#mark imagines

pairing: socialite!mark x reader 

genre: fluff, angst

length: 5k

description: with mark lee's black card in your back pocket and his soft, malleable heart in your hands, you're determined to teach him that love isn't some fairytale romance. It's cruel, unkind, and people like him never end up with people like you.

i’m back! the alternate POVs are only for this chapter, then we're y/n all the way...

Be confident.

That's what Mark thinks to himself, or tries to think, as his eyes follow her around the room. She has a very methodical way of working, he’s noticed. She always begins at the edge of the room, with the champagne flutes. Once those have been deposited onto the poseur tables by the east window, she works her way inwards.

Nothing ever seems to be too much for her. There are several empty glasses thrust at her, and she takes them away with a smile. A devastating, sincere smile.

It feels like the only real thing he’s seen all evening.

“As I was saying,” someone drones on. Mark thinks it might be Mr Choi. He flashes a polite smile to show he’s listening. “We’re so grateful you could come this evening. You and your friends really embody what it is to be...”

pairing — basketballer!mark lee! x sick!mc

genre — soft angst, healing romance, contemporary romance, slice of life

content warnings — chronic illness, heart disease, hospital setting, fainting, emotional distress, references to past surgeries, protective! male lead.

status — on-going

rating — pg-13

this fic contains heavy times of fragility, survival and quiet devotion. please take care while reading!💌

please listen to this while reading! ʜᴇᴀʀᴛʙᴇᴀᴛ ᴀɴᴅ ʜᴀʟꜰᴛɪᴍᴇ

Late Tea & New Fears

⸻

I. The Guest Room

Seola arrived on a quiet Thursday afternoon.

She didn’t knock.

She never had to.

“I brought peach tea and your favorite ugly cookies,” she announced, dropping her tote bag onto the sofa.

Yeseul grinned from the hallway, baby monitor clipped to her sweater.

“Ugly cookies?”

“The ones that look like soggy hearts but taste like heaven.”

“Then come in, saint.”

They met in the living room like nothing had changed — except everything had.

Seola’s hair was tied up in a messy twist, her cheeks slightly flushed from walking in the early summer heat.

She leaned in to peek into the monitor.

“He’s asleep?”

“Barely. He has his dad’s stubborn streak.”

“So… you’re raising two Marks now?”

“Worse,” Yeseul said. “One who needs milk every two hours and one who forgets where his car keys are every morning.”

They both laughed.

But then Seola’s smile softened — almost wistful.

“He looks just like you, Ye.”

“You really think so?”

“I do. Except the eyes. The eyes are all Mark. It’s unfair.”

⸻

II. On the Floor

Later, they sat cross-legged on the rug.

There was peach tea in cracked porcelain cups.

There were crushed cookies and half-unwrapped chocolate bars.

There was the kind of silence only best friends could keep — the sacred kind.

“I think I want one,” Seola said softly.

“A baby?”

“Yeah. Or… I don’t know. I want the feeling.”

Yeseul tilted her head.

“The feeling?”

“Like… when I see you now? You’re still Yeseul. But you’re also something more. Like a planet turned into a whole sky.”

Yeseul’s throat tightened.

“You always say things like you write poetry.”

“Maybe I do. Quietly.”

They smiled at each other.

Then Seola reached out, held her hand.

“Are you ever still scared?”

Yeseul didn’t answer right away.

She looked toward the hallway where her son was sleeping.

She felt the faint thump of her still-healing heart.

“All the time,” she said.

“Does it get easier?”

“No. But it gets… worth it.”

⸻

III. The Baby Wakes

As if on cue, a soft cry echoed through the monitor.

Seola stood first.

“Let me,” she said. “I want to hold him.”

Yeseul nodded. Watched her friend disappear down the hallway.

And for a moment — just one — she saw them as they were:

Girls who once danced in dorm rooms and whispered about impossible dreams.

Now, they held lives in their hands.

Not just babies.

But beginnings.

💌 Bonus Scene IV: A Letter from Mark to His Child

…and a conversation on what it means to hope again.

📖 Part I: Mark’s Letter

To my child,

You’re asleep right now, curled up on your mother’s chest the way I used to curl around her heart — before you existed.

She says you’ll grow up to be stubborn like me. I think you’ll grow up soft like her — quiet but fierce. Kind in the kind of way that changes people without asking them to.

Before you were born, I didn’t know how to breathe without fear. Your mother’s heart was something I listened to through monitors. I memorized its rhythm in case it stopped.

But now you’re here. And everything I once feared is still real — but so is this miracle.

You are living proof that your mother is more than her condition. That strength isn’t loud. And that survival doesn’t have to look perfect to be holy.

Someday you’ll ask why your mother sleeps a little more than other moms. Why her scar stretches across her chest like a reminder.

I’ll tell you:

Because she fought for you before she knew you.

Because her love stretched farther than her pulse.

And because you made her heart stronger — not the other way around.

I used to dream about winning championships.

But I stopped dreaming the day you were born — because everything I ever wanted was already in my arms.

Love,

Dad.

⸻

🍼 Part II: One Year Later – “Should We Try Again?”

Spring. One year since the baby arrived.

They’re sitting in the garden behind the Lee residence — the same spot where Yeseul once said she didn’t think she’d ever get to hold her own child.

The baby — now a toddler — is crawling in wobbly circles, chasing after a leaf that refuses to stay put.

Yeseul is in a loose blouse, her hair up in a clip, watching her son like she still can’t believe he’s real.

Mark sips his coffee, leans back on his elbows.

“He’s fast,” he says.

“He’s chaos,” she replies. “He gets it from you.”

“You still want more chaos?”

Yeseul looks over, eyes narrowed.

“Was that your attempt at asking if we should try again?”

“No,” he says. “That was me testing if I still have any influence over the woman who once gave me the silent treatment for throwing out expired yogurt.”

She laughs.

Then, after a pause—

“I think I want one more.”

Mark turns, gaze softening.

“Even with the risks?”

“Especially with the risks. Because I know what the first one gave me.”

“And what’s that?”

“A reason to want forever.”

Mark reaches over, takes her hand.

“Then let’s try,” he says. “Whenever you’re ready.”

She looks down at their intertwined fingers.

“I was ready the moment I met him. And maybe… maybe I’m still ready now.”

And in that quiet spring afternoon, surrounded by blooming things and the sound of their son’s laughter, they begin to hope again.

📓 Final Journal Entry — Yeseul Lee Han

“To the Girl I Used to Be”

from Heartbeat & Halftime 🩶

⸻

[Dated exactly one year after her last surgery.]

Dear me,

The one who kept a suitcase half-packed beside her bed. The one who never finished a calendar because she thought she wouldn’t need the next month.

I see you.

I see the way you held your breath every time a doctor looked concerned.

I see the way you smiled so your parents wouldn’t cry.

I see the way you loved in silence because you didn’t want anyone to lose you.

I remember the sound of the beeping monitors.

The chill of antiseptic nights.

The taste of wanting.

I remember thinking: If I don’t stay, I hope they don’t forget me.

But you stayed.

And they didn’t just remember you — they loved you harder.

You made it through surgeries.

Through machines and masks and fear.

Through the terror of giving your heart again — this time to someone who now carries your last name.

You became a mother.

A wife.

A woman who dances on rooftops with a heart that still trembles — but beats anyway.

And I just want to say:

I’m proud of you.

For surviving.

And then — for choosing to live

pairing — basketballer!mark lee! x sick!mc

genre — soft angst, healing romance, contemporary romance, slice of life

content warnings — chronic illness, heart disease, hospital setting, fainting, emotional distress, references to past surgeries, protective! male lead.

status — on-going

rating — pg-13

this fic contains heavy times of fragility, survival and quiet devotion. please take care while reading!💌

please listen to this while reading! ʜᴇᴀʀᴛʙᴇᴀᴛ ᴀɴᴅ ʜᴀʟꜰᴛɪᴍᴇ

🌘 Extra Scene I: “What If He’s Like Me?”

26 weeks pregnant

The house is asleep

But Yeseul isn’t.

She lies in bed staring at the ceiling fan, one hand curved protectively around her growing belly. The air feels heavier tonight — not from pain, but from dread.

That afternoon, Doctor Yoon had reviewed her fetal echocardiogram.

He hadn’t said anything was wrong…

But he hadn’t said it was perfect either.

“Early signs of an irregular beat. Could correct itself before birth. But we’ll monitor closely.”

That’s what he said.

But her body — her memory — remembered more than just clinical phrases.

It remembered cold hospital floors.

The choking sound of her mother’s crying behind glass.

Mark’s fingers laced into hers while machines beeped erratically beside her head.

She moves quietly, not wanting to wake him.

But of course, he does.

“Hey.”

His voice is hoarse. “Where are you going?”

“Nowhere. I just… I needed air.”

“Come here.”

He shifts, holds the blanket open, waits.

She crawls back in, shivering.

For a long time, she says nothing. Then—

“What if he’s like me?”

Mark doesn’t answer right away.

He lets her words settle between them, like petals falling on concrete.

“Then he’s lucky.”

“Mark—”

“He’s lucky,” Mark says again, voice firmer this time. “Because if he’s like you, he’ll be strong. Even when the world tells him he’s breakable.”

She blinks fast.

“But I don’t want him to suffer.”

“Then we’ll carry him through it. Like you carried me.”

She shakes her head, overwhelmed.

“You were never the one that needed saving.”

“Exactly,” he whispers. “And you still saved me.”

⸻

🌒 Extra Scene II: “I Heard Two Heartbeats”

32 weeks

Routine scan

Mark insists on being there — though he’s just landed after 14 hours in transit.

He yawns during the wait, one arm around her shoulders, cheek resting on her temple.

Yeseul watches the monitor carefully once they begin.

Doctor Yoon smiles — a rare, soft one.

“Still a fighter,” he says. “Both of you.”

Mark squeezes her hand.

“What’s the heart rate?”

“144 bpm. Strong. Rhythm’s holding steady.”

Yeseul closes her eyes.

Thank you. Thank you.

“Want to hear it?”

She nods.

And then — the sound fills the room.

A deep, fast, steady thump-thump-thump.

Yeseul gasps softly. Her eyes blur with tears.

Mark doesn’t speak for a full minute.

When he finally does, his voice cracks.

“I heard two heartbeats the day I met you,” he says.

“Yours. And mine. And I swore they’d always match.”

He leans closer, presses his forehead to her temple.

“And now there’s a third. Just like we promised.”

👶 Bonus Scene I: When the World Held Its Breath

Seoul

Late spring

38 weeks, 2 days

⸻

I. The Early Hours

It began with silence.

Yeseul woke just before dawn — the sky still navy, her pillow slightly damp from the heat of May.

At first, she thought it was a dream.

Then she felt it again — a deep, unmistakable tightening low in her abdomen.

Not sharp.

Not panicked.

Just final.

She touched her belly.

“Hey,” she whispered. “Is it time?”

The baby shifted once — slow and sure.

Mark was still asleep beside her, one hand curled instinctively over the pillow she clutched to her chest.

She reached out. Gently shook his shoulder.

“Mark…”

He stirred, rubbed his eyes, then sat up fully when he saw her face.

“Yeseul?”

“I think… it’s happening.”

He blinked once. Then nodded.

And without saying another word, got up and began moving — calm, practiced, like they’d rehearsed it all in a dream.

⸻

II. The Hospital Room

They took her to the same floor where she’d once nearly died.

Same halls. Same white walls.

But today, she was not the patient in crisis.

She was the beginning.

Doctor Kang and Doctor Yoon arrived together.

Nurses greeted her like an old friend, but their hands were steady, voices measured.

“We’re ready when you are,” Doctor Yoon said, eyes warm behind his glasses.

“Not ready,” Yeseul whispered, smiling faintly. “But willing.”

Mark never let go of her hand — not once. Not during the IV insert, not during the monitors, not even when the contractions grew deeper.

“You’re doing amazing,” he kept whispering. “You’re doing everything.”

She nodded. Breathed. Focused.

Until, hours later—

The room shifted. The pace changed.

“It’s time,” Doctor Kang said, her voice gentle but clear.

⸻

III. The Final Push

Yeseul’s entire body trembled.

Her pulse raced.

The baby’s heartbeat, thudding through the monitor, echoed around the room.

146 bpm. Strong. Determined. Just like hers.

She squeezed her eyes shut. Gritted her teeth.

Sweat clung to her skin.

“Just one more,” someone said.

“You can do this, Ye,” Mark whispered, voice breaking. “Come on, love. You’ve got them. You’ve got them.”

And then — a cry.

Not hers.

The room fell away.

It was just that sound.

That impossibly small, impossibly powerful sound.

A newborn cry.

⸻

IV. After

Mark collapsed onto the floor, hands to his face.

Yeseul sobbed without shame.

The nurses placed the baby on her chest.

“A boy,” someone whispered. “And he’s perfect.”

She looked down.

Dark hair. Rosebud lips. One tiny hand clenched, like he was ready to fight already.

His chest rose and fell — uneven but steady.

Yeseul couldn’t speak.

She just kissed his forehead and cried harder.

“You’re here,” she whispered. “You’re real.”

Mark finally rose and leaned in. His hand joined hers over the baby’s back.

“You both made it,” he said, voice hoarse. “You both stayed.”

⸻

V. Later That Night

In the hospital’s recovery room, Yeseul slept with her son curled against her chest.

Mark sat beside them, wide awake, still in awe.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t move.

Just watched his family breathe in time.

Outside, rain began to fall softly on the windows — like the world was exhaling.

Like nothing had ever been more right.

First Weeks as a Family

⸻

I. 3:42 AM

Their room wasn’t always quiet anymore.

At 3:42 a.m., it usually sounded like this:

• A soft cry rising from the bassinet

• A rustle of silk sheets as Mark sat up, eyes barely open

• Yeseul’s quiet groan as she tried to sit up too, one hand already reaching

“I’ll get him,” Mark murmured.

“No, it’s okay—”

“Stay.”

He moved without noise, lifting the small baby with all the carefulness of someone holding stardust.

The infant wriggled once in his arms. Eyes scrunched. Lips puckered in sleepy protest.

Mark kissed his head and paced slowly, whispering soft nonsense.

“It’s alright, bud. You’re not alone. Never alone.”

In the bed, Yeseul watched through half-lidded eyes. She was too exhausted to speak, but she didn’t need to.

That was the thing about Mark.

He always moved as if he heard her even when she didn’t speak.

⸻

II. Sunlight in the Nursery

The nursery smelled like lavender and soft cotton.

Mark had painted the walls himself — a muted, cloud-washed gray. The stars on the ceiling still glowed faintly in the mornings.

One morning, as the baby napped, Yeseul curled into the rocking chair beside the crib.

Mark entered with two mugs of warm tea, pausing when he saw her.

“He looks like you,” she said, not looking away.

“No,” Mark murmured. “He looks like you. The same pouty lips when he’s mad.”

“You’re obsessed with me.”

“I am,” he said simply.

He sat beside her on the floor. Rested his head on her knee. Closed his eyes.

For a few minutes, they didn’t say anything. Just listened to the quiet — the way silence becomes a kind of music when you’re no longer afraid of it.

⸻

III. The First Smile

It happened during the fourth week.

Yeseul was humming something tuneless, rocking him against her shoulder, when the baby suddenly turned his head and smiled.

Not wind.

Not sleep.

A real, open-mouthed, gummy smile.

Yeseul froze.

“Mark.”

He looked up from the armchair where he was typing on his laptop.

“Did he—”

“He smiled. He just smiled.”

Mark dropped everything and rushed over. They both stared, eyes wide.

The baby blinked. Yawned. Then smiled again.

Mark actually gasped.

“He has your smile.”

“No,” Yeseul laughed softly, tears forming. “That one’s yours.”

They both leaned in.

The baby gurgled happily, completely unaware he had just split their hearts open in the gentlest way possible.

⸻

IV. Nightfall

Some nights, they didn’t even speak.

Mark would hold the baby against his bare chest, skin to skin, whispering stories no one could hear.

Yeseul would lie across the bed, watching them, tracing invisible stars on the baby’s blanket with her fingers.

Once, Mark whispered:

“I didn’t think I’d be scared after the surgery.”

Yeseul nodded.

“Me neither. But it’s a good fear. The kind that means there’s something to lose.”

He looked at her.

At their son.

At the room they built from the aftermath.

“Then let’s never stop being afraid.”

pairing — basketballer!mark lee! x sick!mc

genre — soft angst, healing romance, contemporary romance, slice of life

content warnings — chronic illness, heart disease, hospital setting, fainting, emotional distress, references to past surgeries, protective! male lead.

status — on-going

rating — pg-13

this fic contains heavy times of fragility, survival and quiet devotion. please take care while reading!💌

please listen to this while reading! ʜᴇᴀʀᴛʙᴇᴀᴛ ᴀɴᴅ ʜᴀʟꜰᴛɪᴍᴇ

The Strongest Beat

⸻

I. The Dinner Before Departure

The table was small.

Not at a five-star restaurant. Not catered by chefs.

Just their rooftop — warm lights strung above, blankets draped over chairs, and dinner from a local place Mark loved.

Yeseul insisted on cooking rice herself.

(It was slightly overdone. He still said it was perfect.)

“You leave tomorrow,” she said, setting down his bowl.

“You could still come with me.”

“You know I can’t.”

“Yeah,” Mark replied. “But I still wish.”

They didn’t say much after that.

They just ate — slow, steady — like every spoonful carried weight.

Afterwards, he pulled her in close, arms wrapping around her from behind as she leaned against the railing.

“Are you scared?” he asked.

“Of you leaving?”

“Of… everything.”

She tilted her head back onto his shoulder.

“A little.”

“But not like before. I think I’m learning how to breathe through it.”

⸻

II. Seola’s Surprise

The next morning, Seola barged into the Han estate’s east wing in her usual flurry — pink cardigan, glittery flats, cheeks flushed with excitement.

“I didn’t come empty-handed,” she declared, holding up a small velvet box.

Yeseul stared.

Inside: a delicate engagement ring.

“Hwan proposed,” Seola grinned. “On the beach. With zero planning. It was a disaster. I said yes.”

Tears instantly blurred Yeseul’s eyes.

“You—oh my god, Seola.”

They hugged so tightly that Seola nearly dropped the ring.

“You’re the first person I told. Before even my mom.”

“I feel honored.”

“You should,” Seola grinned. Then her voice softened.

“You were the first person I ever saw fall in love. And mean it.”

⸻

III. The Medical Report

That afternoon, Yeseul sat in Doctor Yoon’s office again.

Mark had left just hours earlier — the echo of his goodbye kiss still resting at her temple.

Doctor Yoon’s expression was unreadable at first.

He placed the new cardiology report in front of her.

“Your heart is stable for now,” he said gently. “But the scarring is increasing.”

“Meaning?”

“You’ll still need to be careful. There will always be limitations.”

She nodded slowly. Not afraid.

“I’ve learned to live with limitations.”

Doctor Yoon hesitated before adding one more note.

“We also ran your hormone panel. Something came up.”

Yeseul’s hands tightened slightly on her lap.

“You’re in early pregnancy.”

Silence.

Then—

“No,” she whispered.

Then—

“Yes.”

Her fingers trembled. But not from fear.

“Is that… is it okay?”

Doctor Yoon spoke slowly.

“It’s a high-risk pregnancy. But not impossible. We’ll take every precaution. You’re stronger than you used to be.”

Her heartbeat thudded louder than ever.

For the first time… not in panic.

In awe.

⸻

IV. Her Journal

I’m carrying life.

Inside this chest — this fragile, scarred, stubborn chest — there is a second heartbeat.

I don’t know how to tell Mark.

Not yet.

But I think the universe gave me this moment to say:

You didn’t just survive.

You were made to give more.

To give love.

To give life.

To give everything they said you couldn’t.

To The Girl Who Might Not Stay

I. The Letter Waiting in Paris

The envelope arrived on the fifth day after Mark landed.

There was no name on the front — just a soft gold wax seal and a line in her handwriting:

“Read this before your next practice.”

Mark opened it in the locker room while the others laughed in the distance.

Inside:

Mark,

I didn’t want to tell you over the phone. I wanted you to hear this slowly — the way I did.

There’s another heartbeat inside me.

It’s not mine. It’s not yours. But somehow, it’s both.

Doctor Yoon said it’s high-risk. Of course it is. You married the most dramatic woman alive.

But he also said: “Not impossible.”

You once told me that if I ever left, your heartbeat would carry mine.

I guess now, I get to carry two.

Come home when you can. Or don’t. I’ll be here.

Love,

Yeseul.

Mark didn’t finish practice that day.

He sat quietly outside the gym for hours, clutching the letter like it was oxygen.

And when his coach asked, he just said:

“I think I just won something bigger than the game.”

⸻

II. In the Mirror

Yeseul stood in front of her bedroom mirror one morning, seven months along.

Her reflection didn’t look like the girl who once trembled every time a nurse walked into the room.

Her eyes had lines now — soft, tired, lived-in.

Her wrists had IV scars.

But her hands held her belly like they were made to.

“It’s okay,” she whispered to the baby.

“The world is scary. But your father dances in kitchens and your mother once survived the impossible. You’re going to be okay.”

⸻

III. The Baby Room

Seola came over one Sunday with two bags of tiny clothes, a mobile of clouds and constellations, and a ridiculous stuffed bear wearing sunglasses.

“You’re going to be a ridiculous mom,” Yeseul teased.

“And you’re going to be the softest. Like… whisper-soft.”

They set up the bassinet together. Hung soft paper stars from the ceiling.

Then, after a long silence, Seola asked:

“Do you miss who you used to be?”

Yeseul thought for a while.

“No,” she said finally. “But I remember her. I think she’d be proud.”

⸻

IV. The Girl in the Waiting Room

At her final trimester checkup, Yeseul passed a girl in the pediatric wing — maybe 10 years old, with a heart monitor clipped to her gown and a journal resting on her knees.

She smiled as Yeseul passed.

“You’re the lady from the hospital posters.”

Yeseul paused. Turned.

“And you’re the girl who’s not scared, right?”

The girl giggled.

“I’m scared sometimes.”

“Me too.”

The girl looked down at her journal.

“I write about things I want to do.”

Yeseul kneeled slowly — it took effort these days.

“Keep writing. One day, you’ll look back and realize… you did them all.”

⸻

V. Mark’s Return

He arrived quietly.

No fanfare. No press.

Just a knock on the nursery door while Yeseul was rearranging tiny socks.

She turned.

There he was.

Exhausted, smiling, holding the letter she’d sent him in Paris — now creased, worn at the edges.

He didn’t speak.

Just walked over. Kissed her slowly. Touched her stomach.

“Two heartbeats now,” he whispered.

“And yours makes three.”

“We did it.”

“We’re doing it,” she corrected, softly.

⸻

VI. Her Final Journal Entry

Yeseul took out her oldest journal that night — the one she began at age 11, titled:

To the Girl Who Might Not Stay.

She opened the last page.

And wrote:

You made it to 24.

You married the boy from your 7th birthday.

You survived three surgeries, one coma, and the hardest goodbye of your life.

And today… you’re going to meet your child.

You didn’t just stay.

You built a home inside your body — with a heart that was supposed to stop beating years ago.

You’re still scared.

But now, you know: fear doesn’t mean failure. It means you’re alive.

And tomorrow, you’ll hold proof that your life was more than survival.

It was love.

It was family.

It was every heartbeat that tried to last — and did.

⸻

VII. One Year Later

The rooftop is different now.

There’s a swing. A baby monitor on the table.

Yeseul wears a soft ivory sweater, one hand resting on the small boy asleep against her shoulder.

Mark plays guitar — badly.

The baby kicks once. Laughs.

And in that moment, Yeseul doesn’t feel fragile.

She doesn’t feel afraid.

She feels whole.

Like her heartbeat was always enough — for all three of them.

pairing — basketballer!mark lee! x sick!mc

genre — soft angst, healing romance, contemporary romance, slice of life

content warnings — chronic illness, heart disease, hospital setting, fainting, emotional distress, references to past surgeries, protective! male lead.

status — on-going

rating — pg-13

this fic contains heavy times of fragility, survival and quiet devotion. please take care while reading!💌

please listen to this while reading! ʜᴇᴀʀᴛʙᴇᴀᴛ ᴀɴᴅ ʜᴀʟꜰᴛɪᴍᴇ

Not a Detour, But the Destination

⸻

I. The Bicycle

It was Seola’s idea — naturally.

A rented pink bicycle, two helmets, and a very confused driver waiting near the lake park outside Seoul.

“I haven’t touched a bike since I was nine,” Yeseul whispered, eyeing the seat like it might explode.

“Then it’s about time,” Seola beamed.

They had picked a weekday morning. Empty paths. Bare trees. Air fresh with early spring.

Mark wasn’t told — on purpose.

“I want to do this on my own first,” Yeseul had said.

Seola held the seat as Yeseul climbed on, wobbly, breath caught in her throat.

Her legs shook.

Her hands trembled.

Her heart pounded.

But it didn’t stop.

And slowly… slowly… the wheels began to turn.

Laughter spilled into the wind.

Not careful. Not soft. Just real.

Later, on a bench, cheeks flushed and chest aching with joy, Yeseul looked at Seola and whispered,

“I really lived today.”

⸻

II. At the Lee Family Study

That evening, Mark sat with his parents.

Mr. Lee closed the office door gently. Mrs. Lee sat beside her son on the small velvet settee.

The European contract lay on the table.

No one spoke for a moment.

Then:

“It’s an incredible offer,” Mr. Lee said. “You know that.”

Mark nodded.

“But you haven’t responded.”

“No.”

Mrs. Lee tilted her head. Gently.

“Are you waiting for something?”

Mark looked between them. Then exhaled.

“I want to get married first.”

A pause.

Then—his father blinked. His mother’s lips parted slightly.

Not disapproval.

Just surprise.

“To Yeseul,” Mark clarified. “Not someday. Soon.”

His voice didn’t waver.

“I’m not leaving her behind. Not again. Not when everything we prayed for is finally real.”

Mr. Lee leaned back slowly, folding his hands.

“Marriage is a lifetime commitment, Mark.”

“So is she.”

Another pause.

Then—quiet approval in Mrs. Lee’s voice:

“We’ll support you. But let her parents hear it from you.”

⸻

III. Mr. Han’s Private Question

Two days later, Mr. Han invited Mark to the Han estate for tea.

Alone.

They sat in the western sunroom. No aides. No business talk.

Mark sipped from a white porcelain cup.

“You’ve always stood by her,” Mr. Han began.

Mark didn’t answer — just listened.

“Even when her mother and I doubted. Even when we feared your loyalty would cost you too much.”

Mark set the cup down carefully.

“It’s never cost me anything that mattered.”

Mr. Han studied him — not as a businessman. But as a father.

“If she agrees, I’ll give you my blessing. But I need to ask you this.”

“Anything.”

“Are you ready,” Mr. Han said, “to live a life of seasons — where some winters may return? Where hospital wings may be home again?”

Mark’s gaze didn’t break.

“I’m not afraid of winter,” he said. “Not if she’s the one I get to hold through it.”

A long silence.

Then, Mr. Han nodded.

“Then you have my blessing.”

⸻

IV. The Forgotten Letter

Later that week, Seola helped Yeseul reorganize her old journals — a collection of soft-covered notebooks, each filled with small, slanted handwriting.

As she turned one over, a yellowed envelope slipped out.

Unopened.

Yeseul frowned.

“What’s that?”

“Your name,” Seola said, holding it up. “And… Mark’s handwriting?”

Carefully, she peeled the flap.

Inside, a note — written in crayon.

To Yeseul (on your 8th birthday),

If you don’t get to open this today, open it when you’re braver than your heart.

I love you, even if you forget.

– Mark

Yeseul’s throat tightened.

“I never saw this…”

Seola smiled softly, eyes glistening.

“I think he’s always been waiting for you to live first.”

⸻

V. Her Journal That Night

He told his parents he wants to marry me.

Not someday. Not when I’m stronger. Now.

I cried in the shower.

Not because I’m scared.

Because someone wants forever with me — and they’ve already tasted what it’s like to almost lose it.

My dad said yes.

And in a forgotten letter from a boy with crayons and no filter, I realized something:

He’s been choosing me since I was 7.

And he never stopped.

Cherry Trees Don’t Rush

⸻

I. The Proposal

Mark didn’t plan a spectacle.

No grand lights.

No audience.

No velvet box in the middle of a basketball court.

He waited until she was barefoot in his kitchen, sipping tea and humming something off-key — wearing his hoodie again.

“You’re doing it again,” he said.

“What?”

“Living like you were never supposed to stop.”

She smiled, teasing.

“It’s your hoodie’s fault.”

He stepped closer. Slipped a small velvet pouch into her hand.

“Then wear this, too.”

Inside — not a ring.

But a delicate gold chain. A charm at the center: a tiny heartbeat carved in relief.

“I’ll give you the ring later,” he said.

“But this is my yes. From the beginning to the last.”

Yeseul was quiet.

“We didn’t talk about this yet…”

“We did. Every time you stayed. Every time I chose you.”

He took her hand.

“Will you marry me?”

She didn’t cry this time.

She nodded.

“Yes. While we still have this heartbeat.”

⸻

II. The Zurich Return

It was her idea.

Not for another surgery. Not for any scans.

But to visit the hospital that once held the scariest nights of her life — and gave her the heartbeat that carried her here.

Mark stayed behind this time.

Yeseul went with Seola, cloaked in scarves and coats and soft silence.

They visited the exact corridor she was wheeled through. The nurses’ station. The third-floor window she stared out from, wondering if she’d ever come home.

Doctor Lin — her old pediatric cardiologist — met them at the café nearby.

“I remember you,” he said. “You were the girl with all the drawings of constellations.”

“I thought if I couldn’t run under stars, I’d at least sketch them.”

“And now?”

“Now I run,” she smiled. “Very slowly. But I do.”

He smiled back.

“That heart of yours — it’s stubborn.”

“It had to be.”

They parted with warmth and no talk of checkups.

For the first time, she left a hospital without a follow-up appointment.

⸻

III. The Photo

It arrived in an envelope.

Handwritten. International postmark. The sender: Nurse Anika, one of the night staff from Zurich.

Inside was a photo — taken without Yeseul’s knowing, years ago.

She was asleep in the hospital bed.

Beside her — Mark, 15 at the time, curled up in a plastic chair, head slumped near her side, still in his school uniform.

On the back of the photo, in neat handwriting:

He didn’t leave your side for 36 hours. We weren’t allowed to tell you. But you should know.

Yeseul held the photo for a long time.

Then tucked it into her new journal — the one titled If I Keep Living.

⸻

IV. Cherry Blossoms

The Han estate’s courtyard was old, quiet, and sacred.

And now, full of bloom.

Mark and Yeseul stood beneath the pink trees, petals catching in their hair, breeze threading through the folds of her soft hanbok.

Their families were inside.

This moment was theirs.

He held her hands gently — not because she was fragile, but because he knew the weight of what she was offering.

“I don’t know how long we have,” she said quietly.

“Long enough.”

“And if my heart gives out again—?”

“Then mine will beat for both of us.”

They didn’t need a priest.

They didn’t need a crowd.

Just this:

His lips against her forehead.

Her fingers brushing the pendant around her neck.

A breath that didn’t falter.

And a world that kept spinning — for them, this time.

⸻

V. Her Journal

The cherry blossoms bloomed early this year.

Like they’d been waiting for us.

I didn’t faint. I didn’t flinch. I didn’t fear.

I married the boy who first made me laugh at seven.

Who held my hand when I coded in Zurich.

Who let go of championships but never of me.

I think we’re ready now.

Not for forever.

But for every heartbeat until it stops.

The Morning After Forever

⸻

I. The First Morning

Yeseul woke up to the scent of jasmine tea and linen.

Not hospital antiseptic. Not IV chemicals. Not fear.

Just sunlight dancing on marble floors, and the soft rustle of wind through sheer curtains.

She blinked.

And then — remembered.

They were married.

There was no extravagant wedding march. No breaking headlines.

But the ring was on her finger.

And the warmth beside her was real.

Mark stood by the window, shirt slightly wrinkled, hair a mess, holding a mug of coffee like it was the last thing grounding him.

She stayed still for a long time. Watching him.

Breathing.

So this is what staying feels like.

⸻

II. Conversations Between Cups

He turned when she stirred. Crossed the room quietly and handed her the second cup — lukewarm but still fragrant.

“It’s weird,” she said after a sip, “how quiet everything feels.”

“That’s how I know it’s real,” Mark replied.

They sat on the edge of the bed, knees barely touching.

He reached into his nightstand and pulled out a sealed envelope.

“This came a while ago. I didn’t show you then.”

She took it slowly.

The logo on the flap — a European league team.

Yeseul stilled.

“You were scouted?”

“During Argentina.”

A beat.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I wanted to marry you first.”

She looked up. Eyes wide, unsure whether to laugh or cry.

“Mark—”

“You’re not holding me back, Yeseul. You never have. But if I went without you knowing, that would’ve been running.”

He folded his fingers around hers.

“Now I want us to decide.”

⸻

III. Her Answer

That evening, she came to him on the rooftop balcony.

Hair undone. Sweater sleeves falling past her wrists. That same glow she wore the night they danced under city lights.

“Go,” she said softly. “Take it.”

He didn’t answer immediately.

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

“Even if it means time apart?”

“You gave me my time back,” she whispered. “Let me give you yours.”

He looked at her — not like she was fragile, but like she was his world.

“Then we’ll make it work.”

“Long-distance marriage,” she smiled. “Modern love.”

⸻

IV. The Foundation

Weeks later, Yeseul sat on the 10th floor of Seoul National Medical Center — not as a patient.

But as the founder of the H8 Project.

Named after her eighth birthday — the one she wasn’t expected to live to see.

Photos of her adorned the walls. And in the hallway, a new sign:

A center for children living with critical cardiac illness. Hope begins here.

Her voice shook when she spoke to the first group of girls.

“You don’t have to wait to live. You don’t have to be better to be worthy of dreams.”

She smiled softly.

“I still faint sometimes. I still fear sometimes. But I married the love of my life. And I dance now — when no one’s watching.”

She caught the glimmer in one girl’s eyes — a soft, shy grin of belief.

And suddenly, she felt stronger than she ever had.

⸻

V. Their Journal — Shared Now

He’s leaving for Paris next month. I’m staying. But this time, it’s not a goodbye.

He’ll fly in for my cardiology check-ups.

I’ll stream his matches, even if the time zones hate me.

We’ll find each other in time zones, flight gates, half-read texts, and always — always — in sleep.

He married me at my weakest. And still looked at me like I was everything.

So I’ll wait for him.

And he’ll wait for me.

Because even when our calendars don’t align… our heartbeats still do.

pairing — basketballer!mark lee! x sick!mc

genre — soft angst, healing romance, contemporary romance, slice of life

content warnings — chronic illness, heart disease, hospital setting, fainting, emotional distress, references to past surgeries, protective! male lead.

status — on-going

rating — pg-13

this fic contains heavy times of fragility, survival and quiet devotion. please take care while reading!💌

please listen to this while reading! ʜᴇᴀʀᴛʙᴇᴀᴛ ᴀɴᴅ ʜᴀʟꜰᴛɪᴍᴇ

Results, Returns, and Rooms That Don’t Sleep

⸻

I. The Report

It came early the next morning.

A discreet folder delivered by Doctor Yoon’s assistant — sealed, formal, and heavier than it looked.

Yeseul was still asleep when her mother took it from the butler’s tray.

Mrs. Han opened it slowly, reading line by line. Her fingers began to tremble halfway through.

Mr. Han entered the room just in time to see his wife lower the papers and press them against her chest.

“It’s… declining again,” she whispered.

“Faster than before.”

⸻

II. Yeseul Wakes Up

She knew something was wrong the moment she opened her eyes.

Her mother and father sat at the foot of her bed — fully dressed, expressions unreadable.

Seola hovered nearby, lips pressed thin.

“Morning,” Yeseul said, voice scratchy. “Did someone die?”

Silence.

“Not funny,” Seola mumbled, almost scolding.

“Sorry,” Yeseul muttered. “What’s going on?”

Her mother passed the report forward.

Yeseul didn’t open it.

“Can you just tell me?”

Doctor Yoon stepped in behind her father, face calm but not blank.

“Your arrhythmia has worsened,” he said. “More irregular than your last cycle. There’s also slight valve regression.”

She looked up at the ceiling.

“So I’m on a clock again.”

“You’ve always been on a clock, Yeseul,” he said gently. “We just don’t like when it starts ticking louder.”

⸻

III. The Conversation

Mark was already on the flight back to Seoul.

His name was trending — again — for missing two morning drills without explanation. The team’s coach was furious. His phone was off.

But Yeseul didn’t know any of that yet.

She sat beside her parents in the drawing room, hair loosely tied, fingers curling into her sleeves.

“We need to consider options,” Mr. Han said.

“Zurich isn’t completely off the table.”

“I don’t want to go abroad again,” Yeseul whispered.

“You might have to.”

“Then you’ll be sending me away again. From everything.”

“From what?” Mrs. Han asked, voice wavering.

“From danger?”

“From Mark.”

The room fell still.

Mr. Han sat forward.

“Sweetheart, your life comes first.”

“Then why does it feel like I never get to live it?”

⸻

IV. Seola

That night, Seola sat with Yeseul in the bath — not inside, but beside the marble tub, feet dangling in the water while Yeseul leaned back, head resting on the edge.

Lavender steam curled in the air. Soft piano played from the speaker nearby.

“I heard your parents talking,” Seola said.

“About Zurich?”

“About choosing a date. And a hospital. And… telling Mark after it’s confirmed.”

Yeseul didn’t react. Just stared at the ceiling tiles.

“Do you want to go?”

“No.”

“Then don’t.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Why not?”

“Because if it fails… I don’t want him to watch me fall apart again.”

“So you’ll push him away and let him hate you instead?”

“If it means he doesn’t break.”

⸻

V. Mark Comes Back

It was 3:17 a.m. when the Lees’ mansion gates opened.

Mark stepped out of the black car, duffel bag still slung across his shoulder.

He was pale from travel. Wrung out from stress. His hair stuck to his forehead from the night humidity.

He didn’t even drop his bag when he saw her.

Yeseul — in a thin cardigan, barefoot on the marble entrance hall.

They froze for a second.

Then she ran.

And this time — despite the faint weight in her chest, despite the ache she never admitted — she ran.

He caught her.

Held her.

“Don’t do that again,” he whispered into her hair.

“Don’t scare me like that.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You should’ve told me.”

“I didn’t want you to come home.”

“Then you don’t know me at all.”

⸻

VI. Her Journal That Night

The report said “progression.”

Like it’s a natural step.

Like it’s supposed to get worse.

But what they don’t know is that I’m not the same girl who first collapsed at thirteen.

I’m not the same girl who went to Zurich with a suitcase and a list of “goodbyes” folded in her jacket.

I’m the girl who danced under a rooftop sky.

Who woke up in someone’s arms and didn’t feel broken.

So if I go again — if I fly back to foreign doctors and sterile lights — I’m not going as a patient.

I’m going as someone who has something to come back to.

The Table Is Set

⸻

I. Midnight in Mark’s Room

The house had gone quiet again.

It was just past 1:00 a.m., and Yeseul was curled up against the headboard of Mark’s bed — his oversized hoodie pooling around her bare legs. A mug of warm barley tea sat untouched on the nightstand.

Mark sat on the carpet at her feet, back resting against the edge of the bed, head tilted upward as he looked at her.

“You always look like a poem in this room,” he murmured.

Yeseul huffed a soft breath.

“Even now?”

“Especially now.”

Her fingers fidgeted with the hem of her sleeve.

“I don’t want to leave again.”

“Then stay.”

“You know that’s not how this works.”

“I know. But I also know we don’t have to follow everyone else’s rules.”

He turned slightly so he could see her better.

“If Zurich is the safest, we’ll go. I’ll go with you.”

“Your career—”

“You. Come first.”

She looked down.

“You’ll get tired of waiting.”

“I’ve waited sixteen years. What’s a few more?”

⸻

II. A Dinner That Means More

Two nights later, the Hans arrived at the Lee estate for dinner — formally invited, though the staff knew better.

This wasn’t just a family meal.

It was a reconciliation. A soft re-entry into old conversations long buried under hospital sheets and business obligations.

The dining room was warm, softly lit. Silver chopsticks gleamed against white porcelain. A low floral arrangement sat between the two patriarchs.

Yeseul sat beside her mother. Mark beside his father. Seola, as usual, had politely declined the invitation — knowing some dinners weren’t meant for extra chairs.

“The treatment options are laid out clearly,” Doctor Yoon explained later, standing beside the piano.

“Zurich has a slightly higher long-term success rate,” added Mr. Han. “But Seoul… offers comfort. And familiarity.”

Mrs. Lee leaned forward.

“And if she chooses to stay in Seoul?”

“She’ll need full-time observation. And we may need to bring in a team from Switzerland regardless.”

The table was quiet.

Then Mr. Lee cleared his throat.

“And if we speak not just of her health, but her future?”

Yeseul’s heart paused.

He looked directly at Mr. Han.

“Our families always hoped they’d grow up together.”

“And they did,” Mrs. Han said softly.

“But perhaps it’s time we allow them to grow forward. Together.”

There was no grand announcement. No proposal over dessert.

Just… the reintroduction of a door they once closed.

⸻

III. After the Guests Left

Yeseul stood with Mark on the garden balcony.

It was raining lightly — the kind of drizzle that smelled like wet grass and memory.

“They talked about a wedding,” she said, eyes fixed on the garden path below.

“Would you want that?”

“I always did. Just… never thought I’d get to.”

He turned to her.

“Then maybe it’s time you stop writing your future in pencil.”

⸻

IV. Her Journal That Night

They sat across from each other like businessmen.

But somewhere beneath the contract talk, I heard something softer.

Hope.

No one said “engagement.” No one said “when.”

But I saw it in my mother’s face.

And Mark’s father — the way he looked at us like we were already a story being told at long tables with tea lights.

I’m scared.

But I’m not just scared of dying anymore.

I’m scared of living.

Of really living.

And what happens if I get to?

What the Heart Remembers

⸻

I. The Night Before the Goodbye

She hadn’t spoken much that day.

Yeseul moved quietly through the halls of the Han estate, her silk robe trailing behind her like the ghost of a girl she couldn’t quite recognize anymore. The operation had been set. The doctors were on their way. Doctor Kang would oversee everything from Seoul. Doctor Yoon would assist. Her father had arranged it all.

Everything was moving forward.

And yet—she felt herself slipping.

The night before Mark was scheduled to fly to Argentina, she wandered into his room. It was past midnight. He was already in bed, a basketball game playing low on the TV, volume nearly muted.

She didn’t say anything at first. Just stood there.

Mark turned, sat up instantly.

“Yeseul?”

She walked toward him slowly.

He took one look at her face — and the blanket fell off his shoulders.

“What happened?”

She sat down beside him.

Then looked at him.

Then broke.

It started with a quiet sob, almost like a hiccup — and then her entire body folded in on itself. She crumpled into his chest, fists gripping the fabric of his hoodie.

“I’m scared, Mark.”

He froze.

“I’m really scared this time. I don’t know why. I just—”

“I can feel it. Something in me is telling me this might be the last one.”

“No,” he whispered.

“I’m not saying it to be dramatic—just—listen—”

“I’ve always followed the charts. Listened to the doctors. Smiled when I was told. But this time…”

She pulled away enough to look up at him.

“I want to live.”

He looked at her, his own throat tight.

“You are living, Yeseul.”

“No,” she said. “Not just exist. Not just survive. I want to dance at a stranger’s wedding. I want to try bad street food. I want to kiss you in a place that isn’t a hospital. I want to learn how to drive. I want to wake up in a city I don’t recognize and feel alive.”

Her voice broke again.

“I don’t want to die thinking I was only someone everyone pitied.”

Mark was quiet. Then pulled her into his arms like she’d dissolve otherwise.

“Then don’t die.”

“You know I can’t promise that.”

“Then promise me this,” he said softly. “Promise you’ll fight. With everything. Not for your parents. Not for me. For you.”

She hesitated.

Then nodded.

And in that silence…

they kissed.

But not like the other times.

This kiss was gentler. A little slower. Mark’s hands cradled her face like it was made of porcelain. Her fingers threaded through his hair like she was anchoring herself to the moment.

And when their clothes fell away, it wasn’t for escape.

It was for remembrance.

If her heart was going to betray her again…

She wanted to leave it full.

⸻

II. The Morning After

Neither of them said much at the breakfast table.

Her father was on calls. Her mother left early to oversee hospital arrangements. The staff moved around like usual.

But when Mark reached across and held her hand before leaving…

She didn’t let go for a long time.

“Win the game,” she whispered.

“So I can brag when I wake up.”

“You will.”

“I’ll find you again. Even if I forget everything else.”

“Then I’ll wear the ugliest shoes. That way you’ll remember me by how loud I walk.”

She laughed.

And cried a little.

⸻

III. The Operation

Yeseul was admitted at dawn.

Her father stood like stone at the hospital entrance. Her mother kissed her twice, once on the cheek and once on her wrist. Doctor Yoon greeted her personally, while Doctor Kang stood by with his international team in the OR.

The hallway before the surgical room was cold.

Yeseul took one last look at the lights overhead. Then at Seola — who hadn’t left her side for hours.

“If I don’t make it—”

“You will,” Seola said.

“But if I don’t…”

“You will.”

“Tell Mark I wanted to grow old next to his messy shoe rack.”

Seola laughed. And cried.

⸻

IV. It Didn’t Go As Planned

Eight hours into the surgery, things began to turn.

Complications arose mid-procedure — an unexpected electrical arrhythmia. Then came the crash.

Yeseul’s heart stopped.

Flatlined.

Doctor Kang barked orders. Nurses scrambled.

They initiated CPR immediately.

First shock.

Second shock.

Nothing.

Her body convulsed under defibrillator pads.

Her temperature dropped. Her lungs slowed.

Then…

a flicker.

A pulse.

Faint.

But there.

⸻

V. The Long Silence

Yeseul didn’t wake up.

Not in 48 hours.

Not in 72.

Not in a week.

A month passed.

The machines breathed for her. IV lines fed her. Her lips lost color. Her fingers curled slightly in toward her palms — still, unmoving.

Mark received no updates.

His messages piled into Seola’s inbox.

Has she woken up?

Is she okay?

Please. I need to know.

He sat in his hotel room in Argentina, the city glowing outside, but his heart anchored 16,000 kilometers away.

⸻

VI. The Return

Thirty-two days after the operation…

Yeseul opened her eyes.

The first thing she saw was the blurred outline of her mother’s face, haloed in morning light.

Then Doctor Yoon leaning over her, checking the monitors.

“She’s stabilizing.”

Doctor Kang exhaled for the first time in hours.

⸻

VII. A New Heart

Her rhythm wasn’t perfect.

Her chest hurt when she inhaled too sharply.

But her heart, now reinforced, partially restructured, and treated with both foreign and domestic expertise — was beating.

Not with full strength. But with will.

85% recovered.

She’d live.

Not forever.

But long enough.

⸻

VIII. Her Journal (Seola writes, as she dictates)

I didn’t dream.

I just floated.

But then… I heard something. Mark’s voice maybe? Or my own?

It kept saying: You’re not done yet.

I woke up feeling like a wall had been moved inside me. Like space had opened.

I’m still scared. Still soft. Still not whole.

But this heart — this 85% heart — still belongs to me.

And maybe that’s enough.

pairing — basketballer!mark lee! x sick!mc

genre — soft angst, healing romance, contemporary romance, slice of life

content warnings — chronic illness, heart disease, hospital setting, fainting, emotional distress, references to past surgeries, protective! male lead.

status — on-going

rating — pg-13

this fic contains heavy times of fragility, survival and quiet devotion. please take care while reading!💌

please listen to this while reading! ʜᴇᴀʀᴛʙᴇᴀᴛ ᴀɴᴅ ʜᴀʟꜰᴛɪᴍᴇ

The Quiet Shape of Forever

⸻

I. The Call

It came while Mark was lacing up his shoes.

His team had just wrapped a morning run through Argentina’s city center. The sky was gray, the pavement still warm from sun the night before. He had a towel around his neck and sweat slicking his temples when his phone buzzed.

It was Seola.

[missed call]

Then another.

Then a voice note, short but shaking.

“Mark… she’s awake. She woke up this morning. She asked about you.”

He didn’t even finish tying the second shoe.

He ran.

⸻

II. Back to Seoul

Mark’s flight landed before sunrise.

He didn’t tell the press. Didn’t inform the coaches. Didn’t wait for the manager to arrange his itinerary.

He just… came back.

When he stepped through the automatic glass doors of the Seoul hospital wing, everything felt different. The walls weren’t as cold. The nurses smiled with something softer in their eyes.

He stopped outside Yeseul’s room.

Then knocked twice.

She was sitting up in bed — frail, thinner than he remembered, dark circles under her eyes…

but breathing.

She looked up.

And smiled like she had never stopped waiting.

“You’re late.”

“Flight delay,” he choked.

“Liar.”

“Only a little.”

“I missed you.”

“I thought I lost you.”

He didn’t cry.

But when he kissed her forehead — he shook.

⸻

III. Their Parents Meet Again

The dinner was arranged quietly — just the four of them this time.

The Hans and the Lees.

No business suits. No assistants. No contracts.

Just a home-cooked meal at the Han mansion, in the room Yeseul’s parents used only on rare nights.

Mr. Han poured the wine himself. Mr. Lee helped fold the linen napkins.

“She’s much stronger now,” Mrs. Han said gently, setting her glass down.

“Still fragile,” Mr. Lee replied. “But alive. Thanks to both of you.”

They exchanged nods.

Then Mrs. Lee smiled — the kind of smile that had history behind it.

“We always thought we’d see them married one day.”

“We stopped talking about it when things got worse,” Mr. Han said.

“But now,” Mrs. Lee continued, “she’s talking about the future again. About seeing cherry blossoms in Kyoto. About taking her time.”

A silence followed.

But not heavy — thoughtful.

Mr. Lee cleared his throat.

“We’d like to revisit the idea. Not immediately. Not formally, yet. But… gently.”

“Gently sounds right,” Mr. Han agreed.

“Not for headlines. Not for politics.”

“But for them.”

⸻

IV. In the Garden

Later that night, Yeseul sat with Mark under the garden lights. It was her first time outside since the operation.

She wore a pale cardigan, legs tucked beneath her on the bench. He held her hand, thumb brushing over her knuckles again and again — like a habit he couldn’t unlearn.

“They’re talking,” she whispered.

“Who?”

“Our parents.”

“About?”

“About us. And weddings. And futures.”

He turned to look at her.

“Do you want that?”

She hesitated.

Then nodded.

“I think I do.”

“Then we’ll wait. No rush.”

“No pressure?”

“No timeline. Just one question.”

She looked up.

“Do you still choose me?”

He didn’t blink.

“I never stopped.”

⸻

V. Her Journal That Night

He came back.

Not as a captain. Not as a boy with stadium lights behind him.

He came back as my beginning.

Our parents talked about weddings tonight. But I’m still learning how to breathe without monitors.

Still… it feels nice.

To imagine lace and rings and names written side by side.

I don’t know how long this heart will last.

But for now, it’s beating in time with someone else’s again.

And that might be enough to call it forever.

The First Night Out

⸻

I. A Dress with Sleeves

Yeseul stood in front of the mirror, unsure.

Her hair had been curled gently by Seola, who was fussing around the room with tiny clips in one hand and a sheer lip tint in the other.

“You look like a walking romance novel,” Seola grinned.

Yeseul adjusted the sleeves of her soft ivory dress — long, fitted at the wrists, flowy through the skirt. A bit vintage. A bit quiet.

“Do you think it’s too… delicate?”

“It’s you.” Seola said. “And it’s your first party.”

Her first time out at night without a wheelchair. Without IVs. Without a nurse.

It felt unreal.

The rooftop belonged to one of their friends from high society — a quiet gathering with soft lights, indie music, and no press.

No one knew Yeseul was coming.

Except Mark.

⸻

II. The Rooftop

The elevator doors opened directly to the rooftop, bathed in golden lights and lanterns that fluttered gently against the late summer breeze.

It smelled like citrus punch and jasmine.

The city stretched in every direction — glittering, endless, alive.

Yeseul stepped out onto the concrete slowly, careful with each step. Seola walked just behind her. For a moment, she couldn’t see him.

Then—

He turned.

Mark.

Black dress shirt, sleeves rolled, hair pushed back, a drink forgotten in his hand as soon as he saw her.

He didn’t say anything.

Just walked to her.

And stopped a breath away.

“Hi,” she whispered.

“You came.”

“I didn’t want to waste another first.”

He smiled.

“May I have this dance?”

She nodded.

And he didn’t wait for the music to change. He just pulled her gently to the center — away from the lanterns, into the quiet corner of the rooftop.

⸻

III. Their First Dance

He held her like she might vanish.

Her head rested against his shoulder, his hand steady on her waist, his other hand holding hers lightly.

A soft guitar played through the speakers.

Yeseul let her eyes close.

For the first time in years — her heart skipped a beat,

not in fear.

But in rhythm.

With love.

With life.

With him.

“I used to write about this,” she whispered.

“In that journal you stole.”

“Borrowed.”

“Stole.”

“Borrowed permanently.”

They both laughed.

And kept swaying — slow, quiet, full.

⸻

IV. Her Parents Watched

From a distance — Mr. Han and Mrs. Han stood beside the balcony.

Mr. Lee and Mrs. Lee joined them shortly after.

The four of them didn’t say much.

Just watched.

Their children — in love, in light, and finally… not afraid.

“They look happy,” Mrs. Han said.

“They are,” Mr. Lee replied.

“And maybe…” Mrs. Lee smiled, “that’s all they need to be for now.”

⸻

V. Her Journal (Later That Night)

There were stars above Seoul tonight.

But I didn’t need to look up.

The lights were enough. His eyes were enough. The sound of music bleeding softly into the wind — enough.

Everyone clapped when I danced.

But no one knew what that dance meant.

Not a celebration.

A declaration.

That I’m still here.

Still breathing. Still breaking. Still becoming.

And this time… I don’t want to sleep through it.

I want to live it.

After the Storm

⸻

I. The Morning After the Rooftop

Yeseul woke late the next morning.

No IV drip.

No beeping monitors.

No sterile walls.

Just her own bed, soft sunlight filtering through cream curtains, and the faint scent of rosewater her mother had sprinkled on her pillow.

Her body ached, but it wasn’t the same ache anymore.

It was soreness.

Muscle memory. From dancing.

Her fingers moved over the soft cotton blanket as if to check that she had really done it.

Walked. Laughed. Danced.

Mark had stayed the night — in the guest wing. At her parents’ polite insistence.

But even now, she could feel the shape of his arms around her. Not possessive. Not desperate.

Just… present.

For the first time in years, she had lived a night that wasn’t defined by illness.

“I didn’t faint,” she whispered to herself.

And then—smiled.

⸻

II. Breakfast with Her Parents

Downstairs, Mr. and Mrs. Han were already at the table.

Soft rice porridge. Fresh fruit. The air was warmer than usual.

Her mother poured tea for her wordlessly, sliding a small vitamin packet across.

“You slept well?” Mrs. Han asked.

Yeseul nodded.

“I don’t remember the last time I felt… tired instead of sick.”

Her father looked up.

“You looked beautiful last night.”

She blinked.

He rarely commented on things like that.

“Thank you.”

Then:

“You know your mother and I spoke to the Lees.”

“About?”

“You and Mark.”

She froze slightly. Then put her spoon down.

“You’re not… against it anymore?”

Mr. Han exhaled.

“We were never against it. We were afraid. But you’re not just surviving now. You’re living. That changes things.”

Her mother reached for her hand gently.

“When the time is right — we’ll support it. Fully.”

Yeseul didn’t say anything at first.

She just leaned over and hugged them both — tightly, silently.

⸻

III. Mark’s Return to the Court

Later that day, Mark stepped back into the university gymnasium for the first time in weeks.

The floor was polished. Banners from their latest wins still hung high. His teammates were already warming up, laughter echoing through the space.

But everything felt… smaller.

Coach Ji spotted him from the sidelines.

“Lee.”

Mark jogged over, water bottle in hand, gaze steady.

“You’re late.”

“I’m here.”

The coach studied him — something unreadable flickering behind his eyes.

Then he nodded.

“Your spot’s still yours. But only if you earn it.”

“I will.”

“And the girl?”

Mark blinked.

Then smiled.

“She’s still here. That’s enough.”

⸻

IV. At Seola’s Apartment

That evening, Yeseul visited Seola — the first time she’d been allowed to travel alone, with a medical driver waiting discreetly downstairs.

Seola had made honey toast, green tea, and left little sticky notes on everything.

This drawer still hides our worst photos.

The third cup has better luck.

Mark still hasn’t beaten your hospital Uno streak.

They curled up on the couch, legs tangled.

“You’re not the same,” Seola said suddenly.

“In a good way?”

“In the best way.”

“It’s scary,” Yeseul whispered. “Now that I might have more time… I don’t know what to do with it.”

Seola smiled.

“You don’t have to do. Just be. And that’s already enough.”

⸻

V. Her Journal

The funny thing about living is—

You don’t realize you’re doing it until after.

You just walk. Breathe. Speak. And then suddenly—

you laugh in someone’s arms on a rooftop, and it feels like proof.

Proof that I stayed.

Proof that I’m not done yet.

They’re starting to talk about weddings again.

My parents. His parents. Even Seola mentioned a Pinterest board.

And for the first time, I didn’t flinch at the thought.

I might not have forever.

But maybe I have enough.

And I think… that’s all I ever asked for.

Stay

⸻

I. The Dinner

It was a Friday evening when the Hans visited the Lees.

The first dinner together in years — since Zurich. Since the diagnosis worsened. Since their children began growing into something far deeper than anyone had expected.

The Lee residence, vast and warmly lit, had been carefully prepared. The chef brought out course after course of low-sodium delicacies and seasonal favorites.

Mr. Lee toasted to “health.”

Mr. Han raised his glass a beat slower, but nodded.

“Yeseul,” Mrs. Lee said gently across the long table, “you look more like your mother every day.”

“That’s dangerous praise,” Yeseul replied, smiling softly.

Mark sat beside her. He hadn’t let go of her hand since they arrived.

“She danced at the rooftop party,” Seola added, grinning from across the table.

“Proper slow dance. In heels and everything.”

A quiet pride filled the room.

No one said the word “sick.”

No one said “surgery.”

But it hung around the corners like a gentle ghost.

⸻

II. The Request

After dessert, Yeseul waited until the adults retired to the adjoining sitting room.

She turned to her mother, eyes wide, voice quiet.

“Can I stay the night?”

Mrs. Han paused. Fork in mid-air.

“Here?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t want today to end.”

The fathers looked up from their espresso. Mark straightened in his seat.

“We have separate rooms,” he said immediately.

“My sister’s room is available.”

Mrs. Han glanced at her husband. Then at Mrs. Lee.

Seola watched silently.

“Just one night,” Yeseul whispered.

“Please. I’m not asking for forever.”

Her voice caught slightly on the last word.

That was what made them relent.

⸻

III. The Hallway

Later, after her parents had been driven home, and the staff retired, Yeseul stood in the Lee family hallway — silk robe around her shoulders, slippers soft on the marble floor.

Mark waited near his bedroom door.

“My sister’s room is… this way,” he said gently, nodding to the right.

Yeseul looked up at him.

“I don’t want to be alone tonight.”

“You sure?”

She nodded once.

“If that’s okay.”

He didn’t move for a second. Then, slowly, held the door open.

⸻

IV. The Room

His room hadn’t changed.

Trophies on shelves. Faded sneakers near the dresser. Photos of the team. And one of her, taken in secret — she recognized the moment — from a spring day on hospital grounds, sunlight in her lashes.

Mark pulled the curtains closed and dimmed the lamp.

“You can take the bed,” he offered.

“Only if you’re beside me.”

So they lay down. On top of the blankets. Facing each other.

Minutes passed in soft silence.

Then she reached out.

“Can I…?”

“Yes.”

He kissed her slowly.

Not like boys do in movies.

But like someone returning to a place they already knew — and had waited a lifetime to touch again.

⸻

V. What Happened

There was no need to narrate every detail.

Only this:

• She wasn’t afraid.

• He didn’t rush.

• Every motion asked. Every breath answered.

• Her heartbeat trembled. But never in panic.

And when it was over, they stayed close.

Her head on his chest.

His thumb tracing a gentle rhythm over her knuckles.

⸻

VI. After

The room was silent except for the faint ticking of a wall clock.

“Are you okay?” he whispered.

“More than okay.”

“Does it hurt?”

“No,” she said, voice quiet. “Only in the way it means something.”

He pulled her tighter.

“I didn’t think we’d ever get here.”

“Neither did I.”

“But we did.”

⸻

VII. Her Journal That Night

Tonight I didn’t feel fragile.

I didn’t feel like a prognosis. Or a caution.

I felt like a girl. Who wanted. And was wanted.

And somehow, even with all the things that could go wrong…

I felt safe.

This was never about desire.

It was about trust.

And I think I’ll remember it forever —

not because it happened, but because of who it happened with.

Rings Without Proposals

⸻

I. The Therapist

Her name was Min Jiyoon — young, soft-spoken, with loose sweaters and even looser time limits.

“We don’t rush here,” she said on the first day. “We just arrive.”

Yeseul sat stiffly in the beige chair, unsure how to begin. She’d been through rehabilitation before — physical, cardiac, monitored — but this was different. This was about reentering life.

She had survived.

But now what?

Jiyoon asked simple questions.

“What does living look like to you?”

“What do you miss most when the world gets quiet?”

“Where do you carry the fear — in your chest, or your thoughts?”

They spoke for an hour.

No tears.

Just space.

Yeseul walked out with her first homework assignment.

Name one thing you want to try — not for survival, but for joy.

That night, she wrote in her journal:

I want to learn how to ride a bicycle. Just once. Somewhere flat and quiet and full of wind.

⸻

II. Mark’s Offer

The letter came from a European team. A private talent scout had attended one of his earlier games in Argentina.

A professional contract.

A 3-year term.

Relocation.

Worldwide exposure.

It was everything he used to want.

Before her.

Now — it felt like both a dream and a betrayal.

Mark sat in his room, flipping the envelope open again. Reading the terms. Then folding it. Then reading again.

He hadn’t told anyone yet. Not his parents. Not the team. Not Yeseul.

Especially not Yeseul.

“Don’t leave yet,” she had whispered to him before her operation.

“I still want to experience things.”

And now she was alive.

Healing.

How could he chase a life across the world when she had just started living hers?

⸻

III. Two Mothers, One Tea Table

At a private hanok-style café tucked in the folds of Bukchon, Mrs. Lee and Mrs. Han sat across from each other, traditional brass teacups warming their hands.

They had done this before — years ago. During business mergers. Charity galas. But never like this.

This was different.

“Yeseul wants to go slow,” Mrs. Han said softly.

“And so does Mark,” Mrs. Lee smiled. “But I think they’ve both been choosing each other for a very long time.”

“Maybe it’s not about rushing them. Maybe it’s about building the space for them.”

They didn’t mention venues. Or rings. Or dresses.

Just:

“A spring wedding,” Mrs. Lee offered. “One day. Cherry blossoms.”

“One day,” Mrs. Han repeated.

⸻

IV. A Balcony Evening

It was chilly that night, but Yeseul had insisted.

She wrapped herself in one of Mark’s oversized jackets and sat beside him on the balcony of the Lee estate, legs tucked up, hot cocoa in her hands.

The city below looked blurred.

Like a snow globe — half-dream, half-light.

They didn’t speak much.

But when the music from inside drifted out — a quiet love ballad, barely there — Mark shifted beside her.

He took her hand.

Turned it palm-up.

And pressed a soft kiss to her ring finger.

No words.

No promise.

Just presence.

Yeseul looked at him, blinking against tears she didn’t know were forming.

“You didn’t have to do that,” she whispered.

“I wanted to,” he replied.

“It’s not official.”

“It doesn’t have to be.”

“Then what is it?”

Mark looked up at her — the girl with a heartbeat that refused to give up.

“It’s a start.”

⸻

V. Her Journal

I still have nightmares sometimes.

Of flatlines. Of silence.

But then I wake up.

And it’s not gone.

The world is here.

The people are here.

He is here.

Mark kissed my ring finger tonight.

Not to claim me.

Not to bind me.

But to tell me something only silence could hold:

That if I wanted him beside me forever, I wouldn’t have to ask.

He already was.

pairing — basketballer!mark lee! x sick!mc

genre — soft angst, healing romance, contemporary romance, slice of life

content warnings — chronic illness, heart disease, hospital setting, fainting, emotional distress, references to past surgeries, protective! male lead.

status — on-going

rating — pg-13

this fic contains heavy times of fragility, survival and quiet devotion. please take care while reading!💌

please listen to this while reading! ʜᴇᴀʀᴛʙᴇᴀᴛ ᴀɴᴅ ʜᴀʟꜰᴛɪᴍᴇ

please check my pinned post for the other parts here!

For the Days That Might Not Come

⸻

Act-I. The Gathering Seola Didn’t Call a Party

It wasn’t a farewell.

Not technically.

But when Seola placed pale yellow lanterns on the patio and brought out the polaroid camera, no one asked questions.

Yeseul sat wrapped in a soft fleece shawl, sunlight curling through her hair.

Only a few people were invited.

No loud music.

Just an old playlist from when they were sixteen — one Yeseul made but never played outside her room.

They took turns drawing on sticky notes and hiding them inside a jar Seola had labeled “Open When You’re Brave Enough.”

Mark brought lemonade. Her mother baked the cookies. Her father helped hang the string lights without a single complaint.

They all knew what this was.

But no one said it aloud.

Not even when the stars came out.

⸻

Act-II. The Unfinished Gift

Later that evening, Mark was organizing her desk drawers when he found it.

A half-finished sketchbook tucked beneath stacks of medical papers.

On the first page: a watercolored court scene — blurred brushstrokes forming a boy in a jersey, head tilted, mid-shot.

On the next: a picture of her treehouse, blue-grey paint washed across the boards.

And on the third: the outlines of a rooftop. Still blank. Uncolored. Empty.

Beneath it, a single sentence in her handwriting:

“For the day I finally see the city lights without a hospital in the way.”

He ran his fingers over the page.

And closed the book with a soft inhale.

⸻

Act-III. A Decision Made in Love, Not Fear

The following morning, her parents sat beside her.

Doctor Kang was present. So was Doctor Yoon.

Her father spoke first.

“You’re not going to Zurich nor Switzerland this time.”

She blinked.

“I’m not?”

“We’ve spoken to Doctor Kang. He’ll operate here. In Seoul.”

“But—”

Her mother reached for her hand.

“We know what this surgery means, Yeseul. And we know who you want to wake up to.”

Mark, quiet until now, looked away.

But her father continued:

“He stays. Before. After. If something goes wrong, he stays.”

Yeseul’s eyes filled — not with panic.

But with something like relief.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

“No,” her mother said softly.

“Thank you for staying this long. For still being brave.”

⸻

Act-IV. The Second Letter

That night, when the house went quiet and Seola was asleep on the guest sofa, Yeseul slipped into her journal and folded a second letter.

The first one had been for Mark.

This one?

This one wasn’t meant to be read.

Not unless the worst happened.

She left it on the back page, taped in soft gold, and wrote only three words outside the envelope:

“If I don’t.”

No signature.

No drama.

Just in case.

⸻

Act-V. Her Journal That Night

They’re letting me stay in Seoul.

He’ll be there when I wake up.

If I wake up.

I’m not scared the way I was in Zurich. This time, I know what I have to lose. But I also know what I’ve already lived.

That’s the thing about love.

It can’t extend your heartbeat. But it makes every beat feel longer.

Tomorrow is the pre-op scan.

The day after is mine to decide.

The Night Before Morning

⸻

Act-I. The Garden Escape

It was past 1 a.m. when Yeseul slipped out.

The house was still.

Seola asleep on the guest couch. Her parents in their room. The soft shuffle of nurses changing shifts down the hall.

She didn’t wake Mark.

She didn’t need to.

He met her outside the kitchen door — hoodie half-zipped, hair messy, like he’d been expecting her all along.

“Garden?” he asked.

“Garden.”

They stepped barefoot onto the cold flagstone.

The sky was clear. Stars like white stitches in dark silk.

And the garden — wild and half-bloomed — was where they sat.

Back to back. Then shoulder to shoulder.

Just breathing.

⸻

Act-II. Small Names for a Big Future

“If we had a dog,” she whispered, “what would you name it?”

Mark didn’t laugh.

“Rocket,” he said. “Because he’d never stop running.”

“I’d name him Marshmallow. Because he’d never stop sleeping.”

“So… our imaginary dog has ADHD and narcolepsy?”

She smiled.

“Perfect balance.”

They sat for a while longer.

“If you could live anywhere,” she murmured, “no rules… where would it be?”

“Anywhere you’re breathing.”

“That’s cheating.”

“Then a quiet house. With uneven floors. And a kitchen too small for two, but we’ll try anyway.”

She nodded.

“And if we had a kid?”

He turned slowly.

“Yeseul…”

“Humor me.”

He swallowed.

“A girl. She’d have your eyes. And your stubbornness.”

“And?”

“And she’d learn to draw stars before letters.”

“And if I wasn’t there?”

Mark didn’t speak.

“You’d still tell her about me, right?”

“Every night,” he said hoarsely.

“Before brushing her teeth and after bedtime stories.”

⸻

Act-III. Her Request

The sun hadn’t risen yet.

Just a pale curve on the horizon. A whisper of morning.

Yeseul turned to him.

Her voice barely above the breeze:

“If I don’t wake up…”

“You will.”

“If I don’t—”

“Don’t say that.”

“Listen,” she said.

“Promise me something.”

He closed his eyes. Listened.

“Don’t let them call me tragic. Not in the papers. Not in speeches. Not even in your head.”

“You’re not,” he said.

“You never have been.”

“Then remind them. That I lived. Not just existed. That I loved. That I laughed. That I wasn’t afraid.”

He took her hand.

“You were never afraid,” he whispered.

“But I was. Every day. Of losing you.”

She looked up.

The sky behind her was starting to change — soft and blue at the edges.

⸻

Act-IV. Her Journal That Night

He said he’d name our dog Rocket. I said Marshmallow. We didn’t argue.

He let me talk about endings without running. That’s what love looks like sometimes — not in flowers or fireworks, but in someone staying still when everything feels like falling.

Tomorrow is surgery. I’m scared.

But tonight, I felt infinite.

When the World Held its Breath

⸻

Act-I. The Morning

The mansion was quiet, but not calm.

Mark arrived before sunrise, still wearing the hoodie from the night before.

Seola was already there, helping the staff warm water for Yeseul’s sponge bath. Her movements were methodical, but her eyes were swollen from crying.

Doctor Yoon checked her vitals twice.

Doctor Kang reviewed the scans a third time.

Yeseul sat at the edge of her bed, a blanket draped over her shoulders.

Her mother combed her hair slowly — like she was afraid of pulling too hard. Her father stood near the window, eyes glassy, pretending to check messages on his phone.

“Can you tie it?” she asked Mark, lifting her wrist.

He took the silver-threaded bracelet they’d made in Zurich — the one with her name stitched faintly across it — and fastened it in silence.

His hands trembled.

“Tell me something dumb,” she whispered.

He blinked.

“Like what?”

“Like what you’ll eat when this is over.”

He smiled, barely.

“The worst dumplings in Seoul. The ones we said tasted like sadness and regret.”

“Perfect,” she said, leaning into his shoulder.

⸻

Act-II. The Hallway

They walked her out together.

Past the tall curtains.

Past the painting she hated in the foyer.

Past the grand clock that had ticked through every childhood fever and midnight cough.

When the stretcher arrived, Mark held her hand until the nurse gently asked him to step back.

“Wait,” she said suddenly.

“One more thing.”

Everyone turned.

She reached for him.

He bent down, eyes already wet.

“What?” he whispered.

“If this is my last moment…”

She smiled softly.

“Then thank you for making me feel like I had a lifetime.”

He kissed her forehead.

“I’ll be right here,” he promised.

“You always are.”

And then the doors closed.

⸻

Act-III. Mark’s Waiting

There are different types of waiting.

Some are patient. Some are routine.

This one was neither.

Mark sat on the edge of a stiff hospital sofa, fists clenched in his lap. His father stood silently by the window. Seola paced. Mrs. Han prayed without speaking. Mr. Han hadn’t moved in over an hour.

Doctor Kang had said it would take three hours. It was hour four.

Mark’s eyes didn’t leave the red “Surgery in Progress” light.

“Please,” he whispered once.

To no one.

To everything.

⸻

Act-IV. The Code Blue

What happened next wasn’t quiet.

It started with a rapid knock.

Then the rush of nurses.

The sharp call over the PA:

“Code blue. OR Three.”

Doctor Yoon sprinted past.

Mark stood so fast the chair hit the floor.

“What—what is it?!” Seola cried.

No one answered.

Inside the operating room, Yeseul’s heart had stopped.

Flatlined.

Completely.

For too long.

Doctor Kang’s voice cracked as he called for paddles.

“Charge to 200.”

Shock.

No rhythm.

“Charge again. 300.”

Shock.

Still nothing.

“Start compressions.”

“No pulse.”

“Push epinephrine.”

They shocked her again.

And again.

Fifteen minutes.

No pulse.

Then—

A flicker.

A fragile, staggering beat.

One. Two.

Then three.

She was back.

⸻

Act-V. The Second Collapse

For two hours, she was stable.

Until she wasn’t.

Still unconscious, her breathing dipped again. Machines screamed. Another arrhythmia. Another episode.