#𝐘𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐘.🍰

"Yeah?" he muttered bitterly to the empty room. "Easy for you to say." The second he heard a door close, something in him snapped. His foot connected with one of the abandoned cardboard boxes, sending it skidding across the hardwood before crashing into another pile of wedding gifts with an unsatisfying thud. "Fuck!" He scrubbed both hands down his face so hard it almost hurt. "What the fuck?" Ten minutes ago they'd been opening presents. She'd almost crushed him with a waffle press. Now they were throwing the word divorce around like it belonged in a normal conversation.

His breathing grew heavier. The ache from earlier, the throbbing that had nearly brought tears to his eyes, had dulled to almost nothing. It was still there if he searched for it, lingering somewhere in the background, but anger had swallowed the rest. His entire body buzzed with it now, adrenaline drowning out everything else. He paced across the room, his feet dragging him faster before his brain had a chance to catch up. Making his way towards the front door. His hand reaches for the handle before letting it hover there. His solution to go on a drive, cool off, come back in an hour.

The heavy, rhythmic knock against the bedroom door made her body go completely tense. Through the thick wood, the low timbre of his voice filtered in, stripped of its previous edge and draped in a quiet, pleading desperation as he tried to untangle his mistake. Hearing that shift, from distant indifference to tender regret, only caused the painful constriction in her chest to pull tighter. "Go away!" she choked out toward the door, her voice cracking embarrassingly on the second word. She violently flipped herself over onto the other side of the bed, dragging the duvet over her head as if the goose down could block out his existence entirely. "Go away! I don't even know why I married you!"

Then came the soft, unmistakable sound of fabric against wood, followed by the dull, resonant thud of his knees meeting the floor just outside her room.

You want me to get on my knees and beg?

Wonyoung ripped the duvet off her face and swung her legs over the bed. She crossed the room, unlocked the door, and pulled it open, ready to unleash another wave of fury. Instead, the sight of broad-shouldered Mingi actually kneeling on the hard floor right at her feet caught in her throat. Her tear-stained face softened, the suffocating hurt giving way to sheer absurdity. A quiet, involuntary giggle escaped her lips. She quickly pressed both hands over her mouth to muffle it, though her glassy eyes crinkled as tears spilled over her eyelashes.

And every once in a great while did Mingi remember his therapist. That voice of reasoning telling him to step back when things had escalated. Walk away. Take a breather. Figure out in what moment his brain wired from calm to destroy everything in his path. Part of him did want to walk away but the pain was still winding down. It wasn't as unbearable now, yet he could feel that throb. So he was locked in place for now. Forced to see that vein in her forehead pop the way it did when she was preparing for battle. It was kind of cute. He hadn't seen that look in a while. The corner of his lips did an involuntarily smirk at how quick she was to respond. As if she disregarded everything he said and hyper-focused on getting angry. He heard all of her words. How could he not when she made no attempt to lower her voice. Always too comfortable to let the neighbors hear whatever argument that came between them. Then that word came out of her mouth. Divorce. "What the fuck are you talking about?" That smile that threatened to spread across his face now disappeared into a frown.

"You don't get to stand there and sound offended because I used the word," she said, her voice trembling slightly as she tried to blink. "You are the one who just sat there and told me…" A stray tear finally escaped, tracing a hot, wet line down her flushed cheek, and she aggressively wiped it away with the back of her hand, utterly furious at herself for letting him see her cry. "Ugh, I am Jang Wonyoung. People literally queue for miles in the freezing rain just to catch a glimpse of my face. And you are treating me like some annoying chore you have to squeeze into your calendar between dance practices!" She sneered, her eyes flashing with a cold, aristocratic disdain, her chest rising dramatically as she looked him up and down. Her pride, the absolute certainty that she was the prize in this marriage, and he was the one who had lucked out flared up like wildfire.

Sgt. Jeong Yuno, only recently promoted back into civilian life under the name Jeong Jaehyun, idol, lyricist, composer, and, regrettably, collector of blind boxes, already deployed into close-quarters combat between the aisles of SKULLPANDA and HIRONO. Mission objective had been simple. Enter. Acquire the last box. Return to extraction point quietly. No civilian casualties. No fan sightings.

And yet, command had failed to account for one vital variable.

Jang Wonyoung.

Unfortunately, eye contact remained legal.

❝ Eighty? ❞

The word coming out low, mildly offended, very calm. Too calm. Not seventy. Or seventy-seven. A highly considered personal lucky number. But eighty. Last box remained within iridescent grasp. Shelf remained empty. The figurines remained neutral observers. Another glance dropping toward the claimed box.

❝ That's generous. I was thinking seventy-seven. With good skincare. ❞

The ears still traitorous and warm.

She cradled the box against her chest like a prized possession and gave him a look of supreme, playful authority over the rim of her sunglasses. "Not here," she whispered, her voice dropping into a conspiratorial, sing-song lilt. "We have to pay first. Follow me." Without waiting to see if he’d actually obey, she turned on her heel, her perfectly styled hair catching the store's fluorescent light as she glided toward the cash register. She knew he was behind her; people always followed her.

Reaching the counter, she didn't even glance at the price on the screen. With a fluid motion, Wonyoung zipped open her luxury handbag and pulled out a sleek, heavy black card. It wasn't hers. It was her husband's, the ultimate accessory for any shopping trip, and by far her favorite one to use for essential purchases like plushies. She tapped the card against the reader with a satisfying beep, offering the cashier a sweet, practiced smile before snatching up her receipt. Card tucked away, she clutched the box and gestured with her chin toward the back of the store. There, set up under a warm spotlight, was a little counter specifically designed for unboxing, complete with tiny trash bins for the wrappers and a backdrop for taking photos.

Somewhere in between her moving away to now, the words she said finally dawned on him. Had she insulted his family then try to go on about a second honeymoon? The hell was she on? His frown easily appears. "Won... can-" His eyes squeezed shut as another wave of discomfort rolled through him, stealing the rest of the sentence before it had a chance to leave. "Can you stop yapping for, like, five seconds?" he muttered, his patience wearing dangerously thin. "I'm still trying to recover over here." The now-useless ice cube had already begun melting against his sweatpants, but he absentmindedly scooped it up anyway, shoving it back inside with a quiet hiss as the cold hit him all over again. "You were just complaining about my family two minutes ago," he continued, finally looking over at her. "How'd we skip from insulting my uncle to planning another honeymoon?" Suddenly he shifts the conversation. Like his brain finally registered what Wonyoung had said minutes ago now that the pain was starting to settle down.

I don't have time.

For a second, the sheer audacity of it left her completely breathless. Then, the realization of what he was actually saying, the cold carelessness of it, hit her like a physical slap. The delicate, pink flush of absolute rage rushed up her neck, staining her cheeks as her doe eyes flashed with a dangerous, unstable fire. "Excuse me?" her voice vibrated, low and trembling before it violently exploded. "You don't have time?!" She took a fierce step toward the couch, her chest heaving as the words poured out of her in a frantic, unhinged rush. "So what is this, Mingi? Is this how it’s going to be now?!" she screamed, her voice cracking under the weight of her fury. "Now that you’ve secured me into a marriage, you're just going to stop making time for me? Is that what this is?! Because you finally got what you’ve been dreaming about and begging for for years, so now you can just put me on a shelf like a trophy and go back to work?!" The graveyard of packing supplies around her feet suddenly felt like ammunition. Blinded by pure, unadulterated rage, she snatched up a medium-sized, empty cardboard box from the floor. With a choked-back sob of frustration, she flung it directly at his face with all the strength in her slender upper body.

"Don't you dare get too comfortable with me, Mingi!" she shrieked as the box collided with him. Her face was bright pink now, her pristine features contorted by the betrayal burning in her chest. She stepped closer, towering over him on the couch, pointing a trembling, manicured finger right between his eyes. "Because you know what happens after a fucking wedding when a husband gets careless?" She let the heavy, suffocating silence hang in the living room for one agonizing second, her chest rising and falling as she stared down at him with venom.

The problem with blind boxes was that they were not supposed to look accusing. They were supposed to sit there. Harmless. Colorful. Tiny cardboard squares of manufactured probability, stacked neatly under too much fluorescent lighting with cartoon faces printed bright enough to suggest innocence. The kind of innocent that asked for money first and then with consequences later. The kind of innocent that made perfectly grown adults stand in the middle of a store trying to pretend they had not already watched three unboxing videos before coming here.

The man standing before them now had absolutely not done any of that.

Unfortunately, the unknown had its own kind of thrill.

❝ Hmm. Last one. ❞

A murmur under breath.

Ears turning warm.

What a bunch of traitors.

A last box remains on the shelf, strategically tucked slightly behind the display sample, glossy corner catching light every time the automatic door opens. Plastic keychains swaying near the shoulder. A row of tiny figurines staring forward with bright, soulless patience, waiting for whichever potential adoptive parent the great RNG of Pop Mart had decided to humiliate next. Then another hand appears, elegant, familiar. Too pretty and alarmingly well-manicured for war, which somehow made this whole situation worse.

❝ ...Please don't tell me you're here for the same one. ❞

Words coming out low, muffled slightly behind the mask, polite enough to pass as casual and dry enough to expose someone who had already accepted defeat in at least its first three emotional stages. Thumb pressing once against the seam inside the trouser pocket. Once. Twice. Smallest rhythm. Body already doing what the face refused to admit.

❝ Because that would be very unfortunate.... ❞

A pause.

The tears threatening earlier had thankfully retreated, leaving only the sting behind his eyes and the dull heat settling in his cheeks. Embarrassing. He'd scared her enough already. He'd watched the color drain from her face, watched her genuinely believe she'd seriously hurt him, and that was enough. The last thing he wanted was to drag it out until she blamed herself for the rest of the day. Look at him go. Acting like a husband instead of a boyfriend looking to pick a fight every 10 minutes. So he stayed quiet. Let her complain, let her scold him. It was easier that way anyway. His hand absently rubbed at his thigh while the throbbing slowly crawled its way upward again, stubborn as ever. Every instinct in him wanted to curl forward and ride it out, but he refused to give in. Instead, he leaned back against the couch, forcing his shoulders to relax despite the way his stomach still tightened every few breaths.

Huffing dramatically, her gaze dropped to the shipping label on the side. Her dark brows knitted together as she squinted at the neat ink. "Wait. Are you kidding me right now? It’s from your uncle." She whirled back around on her heel, her long hair whipping through the air as she pointed the scissors right at him. "You and your freaking family, ugh! They are literally trying to ruin my life, one heavy kitchen appliance at a time. I am not keeping this shit in our penthouse!"

yeh.shaa: wonnie! we need to go shopping! yeh.shaa: i need your wonderful advice when helping to pick out something eye catching!

────── @wonyum  

Then, he snorted.

The spell broke instantly. Wonyoung’s pathetic, weeping-widow expression flattened into a look of absolute, unamused disbelief. "You piece of shit!" A sharp, stinging slap landed square on his shoulder. It was well away from the blast zone, but carried enough velocity to make it clear her panic had just turned into pure irritation. "I am over here literally planning your funeral, and you’re laughing? I was about to call an ambulance, Mingi!" She tracked the heavy box with a narrowed, suspicious glare as he shoved it off his lap, listening to it hit the carpet with a dull, heavy thud. He claimed the pain was going away, and since she couldn't read his mind to know he was fiercely lying to himself, she took his word for it, even if his pale face and white-knuckled grip said otherwise. Her hands settled firmly onto her hips, her pristine composure sliding back into place now that medical intervention seemed unnecessary. "Honestly, if it’s just another set of porcelain teacups from my aunt, I am throwing them straight out the window. You didn't almost die for a saucer," she complained, tossing her long hair over her shoulder with a huff, though her eyes still lingered on his face for a split second to make sure he wasn't actually losing consciousness.