoke.

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

It happens on a cold evening, the wind cutting through the campus streets.

You’ve been hiding longer than you should have. Your hoodie doesn’t conceal your stomach anymore. You’re pale, trembling, exhausted from another week of nausea and fatigue.

He sees it the moment you walk out of your dorm. His eyes widen, disbelief and panic flaring.

“Wait—what…?” His voice is low, tentative.

You press your hands to your stomach, trying to shrink into yourself. “I… I didn’t want to tell you yet.”

“You’re pregnant?” The word leaves his mouth like it’s breaking him.

You nod.

Silence falls, heavier than anything you’ve ever experienced. You watch him struggle to process, to breathe, to speak.

He reaches for your hand, but you flinch.

“I… I didn’t know,” he whispers. “I… I should have—how long—why didn’t you—?”

You shake your head. “I was scared. I didn’t know how. I didn’t want to lose you.”

His hands fall to his sides. He steps back, and the space between you stretches wider than the campus lawn, colder than winter. His lips part, but no words come.

For the first time, you see the depth of his fear, his quiet agony, the helplessness of someone who loves quietly and now finds everything gone.

“I… I can’t…” he finally says, voice cracking. “I can’t do this. I’m so sorry.”

You feel your heart splinter.

The boy who had been your anchor, your warmth, your secret world, is stepping away. And there is nothing you can do to stop it.

You nod, tears streaking your cheeks. “I understand.”

He turns away, shoulders trembling, walking off into the night. The campus lights blur around him, distant and unreachable.

You are left alone, the weight of your choices, your body, and your shattered love pressing down on you.

The world continues moving. Classes, friends, exams.

But nothing matters anymore.

You lost him—not to another, not to betrayal, but to the silence and fear that grew between you both, unspoken, unavoidable.

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

────────

five years moving forward

The auditorium buzzes with laughter, the hum of chatter, the clinking of glasses.

You slip through the crowd, clutching your drink, pretending you belong. But your thoughts are elsewhere. You’re counting the years, remembering the nights you cried alone, the weight of a secret you told him long ago but that never left your chest.

And then you see him.

Jongho.

He’s changed, just enough to make your chest ache—taller, broader, the quiet confidence that comes with five years, but those same deep brown eyes, the way they take everything in, gentle, cautious, searching.

He spots you at the same moment. Recognition flickers, and then a smile, faint, wary, weighed with memory.

“Y/N,” he says, voice low, careful. “It’s… been a while.”

“Jongho,” you reply, forcing a lightness that doesn’t exist. “Yeah… a long while.”

The awkwardness hits instantly. Neither of you knows where to start.

The reunion continues around you, oblivious to the tension you carry, but it presses down like a physical weight.

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

─────────

You follow him to a quieter corner.

The conversation starts innocuously—work, mutual friends, the usual polite questions—but both of you know the real topic. The elephant in the room is not your careers or achievements.

Finally, he exhales. “Y/N… I’ve been meaning to ask… how is the child?”

Your throat closes.

You’ve spent five years imagining this moment, dreading it, fearing it, and now it’s here. You blink rapidly, forcing a small, controlled smile. “They’re… healthy. Smart. Curious, like you said they would be.”

His eyes soften, a mixture of relief and something heavier—regret, longing, sorrow. “I think about them sometimes,” he admits. “Wonder what… life would’ve been like if things were different.”

You nod, hiding the ache in your chest. “I do too.”

There’s a pause, heavy with memory.

You remember the night you told him—the fear in your voice, the way he reacted, the way he moved a few steps away from you after he knew, the way he didn’t look back. You see that same quiet pain in him now, the love restrained behind years of life, responsibilities, and unspoken grief.

He shifts slightly, looking at you like he wants to reach across time and space and take it all back. “I… I should have been there,” he whispers. “I should’ve done more. But I didn’t know how to… I didn’t want to lose you entirely.”

Your chest tightens.

You remember the nights he didn’t leave, didn’t abandon you, even when the world seemed impossible. You remember his small gestures: holding your bag, leaving notes, his quiet presence that was love, even when unspoken.

“I… I understand,” you manage, voice trembling. “I needed to do it alone. You wanted to be free, to… live your life without me dragging you down.”

He shakes his head, a small, pained smile. “No. You were never a burden. Never. I… I loved you. And I still do. Maybe that’s the problem—it never really went away.”

Your eyes sting. You force a laugh that feels hollow. “We’ve… both moved on, Jongho.”

“Yes,” he agrees softly. “I have. But that doesn’t… it doesn’t erase the past. Doesn’t erase you. Or… them.”

You glance down, your fingers tightening around the rim of your glass. Pretending is exhausting. Five years of pretending, five years of hiding the truth inside yourself.

You swallow. “They’re… happy. We’re… surviving.”

He nods, watching you carefully.

His hand brushes yours for a moment—not intrusive, but grounding, comforting.

You flinch. Not because you don’t want it, but because it reminds you of everything you lost, everything you gave up.

The reunion carries on around you—friends laughing, cameras clicking—but the two of you are suspended in a bubble of grief, memory, and longing. You look at him, see the love that never left, the pain that never healed, and feel the sharp ache of your own heart.

Finally, he steps back, giving you space, voice low and gentle. “I’m… proud of you,” he whispers. “For surviving. For keeping them safe. For being… you.”

Tears prick your eyes. “Thank you.”

He glances at his phone—your mind follows—and you see the wallpaper of his current family again. It stabs like a knife. They’re happy. He’s happy. And you? You’re carrying the weight of the past, pretending everything is fine while your heart is quietly breaking.

“I… I should go check on the others,” he says finally, stepping away. His eyes linger on you for a long moment, heavy with memory, regret, and unspoken love. Then he’s gone, swallowed by the crowd, leaving you standing alone in the noisy, oblivious reunion hall.

You close your eyes, sip your drink, and feel the quiet tragedy of a life, a love, and a child that was never fully yours.

Pretending to be fine is all you have left.

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

────────

Love does not always end in shouts or fury.

Sometimes it dies quietly, painfully, in the spaces left by words never said, truths hidden too long, and the gentle departure of the person you thought would never leave you.

And this. This is your ending.

───────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

────────

Jongho felt conflicted as he helped you back to your dorm. He waited quietly while you packed a few things for the next couple of days, having gently offered for you to stay at his place. You weren’t sure why you said yes—but once you stepped into his apartment, a wave of comfort washed over you. You were glad you did.

“I have a spare room,” he said softly, closing the door behind you. “You can stay there until you’re ready. Let me grab you a towel.”

You murmured a quiet “thank you,” following his directions to the shower. When the water finally turned on, Jongho paused—his heart sinking as he heard the faint sound of your crying through the running water. And in that moment, he hated how helpless he felt, unable to do more than stand outside the door and ache for your pain.

When his phone began to buzz, Jongho didn’t hesitate. The moment Wooyoung’s name lit up the screen, he hit decline and set his phone to silent. He was angry—angrier than he wanted to admit. How could his own friend, someone he considered a brother, do this? Everyone knew about your feelings for Wooyoung. They all thought it was sweet—even Jongho did, even if it stung every time.

He was in the kitchen, making coffee, trying to distract himself when he heard the shower shut off. The sound broke through his spiraling thoughts.

Would it be selfish of him to want you now?

His fingers paused over the coffee pot, a frown tugging at the corners of his mouth. It was too soon. You were hurting. He didn’t want to be another reason for you to break.

“Jjongie?”

His head snapped toward your voice. You stood there, wrapped in one of his oversized shirts—drowning in the fabric, your hair damp, your eyes softer than they had been earlier. The sight stole the air from his lungs.

He swallowed hard, eyes darting away from yours as heat rushed to his cheeks. His heart pounded.

“Hey,” he managed, voice rougher than he intended. “Coffee?”

He swore he could hear his heart stutter when he saw it—that tiny spark of light in your eyes, the way your lips curved ever so slightly at the mention of something as simple as coffee. It was so small, so delicate, but after the day you’d had, it felt like a sunrise breaking through a storm.

Without a word, he offered you his own mug, warm between his hands. You took it gently, your fingers brushing his, and let out a soft, content sigh after the first sip. And that was it.

Jongho knew—he was a goner.

You laid on the spare bed, Jongho’s hoodie draped over you like armor against the storm still raging in your chest. The final “block” button hovered beneath your thumb—silent, glowing, taunting.

Wooyoung’s messages kept coming. A new one. Another. And another. Each ping felt heavier than the last.

Jongho was long asleep down the hall, his apartment filled with the kind of stillness you used to crave. But tonight, silence only made your thoughts louder.

Tomorrow could be just another day.

Or it could be the absolute worst.

And that terrified you.

It felt like high school all over again—the ache of invisibility, the way Wooyoung soaked up all the light in a room, and you, always somewhere in the shadowed background, pretending it didn’t sting.

But now?

Now it bled.

You exhaled shakily, heart thudding as your thumb finally pressed the block button. Just like that, the thread disappeared—his words, his excuses, all of it—gone.

You stared at the empty screen for a beat longer, your chest tight but your mind finally quiet.

With trembling fingers, you deleted the message thread.

And then, for the first time that night, you let yourself breathe.

You turned over, pulling Jongho’s hoodie closer to your face, the scent of coffee and comfort wrapping around you.

Sleep didn’t come easy. But eventually, it came.

And this time, it came without him.

-

Wooyoung hated to admit it, but he was worried about you.

You had never gone this long without talking to him—at most, a few hours before you'd come around, usually offering an apology even when it wasn’t your fault. It was a pattern. One he had grown used to. One he’d come to rely on.

And selfishly, he would never admit the truth—that maybe he only kept you around to boost his ego. Even if, once upon a time, you’d been his closest friend.

But now? Now there was only silence.

When he returned to campus, it felt like all eyes were on him. The whispers. The glances. The muffled conversations that stopped the moment he walked past.

Is this what you felt like? he thought bitterly. Surely not… right?

He tried to shake it off as he stepped into his lecture hall, but the weight on his chest only grew heavier.

“Wooyoungie!” Mira’s voice cut through the room as she rushed toward his seat, all brightness and sugar.

“Hi, Mira,” he mumbled, not bothering to fake enthusiasm. Not today.

Not when all he could think about was how quiet his world felt without you in it.

She scooted her chair closer to him, the overpowering scent of her perfume hitting him like a wave. Wooyoung winced subtly—had it always been this strong?

“So glad you finally rejected Yn,” she giggled, completely unbothered. “That loser, my god. To think she actually had a chance with you?”

His head snapped toward her, confusion and shock written all over his face. “How do you know about that?”

Mira rolled her eyes, leaning back like it was obvious. “Oh, please. You think I was just going to leave you alone with her? In the rain? It was like a K-drama scene. I had to make sure she got the hint.”

His mouth parted, but no words came. His brain stalled—reeling from the way she said it, like it was funny. Like you were just a plot device.

And then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw you.

His stomach dropped.

You weren’t in your usual seat next to him. Instead, you sat between Jongho and Yeosang at the far side of the lecture hall. You didn’t even glance his way. Jongho was leaned in, saying something that made you smile faintly, and Yeosang handed you a pen you hadn’t asked for.

Wooyoung’s brows furrowed.

He had never felt distance like this from you before—not even in silence.

And for the first time, it wasn’t just your absence that gutted him.

It was the fact that you didn’t even look like you missed him.

Since when did you hang out with Jongho?

Since when did you even bother to sit next to him?

Wooyoung's eyes narrowed. He was the star player. The one people talked about in the halls, posted about on campus pages. Not Jongho—and definitely not that nerd Yeosang, the guy always walking around with a camera, hiding behind his lenses.

It didn’t make sense.

You were supposed to sit next to him. You always had.

He shifted in his seat, muscles twitching with the impulse to stand. To march over, pull you aside, say something—anything—to bring you back to your usual place. His place.

But as he started to rise, Mira’s perfectly manicured hand gripped his arm, yanking him back down.

“What are you doing?” she snapped, her voice all sugar and thorns.

He tugged his arm away, jaw clenched. “Going to talk to Yn?”

Mira blinked at him, stunned. “And what, exactly? What could you possibly say now?”

“What do you mean and what? She’s my best friend.” The lie burned on his tongue, but he said it anyway.

Mira scoffed, rolling her eyes so hard it was a wonder they didn’t stick. “Right. Sure. Best friend,” she muttered under her breath.

But Wooyoung wasn’t listening anymore. His eyes were locked on you again.

You were laughing softly at something Jongho said. Yeosang nudged your shoulder playfully. You didn’t even glance in his direction.

Just as he stood again, determined to cross the room despite everything, the professor walked in.

He dropped back into his seat with a groan, running a hand through his hair.

Frustration bubbled in his chest like poison.

He was losing you—and he had no one to blame but himself.

“What did you ever see in that guy anyway?” Yeosang asked, the click of his camera shutter filling the silence as he snapped photos of the team mid-practice.

You stayed quiet for a beat, watching as Jongho easily caught a ball thrown too hard by one of the underclassmen. The sun was starting to dip lower, casting long shadows across the field.

You shrugged. “We’ve known each other for a long time. He just… felt right, I guess. Familiar.”

Yeosang didn’t respond right away, only lowering his camera slightly, eyes watching you instead of the field now.

“And what about Jongho?”

You turned to him, blinking. “What about him?”

That familiar smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, mischievous and knowing. “Oh, you can’t tell?”

“Tell what?”

He laughed under his breath, shaking his head as he raised the camera again. “Then maybe it’s not my place to say.”

You stared at him for a moment, confused and more than a little suspicious.

But before you could press him for more, he was already focused back on the players, snapping another photo of Jongho mid-pitch.

And for some reason, your eyes lingered on Jongho just a little longer than before. You looked to see Yeosang beginning to pack up, confusion striking your face once again.

" where you going?" you asked.

" practice is almost over so it's my cue to leave before some of them try to beg me for some photos of them," yeosang said, adjusting his camera strap.

" coming?"

You shook your head, " i'm going to wait for jongho."

Yeosang paused, a knowing glint in his eyes as he looked at you—really looked at you this time.

“Of course you are,” he said, lips twitching into a smirk again before he turned to leave, throwing a lazy wave over his shoulder. “Tell him I said he owes me a new memory card.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn't help the faint smile that tugged at your lips. As he disappeared down the hill, your gaze naturally shifted back to the field—back to Jongho.

He was laughing with a few teammates, sweat glistening on his skin under the soft orange haze of the sunset. Something in your chest tugged, quiet but persistent.

Your eyes drifted, unintentionally, to the far end of the field where Wooyoung stood with San. The two of them were laughing, San’s finger pointed exaggeratedly at someone—maybe another teammate who fumbled a throw, maybe a shared inside joke you were no longer part of.

Wooyoung’s head tipped back as he laughed, carefree in a way that made your stomach twist. For a moment, you felt that old familiar ache, like a bruise being pressed.

How many times had you stood beside him like that? Shared glances, shared laughter, convinced yourself it meant something?

You tore your gaze away, back to Jongho.

Because while Wooyoung’s laugh still echoed with a pang of what could’ve been, Jongho was the one who noticed when your world cracked. Jongho was the one who didn’t look away. The one who didn’t leave you crying in the rain.

And when practice ended and Jongho jogged toward you, his face lighting up just from seeing you waiting—something settled in your chest.

Maybe this time, it wasn’t about being seen by the world. Maybe it was about being understood by one person.

" hey, did you wait long?" Jongho asked, already reaching for your laptop bag.

You stared in shocked as he placed it with his practice bag, a soft smile on his face. You blinked, momentarily stunned by the quiet affection in his gesture. No theatrics. No expectations. Just… Jongho being Jongho.

“Not long,” you replied softly, still watching him. “You didn’t have to carry that, you know.”

He glanced at you with a small shrug, brushing sweat-damp hair from his forehead. “I wanted to.”

And that simple sentence sat with you more heavily than it should’ve. You’d spent so long chasing someone who never looked back, who only saw you when it benefitted him. But Jongho—he didn’t need a reason to care. He just did.

You walked side by side, the sun dipping low behind the buildings, casting gold between you both.

His smile faltered just slightly, but he didn’t push.

Instead, he said softly, “I’m not Wooyoung.”

That silence settled again, heavier this time, until you nodded slowly.

“I know,” you whispered. “That’s… why I feel safe around you.”

Jongho didn’t say anything for a moment. He just looked at you with those steady, grounding eyes of his—like he was trying to make sure you knew he’d stay as long as you needed him to.

“Then let’s get that drink,” he said finally, the corners of his lips lifting again. “Even if I don’t think I deserve it yet.”

You blinked up at him, taken aback. “Why not?”

He glanced ahead, shrugging lightly. “Because I think I want more than just being the guy who carries your bag.”

Your breath caught in your throat, but he didn’t look back. Jongho simply walked a step ahead—silent, steady—leaving you the choice to follow or not.

From across the courtyard, Wooyoung’s glare burned into the scene, his jaw clenched tight. He hadn’t meant to move, but his feet had already carried him forward—steps drawn not to you, but after Jongho.

And that realization hit him harder than he expected.

He stopped dead in his tracks, cursing under his breath.

What the hell was he even doing?

Why did it twist in his chest to see you smile at Jongho like that—the way you used to smile at him?

He dragged a hand down his face, guilt and anger churning into something bitter that stuck in his throat. He shouldn't feel this bad. He should be relieved. He made his choice, didn’t he?

So why did everything suddenly feel so hollow without you beside him?

It had been a month since you last spoke to Wooyoung, and you had never felt more at peace. At first, you worried the silence would hurt—but instead, it healed.

Jongho had been a huge help. At first, you felt guilty for using him as a distraction, but the more time you spent with him, the more that guilt faded. It wasn’t just comfort he gave you—it was consistency, quiet understanding, and patience. He didn’t try to fix you. He just stayed.

And somehow, that was enough to start stitching your heart back together.

There you were, standing at the edge of the bleachers, cheering with all your heart as Jongho’s bat cracked against the ball, sending it soaring out of the field. The crowd erupted, but your voice rose just a little louder, your smile a little brighter.

You were jumping up and down, arms in the air—radiant in a way you hadn’t been in a long time.

And just a few rows down, Wooyoung saw it all. The way you laughed. The way you lit up just for someone else.

The bitter twist in his chest returned, deeper now. You hadn’t even looked his way.

He was no longer the reason for your happiness. And worse—his spotlight was being taken… by his own teammate.

Wooyoung clenched his jaw as his other teammates leapt up, whooping and high-fiving each other in celebration. Even San was grinning, nudging one of the younger players as they pointed toward Jongho rounding third.

He couldn’t even be frustrated. Jongho had pulled them back into the game, leveling the score and reigniting hope for a win.

But that didn’t stop the slow, simmering ache in his chest. He wasn’t the one you were cheering for anymore. And when he looked again, you were already seated—Yeosang now beside you, leaning in to say something that made you laugh.

That laugh used to be his.

When the final whistle blew and the game ended, the team jogged off the field in a mix of sweat and adrenaline. Wooyoung slowed his steps when he caught sight of you by the gate. It was unfamiliar. You never used to wait—because he always told you not to.

But here you were, grinning ear to ear, practically bouncing on your toes. And it wasn’t for him.

Your eyes lit up the second Jongho appeared, and Wooyoung could see the way your whole face changed—bright, open, full of pride. He could see it even from across the field. The way your heart beat faster. The way Jongho’s eyes searched the crowd until they landed on you.

And when he did, he smiled like you were the only one that mattered.

“You were amazing out there!” you beamed, pulling back from the hug, breathless with excitement.

Jongho grinned, cheeks flushed—and he’d blame it on the heat of the game, not the fact that you were holding onto him like that.

“Thank you,” he said, eyes soft. “I could hear you, y’know. You should sit closer next game.”

Your eyes widened slightly. “Are you sure? You won’t be… embarrassed?”

Jongho chuckled, reaching out to ruffle your hair with a smug tilt of his head.

“Embarrassed?” he repeated, eyes twinkling. “Why would I be embarrassed when you’re cheering for me?”

You whined, batting his hand away, but you couldn’t stop the way your face heated up. He laughed again—warm, genuine, easy—and it made something flutter in your chest.

"Better yet, I actually have something for you to wear next game," he said, his voice light but eyes hopeful.

"You do?" you asked, curiosity tugging at your features.

He nodded, shouldering his practice bag, sweat still clinging to his skin. "Yeah. Meet me back at my apartment? Give me an hour?"

Your brows lifted, but you couldn’t help the smile forming on your lips. “Is this some weird hazing thing?”

He smirked. “Not unless you think wearing my jersey is hazing.”

Your breath hitched, caught off guard by the ease in his words—and how casually he said my jersey.

“You’re serious?”

“Completely.” He gave you a gentle nudge with his elbow. “But if you don’t show, I’ll just assume you hate me.”

You laughed, brushing your fingers through your hair to hide how flustered you suddenly felt. “Fine. One hour.”

He gave you a wink before jogging off to join the rest of the team—leaving you behind with a racing heart and cheeks that refused to cool down.

And from across the field, Wooyoung stood motionless in the shadow of the dugout, watching it all. He hadn’t moved since the game ended, not even as the crowd thinned out. Not even as your laughter drifted on the wind like it used to when you called out his name.

His fists clenched at his sides, nails digging into his palms. Because Jongho didn’t just win the game today. He was winning you.

You were standing outside of Jongho’s apartment complex, your heart pounding just a little too hard beneath the cute outfit you’d picked out. You’d even put on a touch of makeup—just enough to make yourself feel a bit more like someone worth noticing. The late afternoon air was warm, buzzing with the remnants of sunlight as you stared up at his building, trying to breathe normally.

His jersey.

The words echoed in your mind like a quiet confession, soft and hopeful. He hadn’t said much, but the way he looked at you when he asked—it felt like it meant something.

You tried to calm yourself, shaking your head with a faint scoff. You used to wear Wooyoung’s all the time, you reminded yourself. And that never meant anything. Not really.

But this time, it felt different. You weren’t doing this to be seen by the crowd. You weren’t trying to prove your place in someone else’s spotlight. You were here because Jongho asked you to be. And he saw you even when no one else did.

Maybe—just maybe—this time, it wouldn’t end with you being forgotten.

You checked your phone. One hour exactly.

"Yn."

The sound of your name made your heart lurch. You turned, pulse stumbling—only to find Wooyoung standing there, just a few feet away. His hair was damp with sweat, shirt slightly wrinkled like he'd rushed to get here. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes—those damn eyes—held too many things all at once.

Your breath caught in your throat as you instinctively took a step back.

Wooyoung noticed. His jaw clenched, the muscle ticking as his fingers curled into fists at his sides. The silence between you was thick, like the pause before a storm.

"Wooyoung," you said, your voice tight, guarded.

He exhaled sharply, almost like he’d been holding his breath the whole time. “So you’re really here for him.”

You said nothing at first, your spine stiffening at the accusation laced in his voice. He wasn’t yelling—but the tension in his tone was louder than any scream.

“What are you even doing here?” you finally asked, quieter than you intended.

He gave a dry laugh. “I could ask you the same.”

Your fingers twitched at your sides. “You lost the right to ask anything the moment you made me feel like I was nothing.”

His eyes flinched at that. Just slightly. But it was enough.

“I didn’t mean—” he started.

“You never meant anything, Wooyoung. That’s the problem.”

Another silence.

Then, softer, more unsure this time, he asked, “Are you really done with me?”

You looked him straight in the eyes, steady and unblinking—even if your heart was trembling. Nodding your head, your fingers fidgeting at your sides.

“…Yes.”

Wooyoung let out a dry scoff, rolling his eyes as he pushed a hand through his hair in frustration. “I don’t believe you,” he said, voice low, sharp.

You took a breath, chest rising, the ache behind your ribs threatening to spill over—but you didn’t let it.

“Believe what you want then,” you huffed, blinking back the sting in your eyes. “It doesn’t change the truth.”

Wooyoung stepped forward slightly, but you didn’t move this time.

“Is this really what you want?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper.

You took a step back instinctively—but the cold concrete wall met you first. Before you could react, Wooyoung’s hand pressed beside your head, caging you in, and he leaned in—his face inches from yours, breath warm, lips hovering like a question he didn’t know how to ask.

“Him?” he asked, softer now, like the word was breaking him.

Your breath hitched. You stared up at him, wide-eyed, the closeness stealing your words.

“Is it really him you want wearing your smile?” His eyes searched yours, desperate, almost pleading. “Not me?”

You swallowed hard, heart hammering in your chest. “You don’t get to ask that now.”

His eyes flickered, something in him cracking.

“Then why haven’t you pulled away?” he whispered.

You opened your mouth to retort—but before a single word could leave, his lips crashed onto yours. Your eyes widened in shock, hands instinctively pressing hard against his chest as you shoved him off.

“Wooyoung—what the hell?!” you gasped, wiping your mouth in disbelief.

But before anything else could be said, the soft creak of a door cut through the thick tension. You turned quickly, heart sinking.

Jongho stood at the entrance of his apartment complex, frozen in place.

His expression was unreadable at first—then it twisted. Betrayal, fury, confusion—all flashing in his eyes. You opened your mouth, trying to explain, but he wasn’t looking at you. His gaze was locked on Wooyoung, who now stood behind you with a smug, satisfied smirk curling on his lips.

That smirk broke something in Jongho.

“You son of a bitch,” Jongho snarled, his voice sharp, venom-laced.

He stepped forward, fists clenched, body trembling—not out of fear, but from the restraint it was taking not to deck Wooyoung right then and there.

“What? You knew she likes me. Are we surprised she just toyed with you?” Wooyoung snapped, his words sharp, deliberate—meant to cut deep.

You turned to him, eyes wide, heart sinking. “Wooyoung,” you breathed, shocked. “Jongho, you know that’s not—”

“Shut the fuck up, Wooyoung,” Jongho cut in, voice low and furious, stepping between you. One hand reached behind to push you gently back, shielding you without even thinking.

His eyes never left Wooyoung’s.

“What, Jongho? Can’t admit it?” Wooyoung bit out, the venom in his voice barely hiding the hurt beneath. “That she strung you along after I rejected her—which, I did, by the way. Just to see how she’d do without me.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

Wooyoung didn’t know why the words were leaving his lips, each one sharper than the last, but they burned on the way out—like poison he’d swallowed himself. And he knew. He knew he should’ve stopped when he saw your face fall, when your tears spilled faster, when you stepped further behind Jongho like you needed to physically get away from him.

But the damage was done.

Jongho turned his head slightly to glance at you—just to make sure you were okay—but when he looked back at Wooyoung, his expression was dark, unreadable.

Jongho didn’t even hesitate. The moment the words left Wooyoung’s mouth—

“How can I burn her when she was nothing to begin with?”

pang.

Jongho’s fist connected with Wooyoung’s jaw, the crack sharp and echoing off the walls. Wooyoung stumbled back, catching himself against the wall as a groan of pain escaped his lips. He blinked hard, more stunned by his own words than the punch.

He hadn’t meant it. Not like that. Not really. But it was too late.

You didn’t spare him a glance.

You were already at Jongho’s side, your hands gently wrapping around his closed fist, your touch soft even in the tense silence that followed. Jongho’s chest was rising and falling rapidly, his eyes still locked on Wooyoung, jaw clenched, but the moment your fingers laced over his, he finally exhaled.

“Hey,” you whispered, voice trembling, “you didn’t have to do that.”

“I did,” Jongho replied simply, eyes flicking down to you for a moment—softening only when they met yours. “Because I won’t let him talk about you like that. Not now. Not ever.”

Wooyoung wiped the blood from the corner of his lip, his head still spinning—not from the punch, but from the hollow silence that came after. From the way Jongho held you. From the way you leaned into him.

He’d crossed a line. A thousand lines.

And now he was standing on the other side of them—alone.

You had put the ice bag on his fist as you sat beside him on his couch, wincing slightly as he took it. You smiled at him, placing a kiss to his cheek as he blushed.

" this wasn't how exactly i had it planned," he mumbled.

" you planned something for us?"

he nodded his head, “Yeah,” he muttered, a little sheepish, his gaze dropping to the ice bag in his hand. “I had this whole dumb, cute thing in mind. Was going to take you to dinner, go on a nice walk and then give you my jersey”

Your heart thudded softly in your chest, the simplicity of it all somehow more romantic than anything extravagant.

You leaned your head gently on his shoulder, smiling against the fabric of his shirt. “That doesn’t sound dumb to me at all.”

He let out a quiet chuckle, his body relaxing next to yours. “Yeah? Was worried it’d be too much.”

You lifted your head just enough to meet his eyes, sincerity shining through yours. “After everything I’ve been through… I think I needed something soft. Something real.”

Jongho didn’t speak right away, just looked at you with an expression so full of quiet affection it nearly knocked the breath out of you. Then he shifted, his pinky brushing yours on the couch cushion between you.

“So… walk and dinner still on the table?” he asked.

You nodded your head, " well, i did wear something cute"

Jongho smiled, his gaze flicking down for just a second before quickly returning to your eyes. “You did,” he said softly. “You look... really beautiful.”

The way he said it—gentle, without expectation—made your stomach flip in the best way. You could feel the heat creeping up your neck again.

"Then it’d be a shame to waste it, wouldn’t it?" you teased lightly, nudging his shoulder.

He laughed under his breath and stood up, extending a hand toward you. “Then let’s not waste it.”

You took his hand without hesitation, your fingers fitting perfectly in his. Maybe tonight wouldn’t go exactly as planned, but as his thumb brushed over yours and he led you to the door, you realized you wouldn’t change a thing.

You rolled your eyes playfully at the memory, bumping your shoulder into his as you walked. “You were relentless tonight.”

Jongho grinned, unbothered. “And yet, here you are, still holding my hand.”

You squeezed his fingers. “Shut up.”

His chuckle was soft, warm in the night air. The walk was quiet for a moment, the kind of peaceful silence that only came with someone who made you feel safe. When you reached your building, you paused at the front steps, not wanting the night to end.

“Thanks for tonight,” you said quietly, looking up at him beneath the glow of the porch light. “I really needed it.”

“I know,” Jongho replied. “And I’ll keep showing up… if you let me.”

Your breath caught just slightly at that—because he meant it. No games. No half-truths. Just Jongho, standing in front of you with open hands and honest eyes.

“I want you to,” you whispered, heart racing.

And he leaned in—slowly, giving you every chance to pull away. But you didn’t.

" can i... can i kiss you?" he asked softly, fear was clear in his voice.

Your heart thudded at the question—so gentle, so full of hesitation despite everything he'd just done to protect you.

You nodded slowly, your voice barely above a breath. “Yeah… you can.”

Jongho’s eyes searched yours one last time, just to be sure, before he leaned in. His lips met yours softly, nothing rushed or desperate—just the kind of kiss that felt like a promise. Like home. Like something real, something steady.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, both of you smiling like idiots.

“You taste like mint,” you murmured.

He chuckled, brushing his thumb along your jaw. “You taste like everything I’ve been waiting for.”

You laughed softly at his cheesy line, but it didn’t stop the way your chest fluttered or how your fingers curled around his hoodie to keep him close.

“God,” you whispered, still catching your breath, “when did you get so smooth?”

Jongho gave you a shy grin, eyes crinkling. “Probably around the time I realized I wanted to be the one to make you smile again.”

You looked up at him, eyes soft, the glow of the streetlights haloing him like something out of a dream. “You already do, Jongho.”

He brought your hand to his lips and kissed your knuckles, like something straight out of an old movie. “Then I’ll keep doing it. For as long as you’ll let me.”

You didn’t answer right away, just leaned your head on his shoulder as you both stood there in the quiet night, the campus around you slowing down, fading into the background.

And for the first time in what felt like ages, your heart didn’t ache.

It bloomed.

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Jongho froze and stared at him in shock like he hadn't even considered it. "I- I know it's a sensitive subject for you but... y/n never really hurt Eunji, right?" "But she doesn't love Eunji-" "She said she didn't, yet in her worst moment, she hurt herself instead of Eunji. And even if that was true then and potentially now, you did take Eunji away. It's like y/n was the surrogate for her own daughter. At this point why would she love Eunji?"

Jongho knew better. Of course you loved Eunji. It was clear, even in your post-partum state, that you loved her so much... it just manifested differently, he supposed.

Jongho knew that he shouldn't indulge himself in you. After what had happened, he tried not to look back in fear of regrets. He told himself that you were firmly in his past..., but he couldn't help it.

Every performance you did for your new album, he watched your expression as you sang about love and loss. A smile never once crossed your face, and he didn't know if you intentionally let out tears at the end of your performances.

Even in your Behind the Scenes videos, your presence wasn't look. It was more candid background shots of your rehearsals, but never just you. Once in a while you talked to the camera, but he tried to imagine why your content was so... empty. There was a light missing behind your eyes.

The album was an attempt for you to face your hardships, but you were still healing.

"Did it help?" your therapist asked you. You sniffed and wiped a tear from your eye. "It was cathartic," you admitted, "But I don't know if I feel satisfied. I thought..."

You bit your lip, humiliation filling your body. "What did you think?" Your therapist asked.

"I thought maybe Jongho would call me," you whispered softly, "and at least ask me if I was alright."

"Why did you expect that?" she asked. You shrugged, "I didn't expect it... I was just... maybe I was hoping for it more than I thought I was."

Your lip quivered, "Maybe since I was stable to release an album, maybe I'd be stable enough to see my baby again."

Depsite her professionalism, your therapist couldn't help but look at you sadly. You didn't deserve to lose complete custody of your daughter when you were at your lowest.

From what you had told her, you had been in a perfect position to be supported out of that mental state. You just hadn't been. The problem was that you had been in such a good position that you didn't realize that you needed just a little more. And the lack of that little more caused you to hurt yourself.

Now your whole life had turned around. You were almost 100% a different person than you were 3 years ago.

"What would you do?" she asked, "If you could see Eunji again."

"I don't know," you said softly, "I think I'd just... hope to feel that love that I thought I couldn't feel when she was born."

You put your hand on your chest, "I don't know why I thought I didn't love her back then... because now, when I think of her, there's an ache in my chest because I don't know how she's doing. Is she sick, is she happy? I mean, of course she's going to be happy with Jongho, but..."

"You should stop putting your ex-husband on this pedestal," the therapist said, leaning back, deliberately not using his name, "This is not to instigate hatred towards him, but he took Eunji away from you. I think you feel like he cares about you more than he actually does. Would someone who loves you hurt you like this?"

"I think so," you said instantly before looking down in shame, "I think he just loved Eunji more than me, which he should. I think he became irrational trying to protect her..."

"I think you're a kind person for thinking that," your therapist said with a nod, "But I also think that assuming he is kind gives you more to mourn for than realizing that maybe he wasn't."

Jongho: Can we talk?

Jongho called you not long after your session.

"I was thinking... maybe you'd want to meet Eunji again?"

As much as you wanted to believe your therapist about Jongho not being kind, you knew your husband. Or rather, ex-husband. The issue had never been your relationship.

"Are you serious?" You asked. "Yeah, y/n... I haven't heard from you in three years, I-" You cut him off abruptly, "I want to see Eunji. Please, can I see her?"

It was a beautiful Tuesday afternoon in the spring when you met Eunji for the first time after two years.

It had ti be discreet, but Jongho wanted it to be a special occasion, so he picked a time and day when most people would be at work or school to meet in a park.

You brought gifts for her. Clothes that you thought she'd look cute in. You didn't know what she liked yet, if she was a tomboy or a girly girl or if she was old enough to care what her style was. You... didn't know much about children.

You probably looked crazy, tearing up in the children's section of the store, but you didn't care.

You were finally going to see your baby. Your Eunji.

Eunji was clutching Jongho's neck as he walked over to you underneath a cherry blossom tree.

"She's tired," Jongho explained, "She fell asleep on the drive here."

"Oh," you said, blushing, "I don't want to disturb her or anything."

"Nonsense. She's awake, she's just being moody," Jongho said, prying her arms away from his neck, "Look who's here, Eunji-ya. It's Amma."

Jongho put Eunji down and you crouched to be eye level with her. She fussed at Jongho for a moment before turning to look at you.

Her eyes were beautiful, just like Jongho's and her hair was thick like his, too. When you thought about it... you realized she barely looked like you at all. Once upon a time it would have warmed your heart to know that the child that you carried was an embodiment of the love you had for the man, but now it only brought you bitterness.

She would seldom look at herself and see you, now that you and Jongho were separated.

You pushed those negative thoughts aside as a wide smile broke out onto your face.

"Oh my," you said quietly, but loud enough for her to hear, "What a beautiful girl. Is that true? Aren't you beautiful?"

You wanted to garner some engagement, but like Jongho, even at two years old, her face was stoic. Not impolite, necessarily, not that it would have mattered for a two-year-old, but distant. It was as if she had no intention on getting to know you.

"A-ah," you sounded nervously, "It's me... Amma, Eunji. You probably don't remember."

You reached out to touch her arm, but the instant you made contact, she violently recoiled with a defiant, "Mm!"

Jongho almost panicked, though it wasn't obvious on his face as he nudged Eunji closer to you. "Eunji... it's Amma, look."

You reached out to take a hold of her so you could lift her up, but she let out a loud noise of protest, crying out as she reached for Jongho instead. Jongho picked her up, looking a bit pained as Eunji blatantly rejected you.

He should have known considering that you were technically a stranger to her, and Eunji didn't take kindly to strangers anyway. He didn't mention that to you... because he wanted to spare your feelings.

But telling you that earlier over the phone would have been better than enduring the pain on your face right now.

"She's- She's just shy," Jongho insisted, trying to hand a whining Eunji over to you, but the little girl was not having it.

You held your hands up in front of you, taking a step away as your heart broke further into pieces. "I don't want to bother her," You said softly.

"You're not, y/n," Jongho insisted again, "She'll warm up to you. This is only your first meeting."

"Isn't it so tragic that she has to warm up to her own mother?" you asked, clutching the fabric of your shirt above your heart, "Wouldn't it be better for her not to know me? I feel like I'll only disappoint her."

"Don't say that-" "I don't know if I'd have been a good mother or not," you continued anyway, "but I guess she wouldn't have had any other frame of reference if we'd still been together. I bet now she's seen movies and videos about what a mother should be... I don't think I'd ever be able to live up to that."

Jongho didn't know what to say other than, "She's only two, y/n."

"Yeah," you whispered, "And at this age, I think she should be surrounded by smiles and warmth and family...."

Jongho knew where this was going, and his heart twisted violently. "And I don't have that," you said with a frown, "Even if we worked out some kind of agreement where we could co-parent after she eventually warms up to me, what kind of environment would she have with me? I live alone, and I struggle... everyday... to wake up in the morning. I don't..."

"Y/n-" "I don't think that's the kind of life, even if only half the time, that she deserves."

Jongho's hand that wasn't holding Eunji tightened into a fist, "So what, you're abandoning her again?"

Your expression hardened and your defenses immediately went up as you realized the way that Jongho was looking at this situation.

"Again?" You asked darkly, "When did I abandon her the first time?"

"When-" "When you took her away from me?" You seethed, "When you saw me at my lowest and decided that instead of getting me help, abandoning me was the best course of action for Eunji? For our family?"

"You weren't that eager to come back to us," Jongho replied in a sinister tone, "You went off and profited off of what happened to you and never once contacted me-" "What was I supposed to say to you after you divorced me and stole my daughter without so much as a word to me!? You sent your mother to my house to hand me the divorce papers, you sent your brother to find me bleeding out in our home! You didn't want to face me, either, so what makes you think after what you put me through that I wanted to see you? After all the work I put in to be able to stand right now, let alone release music, which was my life's dream long before you, Jongho. So tell me what I was supposed to do in this perfect little plan you have in your head that I clearly derailed."

"Don't give up on us," Jongho said through gritted teeth, "Try. Again."

"You have a lot of nerve telling me what to do," You said hotly, "You didn't give me a choice when you decided that keeping Eunji away from me was the best choice for her, so let me make the choice now."

"Leaving her is never the correct option." "I can't leave her if she was never with me in the first place," You spoke, "Do you understand? This is what you did to our family."

"Stop it." "I know you don't like hearing it, Jongho!" You yelled, almost tauntingly, startling Eunji, "I know you don't like admitting that you were the one who ruined everything because you're so calm and perfect and rational, but you did! And I'm not going to let you blame me anymore. I am stepping away for Eunji's sake, and you can tell her about me or not, but if she's ever interested in her mom, she can always come to me. I just know that if she comes to me now, she'll be coming a dark and empty home after living with your beautiful family, and she will be disappointed, and I'll be damned if I let my precious baby be disappointed for any reason. So take care of her well, Jongho, like you have been, without me because that's what you wanted."

Eunji started to cry, but Jongho could only stare you down. He didn't agree with anything you said, but he was also never going to admit that he was wrong. His plan was flawless, foolproof, and you couldn't live up to it. The plan was the best course of action for himself and for Eunji. He was sure of it. There was no other way to be. He wouldn't let you derail those plans any more than you already had.

"Suit yourself," Jongho replied, devoid of any emotion, "I gave you a chance, y/n. Remember that you were the one who rejected her this time."

"Saying it like that doesn't erase everything that I've endured before this," you replied, handing him the bag of things you'd bought for her, "These things are for her. I got overzealous."

Jongho took it. "I won't forgive you if you end it like this."

You nodded, "It's a good thing that I care just as much as you did when you basically left me to die."

"Y/n-!" He said angrily, but you held your hand up, "Maybe it was like that and maybe it wasn't, but you didn't care enough to worry about me then, so don't think that you deserve any semblance of care more than that from me."

Jongho didn't say anything else as he gave you one last look before heading back to his car. Eunji was back to hugging his neck, but she didn't take her eyes off of you as Jongho walked away, your somber expression peaking her curiosity more than your initial interest in her.

She was still looking at you as Jongho put her in her car seat.

"Sad?" Eunji asked her father, confirming that the woman standing over there was indeed sad. "Yes, she's sad, Eunji," Jongho said.

"Why?" Eunji asked. "I don't know," Jongho lied, "Sometimes people are just sad."

"Hmmm," Eunji hummed, a frown on her face.

EX-ILOVE MEMBER Y/N SEEN WITH MYSTERIOUS MAN AT MUSIC BANK

EX-ILOVE MEMBER Y/N SEEN DANCING CLOSE WITH CELEBRITY A AT COACHELLA

EX-ILOVE MEMBER Y/N FLASHES ENGAGEMENT RING DURING INKIGAYO STAGE????

Jongho gripped his phone tightly in his hand every time he saw your name pop up in an article. He had no way of confirming their truth or not, since he wasn't in your life.

You'd never seemed to have a stable partner, even as the years went by, but you would always have some guy on your arm.

Perhaps you'd finally left him and Eunji behind, just like he thought you would.

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